This is a fill for #hetaliawritersmonthly challenge on tumblr. It was quite a spur-of-the-moment writing, I hope you'll like it! Please let me know what you think :)

Theme: Autumnal
Prompt: Despair

Summary: Being immortal in a world of mortal men can be painful.

Warning: Discussion of death and grief

What Comes After

Orange and red surrounded him from every side. A bright carpet all over the ground, spots covering the tree branches and rivalling the orange tinge of the sunset.

It was odd, that dying things would show such vibrant and lively colours. Jarring, even.

He had to divert his eyes.

Ignoring the way they stung, he focused them on the small stream right in front of his feet. There were still spots of orange and yellow – leaves swirling in the current – but the crystal-clear water left the grey rocks underneath visible. Cold colour and even colder water. That was much more fitting.

He was cold too, his extremities tingling and his pants damp from sitting so long on the leaves. The numbness was unpleasant, not enough to distract him from the throbbing in various part of his body. His brain knew that it was the painkillers wearing off.

He made no move to take action against it – pressed his lips tighter instead and refused to follow the natural urge to move his body in a more comfortable position.

Pain was what he deserved, after all; not the luxury of looking at the gorgeous scenery in front of him and let his mind be soothed by it. The pain was a reminder.

He didn't know for how long he had been sitting when the carpet of dead leaves started crackling towards him. Long steps, but measured and deliberate.

He didn't want to acknowledge the intruder – but it would be rude of him not to, after all. He had already caused enough trouble. Perhaps, not even getting the time to mourn was part of his punishment as well.

"Good evening, Francis," he said as the steps halted right behind him, so close that he felt the slow exhale at his shoulders.

"Matthieu."

Matthew acknowledged the greeting with a nod, grateful that Francis hadn't tried to woe him with pleasantries. There was so much he should have done – asked Francis about the travel, rushed to make sure all his needs were covered… but Matthew was too numb for that.

"Can I sit here with you?" Francis asked after a few moments of silence.

Matthew answered with another automatic nod. Something bitter in his chest mourned the chance to be alone – but he had no right to be mad.

Francis settled at Matthew's side. Matthew was aware of his slightly titled head and the periwinkle blue eyes scanning him, but he kept looking ahead and didn't acknowledge them.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional rustling of the leaves in the wind and the gentle burbling of the stream. Matthew could almost pretend that nothing had changed…

At last, Francis took a deep breath. His warm hand landed on Matthew's right knee and gave it a steady yet gentle squeeze.

"Matthieu—"

"I'm sorry that you had to come all the way up here, Francis. I'm… I'm not going to be of much company these days. You shouldn't have gone through all the trouble."

Somehow, he kept his voice steady and perfectly polished until the end. Even if he had to curl his hands into fists to prevent them from trembling.

"But this is why I have to be here, mon coeur. And it's no trouble. We just want to help, this comes before everything."

We.

Not only Francis but Arthur and Alfred as well, back at the cabin. With the same, genuine eagerness in their voices as Francis, the same urge to help.

Matthew's breath itched, his eyes were burning.

He was being so awfully selfish.

But which reaction was truly the selfish one?

"Don't try to pretend you're fine. You wouldn't be here alone if you weren't hurting."

In spite of the reproach, Francis's voice held a gentleness that made Matthew's chest clench. The assessment wasn't wrong – yet, he couldn't take that compassion.

He swallowed thickly, trying to regain control of himself.

"It just isn't fair," he muttered at last, unable to articulate the tight knot of regret that clenched his chest.

Francis's fingers briefly tightened over his knee.

"Life often isn't."

Simple words. So right, and at the same time so utterly wrong that they stole Matthew's breath away.

"But this should have never happened! I am the one who is supposed to protect them! I'm not even human, I can be hurt or killed but I'll always come back and instead he—"

Matthew would never forget those dark brown eyes. The quiet acceptance in them, the way they had reflected his gentle smile in that split of a second when he had taken his decision. His last one.

Dale Harrison, sixty-three years old. In good health and still with many years ahead of him. Dead in an accident that should have never happened. Dead because he had decided to push a teen-aged boy away and take the brunt of the impact. The death of a hero – an unnecessary death.

Matthew chocked back a sob. His breath was hot inside his mouth and nose, his throat felt clogged.

"And I was too slow. I was right there and I knew what was happening but I hadn't thought he was going to do that, I should've been more alert, I could have prevented it if I just had—"

When Francis's hold tightened on his knee, Matthew realized that his body was shaking. He swallowed thickly and took a deep breath, pressing his hands flat to the ground to steady himself.

"It was his own choice," Francis reminded him.

Matthew shook his head, bitterness on his tongue.

"Well it was still useless! He didn't know what he was doing! He wasn't saving a boy, I wouldn't have died! This… it should have never happened!"

Matthew found himself panting at the end of the rant. Tears welled up at the corner of his eyes, he tore away his glasses and brushed his eyes with the back of his hand, hating himself for his lack of self-restraint.

Fortunately, Francis diverted his eyes and got up, taking a few steps forward to give Matthew some space.

A small pang of humiliation hit Matthew's chest – but there was also some relief underneath.

At last, Francis took a deep breath.

"Humans die, Matthieu. You know this. Whether today, tomorrow, or ten years from now… his time would have come."

"I know he would have died anyway! But he could have—"

"Dying to protect a boy isn't a bad way to go, all things considered."

That shocked Matthew into silence. He took a deep breath, then stilled, unable to put his outrage into words.

Francis turned back towards him. There was grief in his features – but his ancient eyes were sharp, commanding Matthew to listen.

"Matthieu. You cannot burden yourself with the weight of somebody else's decision. Whether ill-informed, or foolish… that man took his decision himself, and you could have done nothing to stop him."

"But—"

"There are no 'buts'. You can't change what happened – you can only accept it and move forward. Are you going to honour Dale Harrison's sacrifice and live the life he believes he has gifted you, or are you going to let it all go to waste?"

Matthew bowed his head. His chest was tight, hurting as if it had been struck by a blow.

"It isn't fair," he whispered in a pathetically weak voice.

The leaves around him crinkled, then, a strong pair of arms enveloped him in a hug.

"It isn't. And you have the right to grieve. But don't let the dead drag you with them – mourn them, and honour them by treasuring your own life. This is what they deserve for their bravery."

At last, Matthew gave up his resolve and let his body melt into Francis's welcoming arms.

It still isn't fair.

So many people had died in front of Matthew's eyes. Many more would follow them, he wasn't that naïve. But to happen that way…

Francis, however, had relaxed as well, his gentle humming reverberating against Matthew's chest.

Matthew closed his fists over the fabric of Francis's woollen coat.

I'm so sorry, Mr Harrison. I really am. You didn't deserve this.

It wasn't fair. But while a man was dead, the people who cared for him were alive. Matthew couldn't let them down.

Perhaps, that was why dead leaves looked so bright and full of life – as a reminder that even in front of death, life was more important.

"I'm… I'm tired, Francis. Can we please go home?"

(word count: 1,416)