*distracts self from larger, more epic story by writing several small, angst filled oneshots*

"Arthur, just do it."

It was raining, great big drops that felt like rocks hitting the skin of his forearms. His sleeves were rolled up; his green jacket bundled up in his hands as he pressed it to the gaping wound in Francis's stomach. It wasn't helping.

"Arthur-"

"Stop it!" he hissed, not meeting his eyes as he pushed harder at the wound, ignoring that the jacket was already soaked through with blood, the liquid mixing with the rain that pelted them from above. A bomb had gone off, taking with it Francis's legs and lodging a sizable piece of debris in his abdomen. They'd found him hours after it happened, and Alfred had gone to get help while Arthur stayed with him. Dear God- where was that American? They couldn't be that far from the base. "Just stop talking frog- I need to concentrate."

"Concentrate on what?" Francis asked, his voice quieter than it had ever been. It was beginning to sound hollow; it left him aching to his core. "There's nothing you can do for me."

Arthur ignored him, closing his eyes tightly as he tried to control his breathing. No, it couldn't be like that, there was just no way. Every time something like this happened there was always a last minute rescue, a miracle that saved them before they reached the point of no return. Someone or something or anything was bound to show up. Francis would not die. Not like this. Not now.

He felt a hand clutch his shoulder, but didn't dare look at the man. Tears were already streaming down his face, every inch of him shaking as he resisted the urge to collapse into the mud and sob.

"Arthur…"

"No, not right now." The Englishman shook his head, trying to lean harder on the man's wound, knowing that it was impossible to push more than he already was.

"Arthur, look at me."

"No." he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to calm himself, an endless track of hysteria playing in his mind. He bit his lip until he felt blood, then bit harder, using the pain to remind himself to focus, to keep pressure on the wound, to keep up the hope that there was something, anything he could do to save Francis Bonnefoy.

"Arthur, please…" fingers brushed against his cheek, and hesitantly he turned to face the beautiful, blond Frenchman that had been the source of all of his troubles for as long as he could remember. Francis was pale and shaking in the pouring rain, his lips trembling as his wide eyes met Arthur's own.

"It's alright. Just do it."

He felt the man press a pistol into his hand, and he simply stared at him, his heart dropping into his stomach.

"No, no Francis- I can't-"

"You have to." He said, eyes pleading. "I've lost too much blood and we both know that. Please Arthur, I'm in pain."

Arthur's tears mingled with the rain as he clutched the gun in his shaking hands. "You can't ask me to do this."

"I'm sorry." Francis said, a small, wry smile playing on his lips. "You always gave the impression that you'd love to kill me."

He gave a short, dry laugh, and then finally succumbed to his tears, slouching over as deep, violent sobs wracked his body. "It was all a joke and you know it." He said, holding the man's hand tight in his. Francis gave it a soft, weak squeeze.

"I know." He said. "I hope you can forgive me for the things I've said."

Arthur looked down, hugging himself as his shoulders shook. "Don't talk like that; stop acting like this is the end."

"Is it not?"

"No, it's not!" he said, the volume of his voice rising. "It can't be. I sent Alfred to get help, remember? My God- where is he?"

"Please Arthur, even if he did come back in time… I don't want to live like this. I'm missing from the waist down." This time, Francis's voice started to tremble as tears fell from his eyes. "I'm hurting."

"Then stop being such a little bitch." Arthur mumbled, wiping his eyes. "You're going to be fine."

He felt a hand move to the back of his head, and then was pulled forward so that his forehead rested on Francis's shoulder. It was a welcome shield from the scene he'd been subjected to, and for several minutes they stayed like that, Arthur's face burrowed against the man's neck as he cried, clutching the fabric of his shirt and ignoring the way his skin was already growing cold.

"Did you ever love me?" Francis asked as Arthur's sobs began to subside.

"Do I really need to answer that?" he asked, sitting back to meet the man's eyes. He was even paler now; sweat dripping down his face as he bit his lip in pain, though he was smiling.

"Non. It's obvious." He said, and then his hand came out to rest on Arthur's cheek. "In that case, please don't drag this on." The gun felt heavy in his hands as Francis's weary eyes closed for a moment, wincing in pain. "I want you to do this."

"I simply can't." Arthur urged, but Francis shook his head.

"I know you can."

Emerald eyes glanced down Francis's body, from his heaving chest to the gaping wound in his stomach, and then to where it stopped abruptly, a massive puddle of blood mingling with the mud beneath them. Part of him knew that Francis was right- all of him in fact. Even if he did live through this, he'd be in pain for the rest of his life. It would be a mercy to kill him before it could get to that point. Hell, Arthur would have asked him to do the same.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and Francis nodded, his dark blue eyes boring into him.

"Please do this for me."

Arthur cocked the gun, then leaned forward to press a wet trembling kiss to Francis's forehead, as if apologizing to it for the damage he'd soon do.

"Thank you." Francis said, smiling softly at him as he got to his feet. He aimed the gun with shaking hands, blinking tears out of his eyes so that he could see properly.

The Frenchman looked down. "I loved you too, you know."

"I know." Arthur said, willing his hands to stay still. He took a deep breath, glancing into the man's eyes one last time, only to find them closed with content.

He pulled the trigger.

Alfred wasn't surprised to find Francis dead when he got back. The manner of his death however, was another thing.

The moment he arrived, Kiku and Ludwig trailing behind him with a stretcher and supplies, he knew what'd happened. Francis was in relatively the same state he'd left him, though he'd obviously been shot in the head, and had been dead for quite some time. Arthur stood calmly beside him, pistol in hand.

Kiku and Ludwig must have known as well, but they didn't say anything, simply lifting the man onto the stretcher and carrying him away. Arthur didn't move an inch the entire time.

Alfred approached carefully, trying to gauge the Brit's feelings. Arthur's face was emotionless however, which relieved and scared him all at once.

"Hey…" he started, and the Englishman looked up at him, his green eyes rimmed red and his mouth in a straight line.

"He asked me to do it- I didn't… I didn't want…"

"I know you didn't." Alfred said, taking off his coat and putting it over the man's shoulders. He wondered where Arthur's own jacket had gone.

"It's raining. Let's get back before we get sick." He said, and Arthur nodded, moving past him to lead the way.