It was a long year for Francis, his heart aching like a gaping void even as he felt it begin to heal. The pain was never completely gone, and there always seemed to be a hole where Arthur had used to be. Slowly their letters went from I miss yous to daily information, until finally Francis received a single sentence as the only reply.
I'm coming home.
But two months passed after that, with no response to whatever letters Francis would write. He should've known it would be too good to last, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to feel angry or neglected. He only missed Arthur all over again.
That was why he was taking some roses to his grave today.
The December air was bitterly cold, tiny snowflakes whipping through it on sharp, feathery-light wings. The ground was full of snowdrifts from the relentless wind, but somehow Francis didn't mind it as he walked among the silent gravestones with their withered flowers. He was lost in thoughts of Arthur, wishing the letters had been able to last but knowing deep down that they simply couldn't have. He should've let Arthur rest in peace to begin with.
"He said he was coming home, God," Francis murmured quietly, feeling the snow crunch softly under his boots. "I wish he would."
Francis rounded a corner, suddenly surprised to see another man standing to face Arthur's gravestone, hands in the pockets of his gray overcoat and his back turned to Francis. The man didn't turn, but nodded in acknowledgment of the person behind him.
For a moment the two of them stood in silence, before finally the strange man spoke.
"Did you know him too?" he asked quietly. Francis noticed that he had a heavy British accent, and nodded his head sadly.
"I loved him," he whispered.
"Do you still?" asked the stranger.
Francis smiled, feeling tears threaten to prick at his eyes, all the same. "With all my heart," he murmured, voice cracking a little.
The stranger drew a shaky breath. "You always were too sentimental for your own good, frog," he whispered, before throwing himself at Francis in a huge hug.
Francis found himself being tackled down in the snow, Arthur's arms around his neck as though he never wanted to let go again. He took one look into those beautiful green eyes, shining with tears, and pulled Arthur's slim body close to him.
"You came back, you came back..." Francis sobbed, kissing Arthur all over his face.
"God heard your prayers," Arthur answered, tears running down his face as he clung tightly to the man he hadn't been able to hold for a year and two months, exactly today. He kissed Francis full on the mouth, tasting the sweet vanilla he'd missed for so long and sobbing harder, happy beyond words.
"I thought I'd never see you again," Francis whispered against his lips.
"Me too," Arthur murmured. "I'm so sorry it took me this long to get back."
Francis finally broke away, looking into those green eyes earnestly. "What kept you?"
To his surprise, Arthur blushed a little. "Oh, um... Well, my body was so damaged that... we kind of had to repair it. I've still got scars, but I'm alive again."
Francis nodded, not completely understanding but simply glad that his Brit was back, and alive, and safe. Arthur seemed to sense this, and pulled up one of his sleeves to the elbow. Francis gasped.
Where smooth, clean, pale flesh had used to be, there was now a mottled scar. Arthur pulled up his sleeve further, revealing that the scar ran all along the back of his arm—where it had skidded against the pavement.
"My whole back and this arm had to be replaced," he murmured. "When I got thrown out of the car, all this skin got scraped up beyond repair."
Francis nodded numbly, pulling Arthur into a tight hug once more. "Just promise you won't leave me again," he pleaded.
Arthur kissed his forehead, tears streaming down his face all over again. "Cross my heart, love. Cross my heart."