Francis flopped down at the table, feeling worse than he had in days. He still missed Arthur, wanted to just curl up in a hole and cry for the rest of his life, but today his boss had made him come in to work. He'd actually been on time, but the man had still found something to chew him out about. He didn't seem to notice that Francis simply didn't respond, just stood there with his head hung low in defeat and let the man rant.

"I miss you," he whispered, picking up the letter on the table. A single tear slid down his cheek as he read the words again, wishing with all his heart that Arthur was still alive. He didn't care where or how; all he wanted was for the Brit to be safe.

Why, God? Why Arthur? He had such an amazing life ahead of him... Could you bring him back? I'd do anything...

Francis had reached the signature at the bottom, and now silent tears were pouring down his face. Without even thinking, as though he had meant to do it all along, Francis picked up a pen, flipped the letter over, and began to write.

Dear Arthur,

I miss you. So much. Will it ever get better from here? They say it does, but I'm not so sure. Can you tell me?

If you really are in heaven, like everyone always says to comfort me, you will know that when I read your letter, I was crying. Oh, Arthur. There's nothing you need to be sorry for! I was the one who started that fight, without thinking of whatever consequences may come of it. I should've come to you, begging on my knees for you to take me back, but... honestly, I was scared. I thought I was making things better by leaving you alone. I thought that was what you wanted.

I can't ever sleep either. Are you doing better, up there in heaven?

You did hurt me, yes, but you made me happy as well. I was the happiest fool on earth simply to be able to hold you and love you and make you blush. I loved to make you blush. Arthur, it is better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. Have you heard that saying? I love you. Je t'aime. But now I've lost, and my heart's been ripped in half. Whatever you did to hurt me, it was nothing compared to having you ripped away from me by some drunk driver in a semi. And nothing will ever make me quit loving you.

Oh, but your cautiousness was one of the things I loved about you in the first place. You don't see much of that anymore, and when you do, it's priceless. Don't blame yourself for my mistakes; I should've been straight and honest with you, but instead I tried to sugar-coat things and gave you the completely wrong idea.

I love you too.

Please come back to me. I need you.

Love,

Francis

Although he felt a little better, the writing still didn't calm the aching loss in the pit of his stomach, and Francis shook his head, leaving the letter on the table. He put his head down, burying his face in his arms, and let the tears flow.

Francis didn't eat that night; he sat at the table and cried.

The next day went almost exactly like the one before it; Francis didn't sleep, his boss was pissed, and he came home exhausted and sad. He was just about to crash on the couch when suddenly a yellow piece of paper caught his eye, lying half-folded on the table. Francis moved to pick it up, realizing it was a page torn from one of Arthur's old writing notebooks. Now who would've...?

His breath stopped in his throat.

Could it possibly be...?

Dear Francis,

Don't blame yourself. It was both of our faults, not just yours or mine. I feel terrible for not getting to truly apologize, but... if letters from heaven are the best we can do, then so be it.

Francis felt hot tears streaming down his face again, making no move to stop them. Was this some kind of a cruel joke? You didn't just write to someone who was dead and expect to get a reply. But here the letter was, his for the taking. Did Francis dare believe it?

Yes, you bloody wanker, it is me. Not just some mean prankster on the street. God heard your prayers.

Even as I write this, it sounds stupid, considering I never believed in God before... but, well, I guess you learn something new every day, eh? Francis, you, of all people, should know what I mean by that.

Francis nodded shakily, smiling as he bit his lip to hold in a sob. It was Arthur... no one else could possibly write the way his Brit did, and this was him! He could almost sense Arthur next to him, reading the letter aloud; barely there, but just out of reach.

As to sleeping better up here... Well, as much as I hate to admit it, I think you should know that I've been doing almost as much crying as you lately. I miss you so much. And I always feel lonely without you to curl up next to. It's terrible, really. I just want to come home again.

They do say that heartache heals with time, but at the moment, I just want to find whoever 'they' is and sock them in the head. Are you hurting this badly too? Well, if your letter was any indication, you definitely are, and all I can say is that I love you, and you'll make it through. You'll move on, whether it's days, weeks, months, or years from now, and I'm sure you'll feel better eventually. Just know that I'm watching out for you, Francis. Alright?

Je t'aime aussi, Francis. Please don't tear yourself up on my account; it hurts me to see you blaming yourself about everything. There was nothing you could've done to keep me from dying, and even if I am dead, that doesn't mean I'm not still with you. Most of all, it doesn't mean I can't love you from way up here.

Je t'aime.

Arthur