Kissing tears away, for Jopzier? :)
Post-canon, semi Fix-it, a Boatload of Hurt/Comfort
They walk in silence along the dirt path, Francis close on Thomasās heel, and Thomas staring resolutely forward. It is unseasonably warm for early spring, and the sun beats down upon their heads with a cruel indifference.Ā
Francis has half a mind to hold his hand, give him some anchor of reassurance, but Thomasās hands are occupied by the bouquet of daisies. The white petals bob with his every step, belying the somberness of this trip with their sunny faces.
They reach the plot, much plainer than the churchyard cemetery. Not a single headstone adorns any grave, but some families have painstakingly fashioned wooden crosses or left a large river stone instead. There is otherwise little love expended on the cheerless lot.
Thomas walks past the fenceās gate with the authority of a man who has made the trip often. Francis hesitates, watching instead as Thomas makes his way to a grave toward the back ā no marker, save the remains of previous flowers long rotten, Francis notes ā and kneels on the stony, yellow grass.
With a start, Francis propels himself forward, the sight of Thomas staring blankly at the grave a strong enough reminder that Francis is the one who insisted that he accompany him on this trip. He joins Thomas, sitting with far less grace, gritting his teeth when his knees creak.
Thomas reaches for the old flowers, holding them beside the new. Francis considers offering to take the flowers and dispose of them in the nearby brush, but Thomasās quiet, tremulous voice beats him to it.
āShe loved flowers. All kinds. Her favorite changed with every day of the week.ā
He pauses, inhaling slowly through his nostrils. Francis wraps his arm around him when he sees the first glimmer of tears.Ā
Thomas ignores them, as they fall, in quick succession down both his cheeks.Ā āWe never had the money to buy them. My father called them frivolous, and she agreed. Why spend money on something that would shrivel in a few days when you had coal to buy and mouths to feed.ā
His voice catches.Ā āI thought it only fair that she have as many flowers as she wants now.ā He glances at Francis, eyes terribly bright and shining, even as he smiles.Ā āItās the least I can do. After everything.ā
There are many things Francis could say, in a clumsy attempt to assuage Thomasās pain; that her death was not his fault, that she is happier now where she no longer feels pain, that he has not failed his family. Each one falls short of sincerity, and Francis knows eloquence has never been his strong suit.
Instead, he hugs Thomas tighter, tilting his chin up so that he may press his lips against each wet trail on his cheeks. Thomas gasps, a sob stopped short in his throat as he holds onto Francisās hand as well. He closes his eyes as Francis press several soft kisses along his cheeks and against his jaw where the tears have gathered.
When he stops, Thomasās face has relaxed once more. The tears have slowed, and Thomas turns into Francisās hand with a sigh.
āThank you,ā he says, kissing the center of his palm. He opens his eyes, still glimmering with remnant tears. He looks down at the plot and arranges the daisies in several parallel lines so that they blanket half the grave. āI wish you could have met her. She would have liked you.ā
Francisās heart soars at the words.Ā āThat is certainly high praise. If she was anything like the son she raised, she must have been an outstanding woman.ā
Thomas sniffs, turning to embrace him fully. In a wet voice, muffled against Francisās jacket, he thanks him again.
Send me a pairing and type of kiss!
