The Scent of a Rose

The man known as the country of love sat in the chair of the waiting room and just stared blankly ahead hoping that at any moment Arthur would burst out of the room and call him silly for actually believing he lost his memory. He waited. And waited. And waited.  Eventually the blonde nurse from earlier informed him that Arthur had finally gone back to sleep and if he wanted to say goodnight to his love, he should go on in.

Francis stood up and straightened out his jacket before walking into Arthur’s room.  Upon entering the room he couldn’t stop himself from smiling just a little bit at how peaceful the Englishman looked while he slept. But then his eyes traveled over Arthur’s broken form and the large amounts of bandages that covered the burns on his body and particularly the bandages around Arthurs head. A wave of guilt washed through Francis and he tightened his hand into a fist in anger ‘I should have been there Damnit. Maybe if I had kept at it, I could have convinced Arthur to come down from that damned building….who am I kidding? Arthur would never have listened’ he concluded.  He continued further into the room and sat down in the chair next to Arthur’s bed.  “Je t'aime, Arthur” he whispered. 

The Frenchman wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to say to Arthurs sleeping form right now; his head was all muddled up with conflicting thoughts. On the one hand he could just walk away now and pretend nothing happened, pretend that the past year wasn’t the happiest he’s been in his entire life. He could start over if he wanted…but he didn’t want that. It would be easier though to find somebody else…but love was never supposed to be easy.

 Francis hung his head in defeat and bright red caught his eye. He pulled the rose from his top jacket pocket and stared intensely at it. The rose symbolized so many things to him; it was the symbol of love and it was also the national flower of his true loves country.  Coincidence? “Non, ce n'est pas une coincidence” he said out loud and maybe a little too loudly because Arthur rolled over on his side. He wasn’t sure why but this flower seemed to give him renewed determination and he knew from that point that he didn’t care if it took him another year to get Arthur back, he was French damnit, and the French do not give up on amour. With his newfound resolve, Francis gave a light kiss to the rose and put it in the front pocket of Arthur’s jacket that was hanging neatly on the chair he was sitting in.  Standing up, he leaned over and brushed his lips lightly to Arthurs hair and spoke softly to the sleeping form “bonne nuit mon amour” before walking out with a smile on his face.  Thinking back on it, Francis had no idea why he had been so distraught earlier, after all the prospect of making Arthur squirm all over again was exhilarating.  

A/N-Short chapter is short. Don’t worry though, the chapters will become much longer when the long winded British man is out of the hospital.

Translation: Non, ce n'est pas une coincidence: No, it is not a coincidence.