"When this rose dies," He'd said, so softly, so under his breath (which was fluttering perfectly in the cool winter chill) as he'd handed it to him, "It's because I've stopped loving you." Arthur had taken the rose, felt the plastic stem, and couldn't help the smile and the kiss that came next. And though he'd been hardly able to see anything (they were so far away from the lights of the town, where the stars showed themselves) they'd kissed and held their little rose together. It was a love they could feel.

Two weeks later, they'd fought. Neither of them remembered why and never would, it was something petty, something over clothes, or the dishes, or their schedules. Something that had escalated. Alfred had said things. Arthur had said things. They'd fought and it was all Arthur could do not to really throw a punch. He snatched the rose off its vase, hearing the horrified gasp from his partner as he ripped every last petal off, threw them in whatever direction suited him at that moment, and stormed out of the house, murmuring 'well would you look at that?'

Alfred didn't go after him immediately. He knew where he was going, down to the same chippy he always did when he was angry, and yet he didn't follow. Night had fallen by the time Arthur had time to stop watching his breath swirl in the cold air and look to his right, where Alfred had pulled up in their dinky, cheap little car with the bad paint job (the one they'd split the payments for but Alfred drove more often) and smiled at him with that 'I know you're cold you little brat, come on' smile. Arthur had only said 'it's only because I'm freezing my fingers off out here' and gotten in. Alfred knew better than to note that he was wearing mittens.

When they'd walked in, Arthur had reached for the lights, and been stopped by a larger hand. With an angry huff he'd waited, as instructed, by the door. Alfred had fumbled around in the darkness for a moment before there was a click, and a burst of dim light. He'd taken the biggest flashlight they had and put paper over it, paper with tiny dots poked through. And though the city dimmed the stars outside, they had their own galaxy inside. Arthur had laughed at the sheer corniness of it all.

But his laughter had stopped when he'd felt a presence at his side, a warm hand over his, a gentle voice in his ear, a plastic stem pressed into his open palm. "You know, it's still not dead," Alfred had said softly.

"How?" Arthur had asked breathlessly. "All roses have to die eventually."

"So do stars," Alfred nodded against his shoulder, "But they aren't going out any time in our lifetimes either, are they?" And he'd held him, held him so tight. And Arthur had run his fingers over the rose, over its petals, over the glue so meticulously applied.

And they kissed. It was a love he could feel.