Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Himaruya Hidekazu.
English isn't my born language, and this drabble is completely random. No beginning and no ending. Any errors are my faults. I should be sleeping, but I'm up typing. (the result from drinking too much coffee). Uhm, don't mind the length, please.
Pairing: France/Jeanne D'Arc.
He has taken up a new hobby: drawing.
And (naturally), Jeanne is sketched everywhere he looks.
(He remembers her someday - let's not make it everyday - with little things. It's difficult to not think of her when he observers the country. The shine of her hair, or the color of her eyes brightened under the sunlight. Certainly she was a beauty, and everyone knows how he appreciated it.)
The curve of a birch is the curve of her shoulders, the birds singing releases her laughter, which echoes and echoes (painfully clear) to the sharp line of horizon, the sharp line of her brow.
(He stands near the window of his house few minutes a day - just few minutes, because if it was longer, he would be dreaming of her - watching the sun set over Paris, and thinks of her. The feel of her skin under his fingertips, the sigh she made when their foreheads touched before she had to leave, the shadows her hair casted on her shoulders before turning away. He couldn't stop her, for he's France before he' Francis Bonnefoy, and she was going to fight for France.)
He draws. He uses pestels, charcoal, pencils, paint - anything and everything. And the yellow turns into the golden color of hair and the watercolor of a lake turns into the color of brightbright blue eyes.
He almost smiles.
(He's trying to get into the habit of not thinking of her these days, the world has changed and so has the country. He walks rainy city streets for endless hours in the evenings, a cigarette dangling from his lips and knows it's impossible. Because it's France, it's the country she died fighting for. And as long as he's alive, he'll never forget.
Being immortal is surely a problem.)
He slumps into his sofa, hands covering his face, breathing shakily: "Why did you have to leave", he says because there is no answer so it can't be a true question (not a question when he knows the answer himself.)
(I fight for France, she said, I fight for you.)
He picks the pencil and draws.
(He writes after each picture done: Je t'aime.)
A/n: Thanks for reading and please review.