A/N: Again, edited but not revised. Also, I haven't been to a funeral in years and I've only ever been to one, so I just kinda made shit up.

~Saya

Fools Like Us

11-And All I'm Left with Is Sand in My Shoes

It was nearly raining. Clouds were dark and heavy with rain that had yet to fall. Beyond the clouds, the sky was a dull, washed-out gray that sucked the color out of everything below. Everything was dark and somber, the way death should be.

At least, the way Francis thought it should be.

In reality, the sun shone brightly and the dew had long since dried from the thick green grass. The only darkness came in the form of a few black suits and dresses gathered around the equally heavy sight of a dark mahogany casket.

Francis sat in the front row with Jeanne's parents on one side and one of her aunts on the other. Gilbert and Antonio sat behind him, their expressions unusually sober. Each had a hand on Francis' shoulder.

There were no audible sobs in the area, but silent tears streaked down many faces, including Francis'. They added their salty residue to the mask that had been forming on his face all day. The wake had left him feeling dry, but he somehow found enough left in him for Jeanne's burial.

Antonio was speaking softly in his ear in low, soothing Spanish that Francis couldn't understand, but appreciated anyway. The part of him that wasn't numbed by loss wished that Lovino could see him like this; even the fiery Italian might be swayed by the Spaniard's attentive, sensitive behavior. The blond let out a heavy, shaky sigh and leaned back into his friends' hands.

All too soon, the sermons were over and the box was being lowered into the ground. Francis found himself thinking it seemed simultaneously too large and too small-too large for the fragile body he remembered, but too small for the exuberant personality that went with it. Jeanne couldn't be in there, could she? But he'd seen her, seen her body laid across the satiny white cushions that lined the dark walls. A dry sob escaped him, seeming to echo through the air above the sound of dirt being shoveled back into the hole.

He had to leave. He had to get out of here and breathe; he couldn't breathe.

But he couldn't leave Jeanne.

He felt as if he was frozen in place. The hands on his shoulders felt almost as if they were holding him down. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as if in slow motion, and he felt as if his body was tingling with the beginnings of panic. Someone was speaking to him, but he couldn't hear their voice.

It was Jeanne's mother. Her expression was tight but serene, apparently unaware of what was happening to the boy her daughter had been so close to. Her light touch on his arm brought Francis back to himself, and he zeroed in on what she was saying.

"-For being there for her. I don't know what she would have done without you." She was thanking him, a small, valiant smile on her face that managed to be more warm than bitter, despite the situation. Her expression turning imploring, she added, "If you ever need anything, you'll let us know, won't you?"

A little stiffly, Francis managed to nod. He couldn't smile, but he tried. It was barely a twitch of his lips that fell flat almost immediately. He felt Gilbert squeeze his shoulder reassuringly.

The crowd began to disperse, offering their condolences. Gilbert and Antonio stood, straightening their jackets. Gil's didn't fit quite right, as the rental shop he'd gotten it from hadn't exactly been prepared for a tall young man with a slim but well-muscled frame and broad shoulders. Slowly, Francis stood and led the way to the car. He couldn't bring himself to look back again.

Gilbert drove them home in his old, beat up car. Normally the albino had the radio blasting, but it didn't seem appropriate today and he kept it silent. Antonio spoke up occasionally, but all his attempts at getting even the simplest answers out of Francis fell flat.

"You want us to keep you company?" Gil asked as they pulled up in front of the blond's elaborate home. It was the first time he'd spoken since they left the graveyard.

Francis simply shook his head, but he gave his best friends a weak, grateful smile. It only held for a second, and he hurried to get out of the car and through his front door before he started crying again. He heard Antonio call behind him to let them know if he needed anything and gave an awkward wave of acknowledgement before slamming through the door.

He fell onto his bed moments later, part of him regretting the way he'd treated the other two boys. They knew him well enough to understand though, and he let his thoughts turn to Jeanne again.

It had been about a week since he'd lost her, and it was finally starting to sink in. The funeral had really brought it home, and now he felt both physically and emotionally drained. He lay on his back in bed, his watery blue eyes tracing patterns in the molding on the ceiling.

Something brushed his hand, causing him to look down and see what it was. His cat sat near his hip, smoothing his long, white fur after making the jump. As if feeling his eyes, Méphisto looked up and fixed him with a piercing blue stare. One forepaw rested on a small blue pillow, and a sad smile spread across Francis' face as he picked it up. Méphisto let out a small, feline huff as he was displaced, but he crawled into Francis' lap and made himself comfortable there instead.

Francis found himself studying the pillow. He'd done that often, mostly just after Jeanne gave it to him and when she first went to the hospital. The stitches of the embroidery were straight and even; her hand had still been strong when she'd made this for him. A soft, filmy hem of lace rounded the cushion, still soft under his fingertips. There was a small French flag embroidered in one corner, but the rest of the fabric featured a small garden with mountains in the distance. Francis had seen a picture if the area once; it was the yard of Jeanne's childhood home in France.

He lay down again, and Méphisto crawled up to his chest, rubbing his cheek against his master's chin. Francis pressed the pillow to the part of his chest that wasn't covered with warm fur, his breath coming in shaky gasps again. Méphisto let out a loud, concerned meow, crawling a little higher up Francis' chest. The Frenchman suddenly rolled over, prompting a much more alarmed sound from the cat. He hugged both feline and pillow to his chest as the first sob came.

It was nearly two hours later when they slowed to hiccups and then simply gasping breaths. Méphisto had long since squirmed out of his arms, and he didn't blame the fluffy white feline. Francis lay on his back again, salt-crusted eyes turned toward a wall of pictures of himself and his friends. Several included him and Jeanne, but he as too tired to cry about it again. Instead, he studied them blankly.

The pictures were simple, some almost domestic. Most had been taken by Gilbert with a camera his brother had given him for his birthday last year, but a few had been taken by Francis himself. One, where he sat on a red couch with his arm around Jeanne, had been taken by her mother.

His heart ached as his eyes scanned the wall, but he found himself smiling as well. Exhausted and confused by his emotions, he let his eyes slip shut and he slept.

Self-promo: On a happier note, I rp Romano if anyone wants to interact. Multishipping, OCs & rarepairs welcome, etc.