Arthur would have cursed the terrible weather, had it not been the day of his funeral. The sky was dark and threatening to rain. Alfred loved the rain, but Arthur would always scold the toddler when he would come inside the house, his hair plastered to his head and his coat sopping wet. Now Arthur felt like the sky, only this time, there was no child skipping freely in the warn downpour.
He stood staring at the perfectly manicured lawn surrounding the mandatory hole in which the casket would be laid. If only the dew reflected the melancholy in his eyes, then the grass would become sickeningly gray, only miniscule flecks of green just to prove that it had once been grass.
The quiet murmurs from acquaintances and the deep moan of thunder in the distance were the only sounds that Arthur could ignore; the pounding of his heart wasn't so easy to shrug off.
Suddenly, an innocent touch caused Arthur to violently quake back to consciousness. Arthur halfheartedly looked up, only spying the blond stubble on Francis's chin.
Francis hesitated, opening and closing his mouth as he tried to pick the right words to say. "…Ah-…Do you-…." He bit his bottom lip, hoping somehow it would help him speak. "…Are you ready?" he said slowly. The Englishman turned to face Francis, trembling emerald reflected in the crystal blue.
The words came out as a soft cry for help. "No."
At that, the trembling became broken, and two streams of tears fell down his pallid cheeks. Arthur feebly groped at the front of Francis's dark blue suit, desperately trying to get a hold on him, on life, on…Alfred.
Francis looked down at the fragile man. The small tap that he had placed on Arthur's shoulder had turned into an unyielding embrace. "I've got you." Francis whispered, and a quiet tear rolled down his face. "I've got you…"
The rain fell.