Disclaimer: All Hetalia belongs to Himaruya, I make no profit nor do I claim ownership.
Note: Modern AU, Genbent!Matthew.
Arthur wasn't sure why he was friends with Francis.
They had little in common, they were passive aggressive towards one another and rarely got along unless they were working. And even then, it was a battlefield. Arthur could honestly say that, they were more drinking partners than friends, since it was only due to alcohol that they could be civil towards each other.
They had met after Francis had parted way with his old editor. Francis had strutted in his office, dropped a manuscript in his desk and demanded that he get to work, turning around and leaving before Arthur could regain his wits to yell at him.
He had later learnt from his secretary that his boss had sent Francis his way, arguing that Arthur was the best choice to care for his work. Arthur is pretty sure it has nothing to do with him being good at his job; it's more than his boss hated his guts (and the feeling was quite mutual). Francis Bonnefoy was a writing genius, he had written several historical fiction books, all best sellers, all received with critical acclaim. He had a knack for words that Arthur couldn't deny, he would write with ease and a natural grace that Arthur could swear was unholy.
But Francis had two flaws. He was French, so very French and Arthur was so very British that they antagonized just on principle over everything. And he had a hard time keeping a steady relationship. Francis would go from a partner to another like a bee to a flower, he found something to like and love in everyone; he would many times cancel his appointments with Arthur for a date. And the man left behind a string of broken hearts.
Today was one of the rare days, those once on a blue moon when they could sit by the fire, drink and carry a conversation. Arthur had gone to Francis house to discuss his newest venture, a romance book.
Little by little and with help of wine, the conversation had gone from books to everything and anything. And for the first time, Arthur found himself sharing something with Francis he had deemed 'too personal'.
"You intend to tell me, Arthur, that you see ghosts?" Francis' voice carried an amused tone. The wine having placating his usual snark.
"I do. I know many don't believe it and I know I sound crazy, but I can. Have been able to see them since I was a kid."
Francis made the notion to refill both their glasses. "Tell me about it, who knows, I might someday write about it!"
Arthur hesitates, he's not sure if Francis is mocking him or just wanting blackmail material. Or maybe, there was something in the air that caused him to take pause. The howls of the wind or the chill of the night, maybe the way the moon shone unobstructed. It was a clear night, a cold night. He took a drink of his glass and he spoke, "ghost are normal… oh don't look at me like that! I mean, they look normal. They aren't the like the ones the movies make them seem, they look like they did when alive."
An eyebrow rose. "Just that?"
"No. Some know they're dead, some deny it. Some are terrifying; some just want somebody to see them. To remember them and some just want to stay, they don't want to leave."
"That is interesting, do they ever say anything about… you know, what follows?"
"No, they never do." Arthur sighed and drank the rest of his whisky. "And I never ask."
"A pity, it would be fun to know" Francis took a sip of his wine. "The great mystery of life after death could be solved. Alas, our dear Eyebrows is too polite to ask."
Arthur snorted. "Not so polite as too afraid. I prefer not to know." Arthur stood up, stretched his muscles and prepared to leave. "I'd better go, it's a long drive."
"Then stay, I have extra rooms."
"No, thank you. I'd rather drive."
Francis let a dramatic sigh and waved his hand at Arthur. "Fine, be that way," he took the other to his heart, "it's not like you wound my feelings or anything."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Sleep well, Drama Queen."
Arthur walked towards his car, pulling his jacket closer to him. He could swear that he could feel the cold to his marrow. He took the keys out and unlocked his car. And he froze; on the other side of the street stood a sad looking girl.
Waif-like and wearing a sweater jacket that seemed much too big for her frame, she stood still, looking upwards towards the light that came out the window of Francis' library. And then he noticed it, her hair was still, unmoving under the wind. And he knew what she was, a ghost.
Against his better judgment, he walked towards her, curiosity as to way she was looking at Francis's home. He cleared his throat, "Can I help you, poppet?"
"You can't, but thank you." The girl answered without taking her eyes of the window.
He debated with himself as to leave or ask another thing, curiosity won in the end. "Whom do you seek?"
"Francis. Francis Bonnefoy." She replied, eyes unmoving.
"A fan?" He asked.
"Fan? No. Old friend… or was. I loved him once. He loved me not." Her voice was almost a whisper.
"Were you a girlfriend then?"
"Something like that, I guess. But he left and then I did too. I wish I could speak to him, one last time."
He shivered and he knew it wasn't from the cold. "He hurt you, didn't he? Broke your heart?" Like he always does, he thought.
The girl spoke. "Yes, I loved him and he did not. He loved my friend more."
He felt a surge of pity for the girl. "I'm sure you were a wonderful girl. He should have count himself lucky. But he's a fool."
And the ghost finally turned to him. And Arthur could swear he saw love in those eyes, love and pain, fear and loss. Wisdom gained with hurt hid into purple irises.
"Oh. You are one of those. The good one I mean, I wish I had met you first. Could ask him to come, I only wish to say goodbye." He could see the pleading in her eyes.
"I could try. What is your name?"
"Madeleine, Madeleine Williams. And thank you…"
He smiled. "Arthur Kirkland."
"Thank you, Arthur. I have tried speaking to him before, but he doesn't listen."
He turned around and went towards the door, looked over his shoulder only to see that the girl was once again staring up. He went inside thanks to the key Francis had reluctantly given him; he found his still there, in the library clutching a glass of wine.
"Francis…"
"Mon ami! I had thought you on your way home. Changed your mind?" A radiant smile.
"No. Listen Francis, there's someone outside. Her name is Madeline…" Francis blanched and set the wine glass down. "… Williams. Says she wants to say goodbye."
Francis was still very much pale and his hands were shaky, same as his voice. "Arthur, don't joke like that." Francis tried to smile, but came out more like a grimace.
Arthur frowned. "I'm not. She's outside. Blonde, purple eyes, she asked for you."
Francis stood, holding unto the chair for support. "She can't be. Arthur… she's been gone for years!"
"Yes I know. She's a ghost and she's outside," He pressed his lips together "only wants to say goodbye. Whatever it is that happened, it's just a goodbye."
Francis recoiled. "I can't. I won't. Not after what happened."
Arthur raised his eyebrow, "She told me. That you didn't love her. But loved her friend." If possible, Francis looked even paler. "Nothing to be afraid of, she's just a girl. Are you afraid?"
Francis inflated his chest, like a peacock. Pride wounded. "I'm not. I'll go, she's outside yes?"
"Yes, in the front street."
"Very well then. Let's face the music." He took a big gulp of the wine he still had. "I'll be right back." Francis walked passed beside Arthur, tossing a careless wink at him as he made his way downstairs. And just in that moment, an unknown fear hit Arthur, causing him to reconsider.
"You know what Francis, maybe you shouldn't go." Francis paused at the bottom of the stairs and turned around. "Maybe it's best if you don't. Stay in, I'll stay, we'll have more wine. Whisky, whatever, just don't go."
"Mon ami, I'm sure I'll be fine. And you're welcome to stay and fear not, your virtue isn't in danger. You're not my type. Wait for me in the library then." Francis made way towards the door and opened it.
"No. Wait Francis. Don't." The door closed. He wanted to move but felt his legs heavy, as if the drink had caught up with him. He couldn't move, so he waited. And he listened for any sound, but only the howls of the wind could be heard. And out of fear, Arthur closed his eyes and placed his hands over his ears. And waited, he waited the whole night.
It had been a month since that night, Arthur thought as he sat on his office. Francis had not come back, a neighbor found him early in the morning; he was sprawled on the street. A heart attack, the medics had said.
But Arthur knew better and he still had nightmares, he would see smiling Francis's face and later the white pallor of death, hollow eyes and a grimace instead of smile. Those nights he would wake screaming and covered in cold sweat; he blamed himself for it. He should have known, that a ghost would just rarely stop to talk, he should have known better than to send Francis to his death.
After all, the ghost had told him. She had been calling him and Francis had ignored her calls; it was something his grandmother had told him, that if a ghost calls you, you best not follow. But he had sent Francis to her, to the open arms of death.
Arthur wept.
A/N: Hope you guys like it. Comments, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome, thank you for reading. This work has been edited.