Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himeruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.
Second Disclaimer: I don't own this universe. It's sort of a prequel (the idea wouldn't leave me alone) set in HalfLight's "What the Heart Forgets" universe, with the ending scene meshing right into the first meeting between Arthur and Francis in the coffee shop. Seriously, go read the first in this series before you read this, because otherwise you'll be really confused. :/
h t t p : / / l e n a r i x - k l i n d e . l i v e j o u r n a l . c o m / 5 0 2 6 7 . h t m l
Timeline: Set before and during the beginning of the "What the Heart Forgets" fic
Summary: Because Arthur knows France is gone. They are all gone. And he is alone. Tonight, Arthur only curls around those precious relics, taking comfort in their presence, and cries himself to sleep on the now-whiskey-stained wood floor of his storeroom.
Title: Seul
[Pronounced "Suhl"]
[Translated as "Single/Only/Alone/On Your Own/By Yourself"]
Word Count: 3,224
Page Count: 5
Anime: Hetalia
Pairing(s) in this chapter: England/France, Arthur/Francis
Warning: Language, Shounen ai/BL, flangst (whatever that is…)
Author: Kita Kitsune
Date: Thursday, November 11, 2010
Miscellaneous Notes: No one go around calling Queen Elizabeth II 'Lilibet'. I only put it in here because England seems like he'd be one of the few allowed to call her that. x.o;; And I have nothing against the Queen and wish her many more happy and healthy years. …I also feel like I could've gone more in-depth with this, but… I was in a hurry, and it's the middle of the week, and I just started writing this earlier today (about an hour before my first class). [ Goodness, I just wanted to get this out before the influence and energy from reading all of HalfLight's fics from this universe dissipated… o.o;; ] Sorry for typos! Like I said, this was fast… x/x~
Ah, and with this, I have become an official fanfiction geek—because I'm writing a fanfic about a fanfic.
[ Also, this may have nothing to do with what HalfLight planned for Arthur's past, in this fic. For some reason I just like filling in pasts about characters. …And also I like to write England/Arthur. So. I sort of latched onto the idea to flesh out his history, a bit. I hope it wasn't too… 'out-of-place' with the actual fic's canon—I tried to remain vague in places where I could. j~j But I did enjoy writing the coffee scene from Arthur's POV (so much, you can't even begin to understand!). Everything might be sort of AU for the fic's universe, itself, because I didn't exactly consult HalfLight while writing this… The idea just grabbed me and ran away. … :3 ? ]
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He was too late for America and Canada. That England (wait, who is he, again?)—Arthur is sure of. But he doesn't care. He doesn't care, because his Queen came to him in a week after all of the countries 'mysteriously' disappeared. All Arthur did was smile tiredly at her and quietly mention that 'perhaps, our time has come', and she knew. Clever Lilibet (whose full name he could never quite think of without recalling her predecessor) knew. And her wrinkled face grew gentler, and she placed a hand on his arm, the familiar accent still a comfort after all these years.
"You are no longer immortal, are you, my dear?" And so he just smiled at her, stepping back and bowing, as a proper English citizen—a civilian, his mind whispers, a civilian and nothing more—should, before straightening and extending a tired hand.
"Arthur Kirkland, Your Majesty. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." And there is a twinkle of pitying understanding there, and her delicate, aged hand quietly moves forward to rest in his, and they give a soft handshake. Her mouth thins into a tight smile, and he is surprised for a moment at the force of her grasp, as well as her words.
"Arthur. I expect us to be good friends." And then his own mouth twitches, a little, fighting the sobs that wanted to break through and his smile becomes a bit more genuine—yes, he will have to be alone in his burden, but it is at least a comfort that she will be there.
: : :
Lilibet—after gently helping Arthur adjust to the idea of a mortal life—dies two years later, only a week after the celebration of her Diamond Jubilee in January 2012. Arthur—not England, now, he has grown used to that—had been with her on that day, naturally, at her side among her older retainers (not older than him, but with white hair and wrinkles that speak of old age—and Arthur knows this time will come for him, as well). They shared a small smile, the England that still lives in Arthur's past remembering a day when a tiny little tot with orange curls clambered into his lap to hide from her portrait painter. That was in 1929. And he knows she does not remember that—how could she, she was only three—so instead Arthur shares the story of her coronation, quietly, with her afterwards. They remember George with a sad smile, and chuckle softly at Mary's insistence that Lilibet's coronation go on, uninterrupted, despite her death.
The loneliness Arthur has been able to somewhat put off for the past two years washes over him in full force when he comes back to his London flat after the funeral. He closes the door, falling back against it and loosens the black tie tucked under his black suit. This place he moved to—after firmly only allowing Lilibet to find him a low-priority job in the government, somewhere, so he could pay the rent (she wanted to do more, much more, but he would not have it)—is smaller than the house he had as England, of course. But the storeroom is the same. He has always been an old man, hasn't he? A self-depreciating chuckle resounds through the quiet as Arthur recalls America with that phrase, and he shakes his head and pushes himself off the door to go raid his whiskey cabinet. He hasn't touched the stuff in two years—has it already been two years without them all?—but, he thinks, this is a good enough excuse to drown his sorrows.
A bottle and a half later, he is stumbling to his storeroom, the hall tilting and wavering back and forth and he has to blink, face red with emotion and the drink, as he gets to it. The knob is stubborn, but it's not locked so it soon gives way, and Arthur almost falls face-first onto the floor as it swings open. With drunken grace he stumbles over to a dusty old box and his fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle. He leans over it, breath putrid and reeking of alcohol. The first thing his eyes fall upon when he opens it is the small, lacy white nightgown, only big enough for a child, the blue ribbon around its collar faded with age. He abruptly remembers eyes just as bright (and then faded), and a tear rolls off his nose and onto the ancient fabric. Sniffling, Arthur presses the back of his hand to his nose, trying to quell what is making him sound so choked. He blinks, hard, vision blurred and face hot and crumpled with sorrow as his free hand's fingers dare to brush the old fabric—when he realizes he's touched it, Arthur pulls away as though burned, shaking his head and turning to leave.
His gaze falls upon another box—this one bigger, older. Just the sight of it makes his skin crawl, but his body drags him towards it before he can stop himself, and he slumps over this one, hugging it and burying his face into the cardboard. But his shiftings open the box, and his eyes skim over the embroidered shirt buried in darkness, only visible with the rectangle of light from the hall and then there is a glint against something—
It is that old daisy chain in its protective glass frame. And he reaches in a hand, fingers curling around both the green-and-gold tunic as well as the edge of the glass—and he remembers so much and it hurts.
"Ah, Angleterre~! Now we match!" Tinkling laughter, bright blue eyes beneath a daisy-chain crown of their own. The one over his own eyes sinks down a moment after it's placed there and he curses, tiny limbs flailing as he tries to push it up or fling it off, he's not quite sure which—he hears a chuckle, and stills as tender hands rearrange the impromptu 'crown' on his head, angling it back so it is perched on the crest of his head, far out of reach of his eyes. France isn't kneeling down, so England looks up to meet his eyes—and hears a soft sound as the daisy chain tumbles off his head and into the grass behind him. France laughs as England mutters curses, again—his own daisy chain-crown staying perfectly aloft on his golden locks, damn the thing!—cheeks growing rosy as he smiles widely, then smirks, patting little England's head.
"Ah, perhaps you will have to grow into it, mon petit lapin~?" England snarls something and stalks off in a huff, leaving France to laugh and call out only more ridiculous French to him. He doesn't care—it's that frog language, and the devil take him if he'll ever degrade himself so much as to learn it!
But he goes back at the end of the day, when it is dusk and France has left, and searches through the grassy field for that daisy chain. And little England takes it back with him, held tight in his tiny hands and holding it out of reach of his curious bunny friend who keeps trying to nibble at the petals—and he sets it aside, once he's home, coiled in a little wooden chest.
When he gets older and rummages around in his storeroom, he comes upon that tiny, humble chest and its inhabiting chain. This slightly-older England spares a moment to think he should just throw it out, that'd show that bastard, France—but instead, he has it framed. And he keeps it far longer than he should.
It is only when the memory fully fades that Arthur notices the quiet drops marring the smooth, clear surface held in his trembling hand. And the bottle drops from his other, landing with a 'thud' on the wooden floor, wavering dangerously before careening onto its side. It is empty enough that only a little liquid sloshes out of it and onto the floor as Arthur collapses to his knees, clutching the framed daisy chain wrapped in the old green tunic to his chest and sobbing bitterly for all he has lost.
Lilibet. America. Canada. Germany-Italy-Prussia-Spain-Romano-Japan-Sealand-China-Russia-Poland.
"France." He gasps it out, fingers scrambling against the familiar, worn silk, brushing fine gold embroidery and he presses it to his face, brow knitting as he inhales as though he could draw all of him back with that one breath. "Oh, Gaul—" There is so much he wants to say, but it still hurts too much, it's still too soon, and he can't think anything beyond that name but loss and endless regret.
Because Arthur knows France is gone. They are all gone. And he is alone. Alone as he has never been before. Without the buffering presence of Lilibet, he will have to accept that. In the morning, he will have to accept that, and get a real job. And he will clean up the whiskey that's spilled on the floor.
But not tonight. Tonight, Arthur only curls around those precious relics, taking comfort in their presence, and cries himself to sleep on the now-whiskey-stained wood floor of his storeroom.
In the morning, Arthur devotes himself to moving everything out of their boxes, so the storeroom looks less like America's ramshackle one did—a pang in his heart resounds at the thought of the boy. And so he hangs the frame with its precious daisy chain on the wall, and props bayonets and rifles next to the old army uniforms he took out when he first moved in (so they wouldn't wrinkle too badly). Everything else has been in storage for the past two years, so when he is finished Arthur puts his arms akimbo and stares around the newly-neatened room in satisfaction. For the first time in a long while his heart feels a bit lighter—but still so tired—and he almost smiles. It's dark outside, but the day has been well-spent—there were memories both sad and now bittersweet, but like a proper Englishman he carried the project through to the end. And his soul feels cleaner, after having forced himself to face all of that. Now he can continue to remember them, properly—instead of keeping all of those memories in boxes and trying to forget. Arthur can never forget, and he knows this. He is firmly prepared to hold up his end of the contract.
Next week he can start looking for a job—the government is closed until Monday, anyway, due to the Queen's passing. And tonight Arthur quietly picks up his toppled whiskey bottle, and heads out of the room, closing the door gently behind him. He then goes to the kitchen and makes himself a lone cup of tea.
: : :
A little over a year later finds Arthur exhausted from his new job—it really does take too much of his time, and lately the weariness from his burden has been hitting him more than usual. It likely doesn't help that he was forced to stay in the office overnight last night, to clear up (a good more than) a few mistakes in a document done by a new intern. His boss clocked in at around noon, and as soon as he saw him he sent Arthur home—with pay.
Of course, Arthur's flat is a good walk away and—sleep-deprived as he is—Arthur doesn't quite know if he'll make it without wandering into the path of an oncoming bus. So he swallows his pride and steps into the small coffee shop just down the street from his office. Arthur's heard that it's a little pricier here (as opposed to the family-owned coffee shop by his flat, which he usually goes to), but at the moment he's so tired he doesn't care, just wants caffeine in his system now. Absently, he registers a bell tinkling as he opens the door and brushes off the few glances he gets for the noise, making his way to the counter and not even looking at the menu, just ordering an ordinary latte. Arthur pulls out his wallet and asks the girl how much as she makes the drink. He rummages around in his wallet—he has the money for it, of course, but he should have enough to give her exact change. He's never worked as a cashier, but he knows they appreciate it when they don't have to give any change—or, at least Arthur thinks so. His brows furrow as he finds a worrying lack of coin in his wallet, frowning as he mutters to himself.
"…'s got to be enough, I know I counted…" Arthur doesn't think he's said this particularly loud, but is immediately annoyed (on instinct) when a too-smooth voice pipes up from behind him.
"How much does he owe you?" Arthur doesn't even register the accent until he turns, ready to rail this tosser out for poking his nose where it doesn't belong, eyes instantly sparking with a mixture of irritation and pride—
"I can pay for my own, thank you very—!" …Oh God.
Oh God. That face, even in profile—it's too familiar, it can't be real, it can't be him, because Gaul is dead and oh Lord what if the spell didn't work and France is still dead and he's only appearing as a ghost because who in their right mind helps pay the way for a perfect stranger like France is doing right now and it would be just like him to tease me—
The man doesn't look at him, but his—Gaul's, it has to be Gaul, it has to be him, I'd know that face anywhere—lips move, and Arthur's gaze snaps to them, not hearing much of anything and France is here and alive (he can hazily see a smile curve over France's face as he moves to set something down, but Arthur can't tear his eyes off his face so he misses the actual action) and doing this for me, why does he remember me, he shouldn't remember me, but what other reason could there be for France to do this, he's always been a selfish bastard—
His mind still spinning, Arthur is only half-aware as his arm is taken in a soft grip and he is dragged over to the man's table, pushed into a seat—no, that's me who's always been the selfish one, but it still doesn't explain how France could be here now, looking like this because didn't the spell give them a rebirth and so shouldn't France's reincarnation be only three years old now, it was only three years ago after all—and it is around the time the man's eyes at last fall on him (and he smiles so charmingly that Arthur's heart nearly shatters with the memory of it) that Arthur realizes the smile is fading. Almost immediately, the ringing in his ears dissipates enough that he can hear, again.
"I… what's wrong?" His throat feels tight, but Arthur has to say something, so he continues to stare at France—he can't tear his eyes away. At last he manages to respond in a tone that he hopes sounds not as raw as he's feeling—despite the fact he can't seem to make it loud enough for even just a normal speaking level. It's as though his usual blustery voice was stolen the moment he laid eyes on the man now seated before him.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm a journalist. I'm doing an article on London. See?" And France shifts to hold up a notepad Arthur hadn't noticed was lying on the table, before. He blinks, for a moment, and relaxes a little as his eyes skim down the page—No, France hasn't called him 'Angleterre'—no, it can't be France. The spell must still be working, because this man doesn't re—Arthur frowns in realization as his eyes settle on the bottom of the notepad.
"Is that my face on your notes?" A too-familiar look climbs up on that French mouth, angling it arrogantly into a baiting smirk.
"I was bored, and you were so cute. Like a little raccoon." The combination of that face and tone is so painfully reminiscent of what he's lost that Arthur can't even call up the usual anger or defensiveness. So he allows the heartache to just wash over him, corners of his mouth quirking in a reflexive smile that he can't really feel over the maelstrom of his own mind—and, yes, he should be happy. Arthur should be happy about this meeting, because at least now he knows that France is alive and free and looking so much better and healthier than the last time Arthur saw him, almost-dead, his face too pale—and Arthur looks away with a sad, self-depreciative chuckle, mumbling to himself.
"I suppose I do, don't I?" After all, he's not a rabbit, anymore—no, the first thing France compares him to is a bloody raccoon, and that must mean he's showing his lack of sleep (and his burden) rather obviously, right? "That's to be expected…"
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." For a few moments Arthur allows himself to mull over this fact—before something sweet and selfish and lonely in him makes him break the silence, his iced chai latte slowly melting and sitting, forgotten, on the table in front of him.
"How long will you be here?" Because now that he's here, he wants to be selfish, he doesn't want France to leave again and oh God the urge to just reach across the table and crush Gaul to his chest and cry is almost overwhelming but—
"Another week. Perhaps longer." Arthur channels the emotion wailing in his chest into energy, and forces himself to light up, pushing and repressing the wave of anguish back—focusing on the small sliver of happiness upon just seeing France, and bolstering that as his base.
"Would you like a guide to help show you around?" France looks surprised for a moment, so Arthur hurriedly presses on, wanting to say as much as he can and not wanting to be interrupted and have France think something other than—"I live here. I'm sure I can find places for you to look at that will entertain you." And Arthur half-expects a smirk and a proposition after the half-babbled words leave his mouth, but for a moment France just looks at him and Arthur feels a soft, alien flutter in the area of his heart—his aging, fragile, lonely heart—hoping against all hope that it can—that it will be—
And then France smiles at him, utterly warm and the feeling seeps into his weary bones.
"Francis Bonnefoy." He catches on the name, smiles mentally and lets it roll around in his head.
"Arthur. Arthur Kirkland." In his eagerness for France—no, no, not France, Francis, he must force himself to remember, because Francis does not have France's memories, so he can't be France—to remember his name he repeats it twice, and something in Arthur's old heart swells in hope that, this time—this time, they might manage to do it right.
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Good? Bad? Sucked? Amazing? ...Well, too bad, 'cause I don't care what you think, anyway! :/
...Ahaha. Sorry. Feelin' snarky (and tired). xD ;; I'm off to sleep, now—but comments would be fun~ :3 - Fox