De-anon from Kink Meme
France had often wondered what a world without England would be like.
It was not only ever a wistful 'what-if' in which France imagined the benefits of erasing England completely from his life; then again, it often was. Occasionally, though, it was merely because France was curious by nature and simply could not help but wonder what the world would be like with no fire-filled green eyes, bushy eyebrows, and angry pouts.
It is quiet.
There are no sailor-worthy curses. There are no enraged yells. There is no obnoxious, screaming voice filling the air. It is not the sort of silence one drifts off in a hammock to, or wishes for when they curl up with a good book. It is the sort of silence that hangs heavy on everyone's shoulders, pushing them down deep into the ground and forcing the life and happiness out of them.
Somehow, it feels very wrong; France finds himself waiting for an insult that never comes, preparing to counter an argument that never arrives, and it is then that France realizes how very unprepared he is for a world with England.
(He waits, sometimes when he forgets or when the wine becomes too tempting, to hear the word 'frog' thrown his way; it never comes, though he really shouldn't have ever expected it, and it seems like such a very silly thing, but France can't help but miss it. It is as if England has stolen away some little part of his identity in his last moments, and carted it off to wherever he's disappeared to so that France can never steal it back. Oh, how funny; England has had the last laugh, hasn't he?)
There is a little voice nagging about in the back of France's mind, insisting day in and day out that the world as it is cannot exist without England - so why, oh why, hasn't it ended yet? It should have ended fifteen days ago, with the signing of a name in flawless cursive.
But it hasn't ended, and it almost seems mocking in it's continuity.
(He's gone, he's gone, he's gone, the world seems to laugh. And yet you're still here. The world's still here. It's like he never even mattered. The world will keep on spinning and changing and he will be forgotten as if he never existed at all; and you will forget him too one day, won't you?)
On and on and on; taunting and laughing. Seasons change, months pass, and France watches as the small, quaint cottage tucked away in the English countryside is conquered by dust and grass, left as only an echo of a once beautiful place.
Sometimes, France walks along the garden out back, watching with dull interest as the flowers wilt and die off one by one with the passing time; it is the very first time France has ever seen them as anything less than perfect, and it seems terribly wrong somehow. Those flowers, he thinks, should be blooming; should be lovingly tended to. (He could do it; he could save them before they die. But France was never meant to be a hero, was he? And he simply doesn't have the energy for anything these days, so he does nothing but watch as the flowers die.)
Days have become monotonous, dreary, awful things colored in black and white. Tuesday still comes after Monday - just as it always has and will continue to do until the end of time - and work still piles up, and meetings are still attended, but France can't seem to focus on any of it - the colors are dulled and tainted with ghastly shades of gray, and his entire world seems to be viewed through a broken camera lens: everything shifts in and out of focus, the blurry edges giving him a terrible headache whenever he attempts to focus in on something around him.
But despite all this, France lives. Despite the overgrown gardens and horrible shades of gray and haunting silence, his people continue to thrive and flourish and live.
And he will live with them.
.
.
There is something dreadfully wrong about meetings nowadays - some thick, suffocating tension coating the air that hasn't been present there before. It scares people into silence; they're terrified they'll say something wrong and unveil that pesky elephant hiding away in the corner.
France finds it completely ridiculous. England is cold and still and six feet under and everyone knows it. Why try to hide it? As if keeping quiet on the subject will change what happened. (And France secretly thinks that if no one keeps reminding him, he might just trick himself into forgetting there's something missing.)
Scotland has begun attending again, much to everyone's surprise; he sits silently in a corner, smoking away on his cigarette, and keeping his eyes locked on his brother.
France wants to pull him aside and demand to know why he's there - because if he has to look at those god damned green eyes of his one more time he may just lose it. (There is no reason for you to attend, France wants to scream. For God's sake, look; England's chair isn't even empty.)
Ireland, as the new representative of his brothers and sister, sits beside France in a chair that is not his and never will be; he seems to be the only one unaware of the heavy tension, and carries on as happily as ever. (And how can that be? Isn't he suffocating under it just as France is?)
It is almost painful to watch how Ireland speaks as if without a care in the world. France wants nothing more than to hurt him; to rip him apart and see if he bleeds the red, blue, and white of the Union Jack he's stolen.
But he can't seem to find the strength to leave his chair - perhaps it is the memories sitting in his bones, heavier than lead and weighing him down - so he merely watches Ireland from across the room.
But he is not Ireland anymore, is he? In exchange for a new position and title, he's thrown his old name away just as England always refused to.
It is not Ireland that sits with England's ghost, but the newly formed United Kingdom of Great Britian and Ireland.
.
.
"Perhaps I can help, aru."
No, France wants to say. No, you can't.He wants China to leave him alone in his misery; can't the other nation understand he is far too busy living in his memories?
"My people have searched for immortality and new life for centuries, and while they as humans have found no solutions, I have, aru. For our kind, that is." China pauses to look at him. There is a look almost like sympathy on his face; he's not particularly a bloodthirsty nation, but France almost can't fight back the sudden urge to claw the expression away. "I can bring him back, aru. There is no reason he can not live as Romano or the rest of Great Britian does; as part of a whole."
And what of the cost, France wonders, for China never offers without something to gain. What will it cost me? What will it cost him?
"There is a price, of course," China continues, as if reading his mind. "You must understand, aru. But any price is worth it for a miracle, yes?"
France's hand clenches into a fist of its own accord, and he pauses for a moment, surprised. Slowly, he unfurls it, revealing a rose that is utterly destroyed and a hand that is bloodied by thorns. Strange, he doesn't quite remember ever picking that up; it must have come from England's wilting garden, he realizes, for it is an English rose and not one of his own.
How ironic, France decides, staring at the red rose. How very, horribly ironic.
He laughs then. Laughs at the irony and at China's foolish miracles and at answered questions. "Don't speak of miracles," he chokes out between chuckles. The rose petals drop from his hand, falling to the ground like bloodied snowflakes. France stares at them, his laughs ending as he watches them collect in a little pile at his feet. "The only miracle that ever existed is dead."