A single man sat alone next to the coffin long after everyone else had left. His head hung low in defeat, blond waves falling around his face. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks. Francis didn't get up, didn't move, didn't speak. The man in the coffin was not the Arthur he had known.

He couldn't be gone.

But deep down, Francis knew he was.

If he had called Arthur and apologized earlier that night, he would not have died. If he hadn't started that fight, he wouldn't have died. If Francis would've stopped him from running away two months ago, Arthur would've been safe in his arms right now, and they would have been whispering words of love to each other. They could've gotten married. They could've started a family, spent the rest of forever together.

Francis's shoulders shook with another stifled sound of grief.

Arthur could've lived.

Why, God? Why did he have to die? Can't you take me instead?

He didn't even look up as the sound of a door closing interrupted the silence, ringing in the empty room. Quiet footsteps approached him from behind, and a soft hand on his shoulder made him close his eyes, wiping away some tears in a halfhearted attempt to compose himself.

Francis opened them again, staring listlessly down at the floor. The tears he'd wiped away were quickly replaced.

"Salut," he murmured in acknowledgment of whoever was behind him.

"Hello, Francis," Alfred's voice answered quietly.

Francis looked up to see the face of Arthur's younger brother, his eyes red-rimmed but a small smile managing to make its way onto his lips. Francis smiled weakly back; he had almost forgotten how, in this one short week since Arthur's death.

"How are you?" Alfred asked.

Francis shook his head. "I would think that's obvious," he muttered, but managed to keep his tiny smile. He stood from the chair, drawing a shaky breath.

Alfred held a small, folded square of paper out to him. "A-Arthur had this in his pocket at the crash," he murmured. "I think he'd want you to have it."

Francis looked at the folded notebook paper, then took it gratefully. He pulled Alfred into a tight hug, still crying quietly. He needed something to hold on to, to keep him sane without Arthur.

"Merci, Alfred," he whispered.

Francis's house was quiet and empty as he sat down on the couch. The tears had dried on his cheeks, but that didn't make him feel any better. There was a gaping hole in his heart where Arthur had used to be.

Remembering the little folded paper, he pulled it from his pocket and carefully opened it from the neat square, recognizing Arthur's messy writers' scrawl immediately and taking a shaky breath before beginning to read.

Dear Francis,

I don't even know why I'm writing this right now, since I'll be telling you in person in a matter of hours anyway. Guess it just helps me get my thoughts together; after all, there's a lot that needs to be said. I can just see your face right now, so stop smirking.

Under normal circumstances, the letter would have been right on cue; Francis would've indeed been smirking at Arthur's obsessive need to have everything laid out ahead of time, but now he was crying again. The letter sounded so much like Arthur that he could almost feel the Brit sitting next to him, saying these things in the accent Francis had never gotten a chance to tell him how much he loved.

First off, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for running out on you, I'm sorry for yelling, I'm sorry for never telling you how much I loved you. Now that I think back, I wasted two precious months of our time together, and time is something that can never be recovered. I don't know if this will make you feel any better or not, but I haven't slept well since that night, and when I do dream, it's always about you.

Francis had tears streaming down his face, shaking his head. That was Arthur; always so determined to blame himself for everything. But it hadn't been his fault; even an idiot could see that. Why, why had Francis waited so long to apologize himself, when he should've known it would be too late?

Even though we don't see each other hardly at all anymore, when I have caught a glimpse of you around town, you never look happy like you used to. Sometimes there's tears down your face, and sometimes you just look exhausted. Alfred told me you've been having trouble getting to work on time and that your boss keeps yelling at you for it. I swear to God, I never meant to hurt you this badly. But when I think back, what I said was cruel and heartless. I should've known that was why you haven't called me. I don't blame you for staying away.

Had this really been what he'd thought was the reason for Francis's long silence?

"Oh, Arthur..." Francis whispered, shoulders wracking with sobs. He'd thought Arthur had wanted him to stay away. He'd thought he was helping by leaving the Brit alone... Francis forced himself to read on, even though it felt like his heart was being torn in half.

Honestly, I can't believe how long it took me to figure out why I was so angry that night, but what it comes down to is that I was scared. I was scared that you were moving on from me, scared because I didn't want to be hurt. Is it silly to be afraid of falling too deeply in love with someone? I guess I've always been the one who's overcautious about trying things that are new, but this time I really blew it.

Will you forgive me, Francis? I can't say in words how much I love you and how sorry I am.

Can you please forgive me?

I love you.

Arthur

For a long time, Francis sat there on the couch, reading that letter over and over again until he practically knew the words by heart. Tears refused to stop streaming down his face to drip and soak the paper, blurring the light blue lines but leaving the ink miraculously untouched. Arthur's words were the only thing that Francis had left to hold on to, and he clutched at them desperately, searching frantically for some way that the man in the coffin might not be his beautiful Arthur, for some impossible, unthinkable glimmer of hope. But only darkness came to greet him, laughing cruelly at his unbearable agony.

Francis fell asleep on the couch that night, the letter in his hands and tears drenching his face.