Arthur arrived at the cemetery at two o'clock sharp, not interested in wasting any time at the marble stone that signified where his younger brother laid, six feet under. He had no time to sit around and grief, he was on a busy schedule.
The gentleman knew what death was, after all, so many people he used to know had already been claimed by it. But something was different here, and he still couldn't understand what. Maybe it was because Alfred has tried so hard to get away from him before, but once he was gone he tried so hard to reconnect with him again.
A red rose clutched firmly in his hand, Arthur walked past other gravestones, not bothering to look at the names or messages written on them. He would probably be late to his meeting already at the rate he was going, and traffic would just get worse throughout the day.
As the Englishman walked, Arthur considered why he was even there in the first place. It had been about four-no wait, was it three, or maybe five- years since the young man named Alfred Jones had passed away. He was a rambunctious and energetic kid who had a big heart and little to no brain. No matter what the cost was, he wanted to be the hero. Wether that meant the cost of his freedom or his life, he didn't care. Arthur thought that the American might have even liked the danger that came with being a hero. That he might have enjoyed the thrill that came with it.
Alfred had gone into the army when he was only nineteen, long after he and Arthur has since stopped talking to each other. Arthur constantly told himself that he was supposed to be angry with the blonde, that he should have some sort of grudge against him for leaving him, for causing him so much pain. But he only felt sadness and worry for the teens safety.
However, it seemed that Alfred had forgiven and forgotten rather quickly of the past, and when he came home for a while, he spend it all with his brother, Matthew, and Arthur.
The sweet memories flooded the Brit's mind like a tsunami, and quickly Arthur forced his lips into a thin line and blinked away the tears. He wouldn't cry, not now.
After all, Alfred got what he wanted, didn't he? He died a hero, that's for sure.
But 19 wasn't enough years to have lived, was it?
Before he knew it, Arthur was in front of the stone that read, 'Alfred F. Jones, Brother, Friend, Hero'
A sigh escaped Arthurs mouth as he kneeled down so he could delicately place the flower on the grass. He could still see the stem of the one from last year, it's petals had died and wilted away a long time ago.
Alright, there. It's done. Time to go.
Only Arthur didn't move. He didn't even twitch.
He just sat, staring at the words that had been written on the stone.
'You'll be late,' He told himself, 'Get a move on already!' But the man just couldn't find the strength to leave.
A sniffle sounded through the quiet atmosphere, and Arthur just realized how close to tears he was. Why? Alfred was long gone by now, what's the point in crying? What good would that do?
'Time to go, just get up.' Only he did the exact opposite. He sat down and looked to the ground, his eyes getting slightly blurry as he could feel tears starting to form. As fast as he could, he wiped them away.
Arthur began to speak, although his voice came out weak, "The whole country's celebrating today. You would be too, you bloody idiot." he almost smiled a bit at the insult, and could imagine Alfred cracking a goofy yet kind grin too.
It was the fourth of July.
It was Al's birthday.
It was his death too.
That was why Arthur kept himself busy today. To keep his mind off of everything.
He would book his flight to the U.S.A. a week early so he could pay his respects, schedule as many meetings as possible on the fifth, make himself do paperwork throughout the entire week, and would save himself about ten minutes to mourn.
He was way off of ten minutes by now. But this was one of the few times he didn't care.
Suddenly, he felt something wet on his palm, and it traced up his cheek.
"Bloody hell," he murmured to himself. He couldn't cry, not now anyway. If he started weeping, well, he didn't know if he'd be able to stop. And besides, Alfred wouldn't want him to cry when thinking about him. He wouldn't want anyone to cry. If anything, the idiot would want everyone to smile at the happier and better memories that they'd shared, rather than mourning him.
But Arthur couldn't help himself, and he started to shake slightly as he held back tears.
Silently, he cried more and more until he was straight out bawling in front of the grave. He smashed his fist against the ground where his friend was buried, shouting random curses to the grave, as if it could respond.
Eventually, the Brit collapsed in a heap of sorrow and a small bit of anger. Shaky sighs escaped his lips as he got back to his feet, and checked his watch.
3:02.
Had he really been there for that long? Time flew by too fast. By now he was probably very behind on any work he'd planned to get done that day.
Re-collecting himself in a formal manner, he began to walk back off towards his car, leaving behind the hero and the red rose.
To himself, he whispered, "Wanker.." and secretly hoped to hear that obnoxious voice reply with some sort of stupid comeback.
Arthur then left the cemetery, and the flower seemed to stand back up on it's own and lean against the gravestone, like someone has placed it there, but no one stood around.