The television was blaring in the background as Arthur closed the front door behind him. He sighed, and pulled the rubber band from the newspaper as he made his way to his usual spot at the rickety kitchen table. He set the paper down on its rough surface, and made his way slowly into the kitchen to refill his nearly empty cup of tea. As he was pouring the last bit of it into the fine china, Peter rushed into the kitchen and grabbed a spoon from the cabinet drawer.

"May you fetch me some cereal, please? I can't reach it." The boy looked up eagerly at Arthur.

"Sure, honey." A smile broke across the Englishman's face as he grabbed a plastic bowl and the box of Peter's favorite cereal from the cupboards. "Get the milk from the fridge and check the date. Make sure it hasn't expired yet."

His youngest son nodded, and ran the five-foot distance to the refrigerator. He always seemed to be in a hurry, but that was children for you, Arthur supposed. The small fingers quickly unscrewed the cap off of the plastic container, and he made his way over to Arthur, holding the gallon of milk tightly with both hands.

"Now be careful not to spill it. Milk can be quite a mess to clean up," he said as he poured the cereal into the bowl. Peter handed him the container, and Arthur poured ever-so steadily. Once he was finished, he screwed the cap back on, and handed it to Peter. "Here you are," and he gave him the bowl of cereal.

"Thanks," Peter said quickly, and turned. He hurried into the living room and plopped down on the couch were he munched away rather loudly, while watching his morning cartoons. Arthur stayed in the kitchen to put away the box, and picked up his tea cup on his way back to the table. After he sat down, he put his reading glasses on and read the newsprint text. His eldest son, Alfred, hadn't even bothered to stay in touch for months, Arthur recalled as his eyes scanned the paper blindly. Matthew was busy too, with college and what-not. It was rather lonely in the old house, with his two oldest children away with their own lives, and the youngest one ever-present but not really there. Peter saw his father as just an old man whom he could barely relate to, apart from family-issues and the like. Besides, he had his own friends and would just follow in the footsteps of his siblings.

Thoughts like these rather depressed Arthur, and he shook the truth away. It really wasn't all that bad to be lonely. In fact, it could be very peaceful. Arthur would never admit it aloud, but he did enjoy his time alone in the empty house while Peter was away with friends. Or, he used to enjoy it until the seemingly-lost memories drifted to the dark surface of his mind. That's when sorrow and loneliness would consume him, sinking its teeth deeper and deeper into his being.

Enough of that, he urged himself. He turned his focus back to the newspaper, where he caught himself staring at the headline article for several minutes. Peter didn't even notice. The sports section was uninteresting since the author of the articles always seemed to use his journalism skills to vent his anger from the losses of his favorite teams. The news was the same as always: a fire destroyed several apartment buildings, heavy rains caused flooding in the river valleys, a new political scandal is being investigated, upset protesters march the streets of New York, blah blah blah. He sighed, and flipped through the pages. Several people he had met a long time ago were renewing their vows, a young couple that were friends with his eldest boys just announced their engagement, and so-and-so were celebrating their thirty-year anniversary. Then his eyes caught the fifth name in the obituary...

Francis Bonnefoy. The memories came rushing back like an unrelenting storm. He swallowed, and he felt his heart sink into his stomach. He stared at those eyes in the obituary picture, those sad, sad eyes that would never see this world ever again. Arthur heard the plip-plip of his tears falling on the newsprint, and quickly brushed them away. The words were obscured by the moisture, yet the image remained. He brushed the tips of his fingers across the picture, ink staining his skin. He began to recall all the special moments he had shared with the Frenchman, and again the waves of sorrow crashed into him as he realized over and over that they would never have those back. Sure, it had been what seemed like years since they saw each other last. But it hurt all the same.

Arthur was in love with Francis, although he had never told the man when he was alive. After his wife left him and his three children, Arthur bonded with the older gentleman who had the never-ending smile. He had taken care of Arthur and his boys when they needed him the most. They had spent a lot of time together as a family, even though they weren't one... at least, not really... When Arthur was sad, those arms and friendly demeanor were always there to welcome him. Sometimes, when sorrow was a full-gale storm that Arthur could barely stand up to, Francis would show him that there was hope, and everything would eventually get better.

Now he could never feel that comfort. Never hear that soothing voice with its strange accent. Never feel that warm body, now grown cold, against his own as those arms squeezed him close. His tears became a torrent as he nuzzled his face against his arms, heaving sobs that shook his tiny frame and made him gasp for breath. Peter noticed his father, and set the bowl down on the ground as he slid off of the couch.

"Dad... What's wrong?," he nudged Arthur's shoulder, and the Englishman glanced up, glistening trails marking the trek of tears on his cheeks as they fell. Arthur pulled the boy into an awkward hug, and sobbed against his shoulder-blades. Peter, hesitating as he decided what to do, noticed the obituary. He hugged his father closer, then pulled away to grab some tissues. He returned within seconds, and handed them to Arthur, who dabbed at his eyes. Several minutes passed and the boy's father gained his composure. "Who is that, dad?," Peter asked, motioning to the picture. He had been just a toddler when Francis was around. Too long ago to remember him clearly.

"Just a friend."

Note: This is just a quick story I wrote while faced with school-work related writer's block. I do believe this could be better written with more content, but alas. I am too lazy to add anything else (besides this note). Please don't critique it (it's just written for fun!), don't leave rude comments, and don't start shipping wars. I like FrUK, and I understanc you may like something else. This is the first story I've written and completed, so the sloppiness is understandable, I hope...

P.S. I may edit this and repost. (I also took some artistic license with this and bent the characters to fit the story. Sorry if you were inconvenienced.)