Welcome, to Night Vale dear listener.

.sorry. That wasn't right.

Welcome, to this story dear reader.

Now I haven't been in the Hetalia fandom for a long time, like since 2016 or so, and I had no intention of coming back. I still don't, but after revisiting the page and rereading story's not only made me realize that wow I had really bad taste and 90% of story's here are kinda offensive, but also that I have a strange fondness and sense of nostalgia from this place.

So a tired me decided that I was gonna give back a little. I even did a rough draft for a full 12+ Chapter AU were the North American representatives never were found, so let me know if that's something you'd like to see :).

Do enjoy.

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France wasn't expecting a visitor.

It was cold outside, and the grey sky threatened to rain down upon his house. It was windless. And then there were two short, loud knocks on his door.

He also knew who was at the door before he opened it. Now, there were very few people who knocked at his door, considering he had a doorbell. Now the people that chose to knock were mostly people, nations, that have existed long since before the creation of doorbells, so they knock out of habit. The only person who doesn't fall under this category is Matthew, who both rings and knocks, "Just to be sure", he told Francis. So it wasn't Mattie, and he could also say it wasn't Arthur because Arthur always calls ahead of time; And again, he wasn't expecting anybody.

So who else could it be? It wasn't Alfred, because he bangs his fist so hard against Francis' door when he visits that the door shakes, and it wasn't Kiki because he knocked so softly that sometimes Francis couldn't even hear it. Was it Antonio? Again no, because he always knocked in a pattern of four clear knocks nor was it Feliciano, because Feli always would talk and sing and call for big brother France while he waited for the door to open. It wasn't Ludwig either; Ludwig rarely visits, and if he does, it is only one single, echoing knock. Which leaves only one person.

Gilbert.

When he opened the door, red eyes and messy silver hair greeted him. Now Gilbert was always pale of course, being an albino, but here he looked especially pale. The deep, dark bags under his eyes were a stark contrast to that. He looked thinner too, Francis noticed. He looked, while not skeletal, skinnier than he should be with his build. He was wearing a brown leather jacket above at least three other layers. He looked sickly and watered down, yet his eyes were fiery, like they always were.

The ex-nation said nothing, just paused for a second, reached his hand out, laid it firmly on the Frenchmen's shoulder, then promptly pushed him out of the way and walked into the house.

Francis knew better than too speak to him when he's in of his moods. So instead of asking something like 'What's wrong?' or bothering with small talk and manners (for once), he walked into his kitchen and put on a kettle of tea, and leaned against his kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching Gilbert, who was sitting on his black leather couch, head on his arms on his knees.

It made him look even paler and and smaller. Francis disliked that.

The water finished boiling, and he put it in a kettle with a few tea bags. He grabbed two simple porcelain cups, milk, sugar, spoons and two of those small fancy plates for underneath the cups and set them on a platter and set that down on his small kitchen table.

Gilbert didn't look up nor reacted. He didn't move at all. He looked like a statue, his only sign of life being shallow breaths and occasional shifting.

He needed more time, Francis realized. Gilbert still needed more time too cool off, and to calm down. So he went back into the kitchen and started making small sandwiches. Bread. Butter. Cheese. Tomato. Over and over. He repeated until the plate was full of tiny sandwiches. He looked over to Gilbert. Gilbert hadn't moved. So he made more. Bread. Butter. Ham. Lettuce.

Then, finally, Gilbert leaned back, eyes closed and exhaled slowly. He rubbed his thin hands over his face and through his hair, and Francis picked up the heavy plate and put it down with the still-warm tea. He sat down in a chair, and waited, eating sandwiches. Sue him he eats when he's stressed.

Eventually Gilbert stood up and sat down in the seat across from him. He stared at the Prussian, and he stared into his full tea cup.

Quietly, Gilbert began to speak „I got into a fight with Ludwig today", he started „He so unreasonable sometimes. Like a child. He only hears what he wants too. And no matter how many times I say it, he refuses to see the truth."

The sun came out from behind the clouds for a second and hit him in such a strange way that from were Francis was sitting, that his hair glowed and his skin looked almost translucent. "Why are you here mon cher?", he asked.

Gilbert ignored him and continued "And it was so ridiculous what we were fighting about. You see", he said, and pulled up his sleeve, revealing white bandages that he started to unravel,"I was making breakfast, you know, cutting bread and the sort, when the knife slipped", he pulled of the bandage and laid it on the table," and I cut my arm." There was a small scab in the side of Gilbert's arm, not far underneath his wrists.

"And at first I brushed it off and rinsed it under water and slapped on a bandaid, but…"His friend paused,"It wouldn't stop bleeding. The fucking thing just bled and bled and bled, and that terrified me." He looked to the side and blinked rapidly. "It's not like I hadn't bled before, or that it hurt, it just", he squeezed his eyes shut "If that would have happened ninety years ago, this *scheiß verdammte Wunde would have been gone in minutes Francis, minutes. And a half an hour later, the scar would fade and it would be forgotten in an hour." He pulled at his hair.

"Francis, this cut is from two days ago."

The nation opened his mouth to answer, but he was glad when the sound of Gilbert's phone interrupted them.

Gilbert didn't answer the phone. He took it out of his pocket, looked briefly at caller ID, and laid it screen-down on the table. Nobody said a word. Two minutes later, as it was still ringing, Francis slammed his hand down on the table.

"For God's sake Gil just answer the phone."

Gilbert flinched and reached over. He didn't answer it though. He put the phone on silent and left it screen-down on the table.

Neither spoke. The only sound was of the steady pitter-patter of rain on the window. He hadn't realized it had started raining.

"I'm dying Francis", Gilbert said calmly. He said it so calmly that it almost made Francis angry. He had said it so nonchalantly, so passive and softly, so casually, that the blond clenched his teeth and sat ramrod straight in his seat.

'No you're not!', he wanted to shout,' You're not dying because of a stupid fucking little cut!". But he knew better. And he knew that this has been going on longer then two days.

"Two hundred years ago I was one of the most powerful nations on this planet. I had a king and land and people and a soul. I could feel my people, feel my land and I had a home inside me, a house and a function. No matter where I was, I always had a little bit of home inside me."

Francis' gut twisted.

"Do you know how it feels?". For the first time since his guest had arrived, they looked each other straight in the eye "To after years of having that feeling inside you, do have it vanish and never come back?"

The feeling. Francis didn't. He felt every single French person, every centimeter of land, every death and birth and all the laughter and the tears in his body. He rubbed his hands against his chest. It was a terrifying thought to think about. He couldn't imagine being without it.

He shook his head, numb.

"It's like losing a body part. Like having a organ removed", his voice shook,"And it leaves this emptiness behind, this ghostly feeling. I can work without it, but I can't live.

"But fucking West won't hear it", he spat," He's so unwilling to be without me, so scared of me dying, that he throws hissy fit after hissy fit trying to ignore the problem."

Francis got flashes to that dirty courtroom back in 1945. He remembers the vote and the decision and his anger. He also remember the betrayed look in those red eyes when the hammer fell. He still doesn't know if what they did was the right thing. He never will.

He took a large gulp of tea to get the taste of gunpowder and blood out of his mouth.

"We fought. I left. And then...Well I didn't know where to go. Antonio...I love him but he's just too optimistic, ya know? Like...he just would try to convince that nothing was wrong, give me a kiss on the cheek and push me out the door", Gilbert mumbled, "He's kinda like West in that way. And well, as much as I love the **Ami twins, they're just both too young and Denmark is so fucked up in the head that drinking is the only nice thing you'd want to do with him, and the Vargas-"

Francis smiled softly and held his friends left hand in both of his own as he made his friend pause his rambling. "Oh Gil", he whispered kissed his hand "You don't have to explain yourself to me. You are always welcome here."

The former Prussian laughed and might have cried a little too. He pulled his hand back, not angrily, and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm going to die, Franci. I'm going to get weaker and weaker until there will be nothing left of me, and I'm fine with that. But Ludwig won't be. And some others won't either. Fuck Elizabeta…", he whispered,"And I just need to know that at least you are, my friend. Please tell me you will be."

Francis swallowed the lump in his throat and wiped his eyes "O-Ok", he croaked,"I'm going to be ok Gilbert."

Gilbert nodded solemnly. "Thank you."

And they sat there a while, in a peaceful silence until Gilbert jumped up and claimed he needed to catch a train home.

He walked him to the door and right as he was leaving Francis grabbed his hand "Gil?"

The red eyed man turned and they locked eyes, and a calmness washed over him. He wrapped Gilbert in a tight hug, maybe the second or third they had ever exchanged. Possibly their last, a voice in his head told him.

He squeezed tighter.

Gilbert laughed, turned and left, without another word spoken.

Francis watched him and realized that there was a weight in his pocket-a phone. Gilbert's phone. He must have slipped it in there, and had no intention of using it again.

He almost called after Gilbert, but he realized that his friend had disappeared into the mist and rain. Almost like it absorbed him, like he was a transparent gap in existence with no corporal matter or meaning. Like he was nothing.

He also realized, that the train station was in the other direction and Gilbert had never had the intention of ever returning home.

He closed the door, went back, sat down and drank his cold tea.

Francis hadn't expected a visitor, but still he was glad that one came.

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*fucking goddamn wound (It sounds a bit more elegant in German. Please believe me)

**common German slang for North Americans

Thanks for making it to the bottom.

I'm thinking that if enough people enjoyed this, or selected people enjoyed it very much, I'll right a sequel.

Leave a review (or don't) and favorite (if you feel like it)

Love and kisses,

-risky