Author's Note
I really have no idea where I'm going with this fanfiction or if I will write more or if I won't. I have ideas. I just need to sort out what direction I'm going with it. I obviously haven't written anything that I've put on the site in a long time, so cut me some slack if I'm not very good. Hetalia doesn't belong to me.
Fingertips brushed over Francis's thighs and across his chest. Lips connected with his over and over, soft but persistant. Without opening his eyes, he knew the body that hovered over his. He could picture his scarlett hair, freckled skin and his muscles shifting to keep himself from falling onto the blonde. "Allistor." He sighed out the Scottish man's name and all at once it stopped. He couldn't feel him anymore and Francis painfully remembered how haunted he was. It had been a blissful few moments where a dream lingered, but it was never real anymore. He was not coming back. It was foolish to even entertain such a fantasy.
He didn't dare to open his eyes, not yet. It was still dark in his room, so it wasn't morning. He would have been able to see the light through his eyelids if that were the case. If he openened his eyes, tears that were collecting underneath would spill out and onto his pillow anyway. It had been years and this stupid, aching feeling in his chest always found its way back to him. Francis breathed deeply, though his lungs shuddered and he choked on a sob.
Those tears were coming with or without his permission. He had no choice but to finally sit himself up and wipe at his cheeks with his forearms like a child. It was 3:42 in the morning. It would be the same time in Spain, but what choice did he have? He took up his cellphone, hesitating for all of two minutes before he hit 'call'. Antonio answered as usual after three rings and in a voice still full of sleep. Francis hadn't expected that he would have been awake. He always felt guilty for doing this. "Tonio-"
"Si. It's alright, but I can't come tonight." the Spaniard mumbled. Francis could hear him lay his head back onto his pillow. This was not the first time that he had called him at these odd hours. Francis never said why exactly he called and Antonio never needed to ask.
"Non. I didn't think so, but could you sing for me?" He asked, voice thin and a bit higher than his usual pitch. Antonio grunted, moving again, most likley. He did sing, though. He sang softly, without his guitar this time.
Francis laid himself back down after his eyes were dry enough and he concentrated on the Spaniard's soothing voice so it almost made him forget why he had woken in the first place. This helped him possibly more than Antonio could ever know. He fell back to sleep near the end of Antonio's second song, not dreaming again or if he did, he couldn't remember what it was about in the morning.