On Rainy Days: USUK/FrUK Oneshot

He should've stopped when he heard himself mutter, "Am I Catholic? Or am I Protestant?"

It was too late now, though. Arthur was so very stupid sometimes, despite his elegant, sophisticated English gentlemanly demeanor. The combination of alcohol and relentless rain, hammering down like bullets, had dragged out all the erased memories. He could see him, beckoning and calling out to him, torturing Arthur.

He didn't remember stepping out, but the next thing he knew, he was standing outside in the bitter cold, looking into the windows of the warm pub, the rain stinging and lashing at his face.

And then he wasn't standing there anymore…

It was pouring as Arthur trudged on, sloshing his worn black boots through the puddles of mud and rainwater, fueled by grief and fury. He was going to kill him. How dare he rebel? How dare he, when it was he who had taken care of him all his life. And dumping all that perfectly good tea?

Unforgivable.

And there he was, his hair and uniform a sopping mess from the rain, clenching his gun. This was it. Give him liberty, or give him death.

With a loud cry, Arthur launched himself towards him, fully intending to pierce him straight through the heart, and end it right there.

Instead, his bayonet met the hard wood of the handle of his opponent's gun, which had managed to deflect Arthur's advance.

Arthur was trembling, the recoil of his own attack tingling up his arms. The trembling didn't stop. On closer inspection, it was actually the violent shuddering of Alfred's arms that caused Arthur to shake as well.

"Arthur…" The name timidly tumbled out of his mouth in a soft whisper.

Arthur made the mistake of looking up.

He couldn't fathom why all of a sudden his knees were wet, or why hotness pricked at his eyes. And as to how someone had managed to hollow out his chest, Arthur had no clue either.

All he knew was that he had lost him.

**************************************************

"SOD OFF, DRUNKARD!"

From the corner of his eye, Francis watched as a blubbering blond heap of a man was unceremoniously tossed out the doors. As the entrance to the establishment closed, it drowned out the desperate whining and rambles of a drunk Englishman.

There could only be one drunken Englishman who bawled like that.

"Excusez-moi, mon amour," he muttered to the girl snuggled around his arm, "I'll be back in a moment."

He smiled reassuringly at her, fully knowing that he wouldn't be back.

**************************************************

"You," Arthur slurred accusingly, pointing a limp finger at Francis while cackling madly.

An iron hand squeezed Francis's heart. "Oui, Arthur. It's me."

"Teeeeheeee, ye shur talkin' funny," Arthur giggled. Francis gingerly picked up Arthur's arm, and put it around his shoulders to support him.

"UNHAND ME, YOU WANKER!!" screeched Arthur in protest, sending up more flecks of mud onto Francis's jacket. Francis sighed, then scooped up Arthur in a piggy-back hold.

"Let's get you home," he softly told Arthur, who had passed out in exhaustion.

Francis began to walk the familiar path to Arthur's house, the iron grip on his heart tightening with each of Arthur's soft breaths and murmurs landing on his neck.

He nudged the door open, trailing in a copious amount of rainwater. He slipped off Arthur's soaked shoes, then gently settled him on his bed.

He turned to leave, then stopped as he heard Arthur whimper. He took a hesitant step towards the bathroom, and found a towel to throw on top of Arthur's shivering figure. On second thought, he carefully started to dry Arthur's body, taking care to pat each area of exposed skin dry. Francis wrung out Arthur's hair dry, but it still wasn't enough. Arthur's teeth were still chattering, mewling weakly in discomfort.

So Francis shuffled over to the chiffarobe, and pulled out what he knew to be Arthur's favorite pajamas; the green ones with tea and scones patterned all over. He proceeded to nimbly undress Arthur, the iron grasp on his heart growing ever stronger by the minute.
Francis stared at the pitiful, shivering lump in sorrow, then managed to wriggle him into his pajamas. He watched as the Englishman gave a shadow of a smile, and snuggled into his covers, now warm with dry, comfy pajamas on.

He walked away, but paused when he heard the rustle of bed sheets, Arthur stirring.

"Bloody git, ye jus' gonna walk away witho' lemme proper thanks?"

Francis walked back, back to that silly Angleterre… His lips were so close… He could taste the rum on his breath…

"I love you, Alfred."

Those four words wrenched a knife into Francis's heart.

He fled before the iron grip could crush it into pieces.

**************************************************

The next morning, Arthur woke up with nothing but a splitting headache.

Francis woke up with yet another painful memory to add on to what inevitably happened on rainy days.