This dream always made him cry.
In the dream, Arthur was back in his arms, smiling with those green eyes and his hair all fluffy from sleep. He was smiling and asking Francis a question, his gaze softened.
Why are you crying?
And Francis could never answer that stupid question. He was always waking up before that. He sighed, pushing back the covers and slowly getting ready for the day.
…
"Oh, it's you, Mr Bonnefoy!" the young nurse on duty said in a happy tone. She wasn't surprised, but then again, why should she be? He always came here and always brought flowers. Francis hated the smell of hospitals, but put up with it anyway.
The flowers were English roses, of course. He never stopped bringing them, and always asked to spend the day with the patient. It always made the nurse feel sorrow to the very bottom of her heart to see him crying and talking to the man who wouldn't wake up to hear him.
Sitting by Arthur's bed, Francis placed the roses down and cleared his throat.
"Hello, Arthur. I had another one of those dreams. I know you aren't dead but it feels like it to me. I dreamt you were back, and you asked me why I was crying. I'm crying because I miss you, cher. My dearest wish is that you will open your eyes."
He smiled, brushing away a tear quickly.
"Silly, though. I know you won't. I want you to wake up but you can't. I can almost imagine you, you know? Calling me an idiotic git for thinking you can and won't if it's me. You don't need to tell me, I know."
He rested his head in his hands as his eyes took in Arthur's motionless form. What could a man in a coma dream? Hopefully happy things… He wanted him to be happy.