DISCLAIMER: Hetalia, as always, is not mine :3
AN: FrUK, yay! Not much to say, except that this was written to 'The End Draws Near', 'Gallifrey' and 'A Lot Of Life Behind Us' from the Doctor Who soundtrack, so if you want to listen to them, I think it'd be cool :3
WARNINGS: Character death(s)
NAMES - Liam - N. Ireland, Niamh - Ireland, Allistor/Al - Scotland, Owen - Wales
England stands by the gravestones on the rough, sandy space. Five in a row, his sister, his youngest brother, then the next, and the next - and a space in between. They are lind along the edge of the cliff, overlooking the pristine beach of the nation's island. This is where nations come to die.
He knows his place already, the marker is already engraved and there is a flag rolled up in his desk for when the time comes. He knows it's coming, soon. He can feel it. The wind knocks at the flags, the proud colours whip at the air, at his head and heart. Each flutter is a lashing, another reminder Scotland is gone, Wales and Ireland are, even Northern Ireland. They're gone and nothing he can do will bring them back. He's tried it all, all the spells in his books, all the tricks Scotland taught him - all the potions that stand on his shelves, and not one did any good. He feels he let them down, not saying proper goodbyes. And a terrible part of him hates them for going without him. But he'll be there soon, he can knows it.
There are footsteps behind him, and he wavers on his spot, but he couldn't for the life of him, care less. He knows who it is, and they respectfully stop and wait in silence. He takes in a long breath, savouring the taste of the sea air. He wants to know this in his last moments.
"They're all gone... It was so quick..." he sighs, his voice carried by the wind. He's opened his mouth now and it won't stop. Pressure builds in his chest and he lets out a sob. "Gone! And I'll never see them again! They... They're gone... I promised I'd look after them, and I did, I think - I tried!. I did what they asked... we had it all planned. We'd be buried together, like this and..." he raises a hand to his throat to try and push away the lump that's choking him.
"Bury me, Francis," he says, and the footsteps return. A hand slides into the one that hangs loosely by him side. "Bury me. Here... Next to Al and Owen... We're in age see?"
By now, he can hardly see for tears, and he feels them trickle down his face, down his neck and shirt; all the tears that ever could come flooding.
"Th-the one thing we never decided one, w-was who buried the last of us... So I want it to be you... You bury me, Francis. Just like this... M-my last request?"
There is a small silence and England can see France wiping at his eyes. Then the taller man turns with a small smile and nods.
"Of course I will, Ang-Eng-... Of course, Arthur" and England gives back a thin smile.
"... Thanks..."
The silence overwhelms them once more, and then England squeezes France's hand before sliding from its grasp. "We'll go... In just a moment?" France nods, understanding, and takes a few steps back, hands clasped together in what might be prayer. England knows he was close to Scotland, and he knows many others were close to all his family. He isn't ignoring the fact at all, he will let them mourn them too. But not right now. Now is for them, the Kirklands.
He spends a moment with his face upturned to the sky. He has to give them all a decent goodbye. He turns to Niamh's flag, and presses three fingers to his lips. Tears bubble over as he caresses the flag with them, and as he does the same to Liam's, a choked cry flies from his lips. He glides past his own waiting hollow and kisses Owen's flag and then one last to Allistors. He steps back.
"Thank you... I love you, all of you."
The sun is setting behind the flags, and through his tears he can hardly tell where sand and sky begins and where the flags seperate. They run together like watercolours into one bright, flaming symbol of the United Kingdom. The sky is alight with reds and pinks and oranges, the last streaks of cloud being chased away, and it's the most beautiful evening. Perfect, as Niamh would have said, but then Liam would have called her soppy. they'd have bickered untill Owen and Arthur decided to join and if memory served right, all four would argue until Allistor threatened to bash their heads in. Then they'd laugh over a drink and... England swallows.
Forgetting for the moment his people, his country, all he thinks of is his family. He pulls his right hand up and steadies it. As the sun dips, he salutes them for the final time.
When he turns, France can see the tiredness in his face. England's face is pale and smudged with tears. He has lost all of his gentlemanly qualities, his stiff upper lip and calm demeanor. He has lost his family. He nods and France holds out his arms.
"They're gone!" he bursts as he collapses into France's arms. They tumble down, onto the sand, and for once France doesn't care that it's getting in his hair or shoes, and England doesn't care that France is holding him so tightly, he doesn't shy away from the Frenchman's touch. They aren't sure how long it lasts, sitting there and mourning, but it's dark by the time England can collect himself and stand again.
Yet he staggers as they walk, and France can feel it; this is the end. His stomach churns as they make slow progress over the sand. It's a short walk to the temporary tent he had set up, and he prompts England towards the chair inside but he staggers again, knees giving out beneath him. He collapses once more onto the cool sand, this time with France right behind him, propping him up. He leans into France's shoulder, chest heaving. France can see a layer of sweat on his forehead, the flush of his cheeks.
"And here I go, old chap..." he wavers. One hand sits atop his chest, massaging his heart, which is suddenly pumping faster than it should. "It was a pleasure knowing you..." he sighs, arching his back so he can pull something from his pocket. A flask with his initials engraved elegantly along it lies in his hand, one France remembers seeing England sneak drinks from during metings. He the throws France a watery smile. "One last stiff drink...?" France can't help a tear of his own snaking down his cheek, more trailing down after. "Sure..."
England unscrews the lid, and tips his head back, swallowing the contents in one swoop. He scowls at the bitter taste, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"That... Wasn't brandy, was it?" France asks and England smiles knowingly. "No... Truth potion...There was brandy in it though..."
"Not something to make the pain stop?"
"No, I guessed I should face my final battle head on, you know? Not cheat... But I couldn't go without... Not without telling you something I really should have long ago. It's not sensible to say now, but you should know. I... I love you Francis. And not just in that-" he pauses for a second, a small gasp for air as his heart twinges painfully. "Not just in that namby-pamby sense. I just loved you for being there, no matter how often we argued... For helping out... And of course..." he lifted a hand around to France's cheek. "Of course, I love you like this," and he pulled France down into a long kiss.
Their lips seemed to fit perfectly, even in the odd position they were. Warmth flooded England and he pulled away smiling. He pushed himself up, making himself sit next to France, looking out into the night.
"Thank you..." he said, though his voice was barely above a whisper. "For everything... Sorry for... Anything I did, a-all of it..." his speech was punctuated every few words by a shuddery breath, so France took ahold of his shoulders and careful levered him down. "Thank you..." he said again, looking up at France from where his head was nestled between the man's chest and hand. He wrapped his other hand around France's knee, patting it slowly. He looked up and out of the fluttering ends of the tent.
"Look at the stars, Francis..."
"I am..."
"Aren't they beautiful?"
"Oui, they sure are..."
"They always remind me... Of you... Us... When we were little... Remember?"
France couldn't help the tears that fell at that. "Oui, I remember... Mon lapin..."
Another wave of tears cascaded out of nowhere as England cupped France's face in one last goodbye. He took a deep breath and then paused.
"I love you... Francis Bonnefoy..." His breath escaped in his final world, and then as fast as that, he was gone.
Emerald eyes still looked up towards the stars, reflecting their shine, but they had lost their own spark. They were no more the bright and lively eyes of Arthur Kirkland. They were the cold, dead eyes of England.