Birmingham, 1928

Every day Arthur spent with you was precious, aside from the obvious reason why, he treated every minute with you as if it was his last, showering you with praise and love and gratitude, for he knew you were already on borrowed time thanks to the doctors.

He was familiar with the concept of tragic love, wrong time, wrong place etcetera. But never like this, never when he was so far gone he'd considered simply dying with you as if it was a viable solution. He'd only known you a short time, less than a year but you'd managed to capture his heart regardless, he could see how this would end, only one surefire way it could, in all it's bitter tragedy he'd be left alone.

Some days you didn't allow him to see you, wanting only to give him the memory of you as you wanted to be remembered, not actively rotting in front of him, not bleeding, spewing bile, shivering, sweating, writhing in agony, visibly dying.

He'd always bring flowers, always your favourites, always a new book, a new sweet treat for his little darling, treating you like you'd live forever if he kept bringing you little things, extending your time with him with each exchange.

You always heardArthur before you saw him, heard his distinct heavy, purposeful footfalls, heard him whistling a tune or speaking with your doctor in rushed greeting before bursting into your room.

You preferred him like this, boisterous, full of life such as you were not, you didn't want him to whisper and tiptoe, you wanted him loud, so he didn't lose himself in grief when you were gone, you wanted him to always be Arthur.

He beamed at you from the doorway of your private hospital room, bought with his own money of course, nothing but the best for his dove.

"Good morning lovey!" he exclaimed, his gruff voice almost rattling the windowpanes, "what a morning it is, sun's almost out, ducky," he said, cracking your window a fraction for some fresh air before coming to your bedside, gathering your weakness into his arms.