Hi there,
It's been just about five years. In that time I've stopped really being in this fandom but my old ideas are still there; I ended up changing a lot of things. This story isn't going to be continued here. My currently re-written chapters will be posted at Ao3, and if I choose to continue that's where they'll be as well. For any one who has held on to hope (which honestly I'm flattered if you have) here is a preview of the new beginning to this story.
01 – Arthur, 20 minutes after
Arthur can't hear the sirens anymore. The ambulance had sped off into the night quickly leaving him and Francis at the side of the road.
"There's no more room," the paramedic had told them gently, "We were only expecting one."
He'd let them go quietly, because 'time was of the essence in cases like this' (said the police officer who'd stayed behind to escort them), but he'd bitten his lip the whole time to keep from screaming into the darkness. The minutes after were a blur, but he'd made his way inside the car somehow. He remembers that there was silence from his husband.
The car rounds a corner too fast. Arthur's seatbelt jerks him back into place, and he instinctively reaches out to grab the steering wheel – only he's on the wrong side, and the blonde man in the driver's seat is already gripping it so hard that his knuckles look pure white against the black leather.
Francis doesn't drive, but Arthur doesn't question it. There are more important things at stake right now, and whether or not Francis even has a valid driver's licence is the least of their concerns. Arthur adds the sight to the list of impossible events that has been slowly growing in his head.
How could this have happened? Three hours ago there'd been celebrations (sort of), and then fighting and then… this. He looks out the window, hoping for some sort of distraction. The red and blue lights from the police car in front of them light their way, but make seeing the side of the road impossible.
He glances to his left. Francis' hair, which he usually keeps under constant maintenance, is a soggy windswept mess. His eyes are narrowed, focusing too hard on the road in front of him, and his jaw is tense. Arthur doesn't want to distract him from what may actually be his first time driving, but he has to know something.
"Do you…" his voice trails off, so he clears his throat, "do you think they'll be okay?"
The ice he's trying to break freezes over quickly. He feels his fists clenching, his nails digging painfully into the palm of his hand while he waits for an answer – something, anything. So they're angry at each other, but even Francis can't be this –
But then fingers on his left hand are being softly pried apart. Francis' right hand settles into his, and grasps it tightly. The reply is so quiet, that Arthur thinks he's hearing things.
"They have to be."
