He fell with quietly. Much softer than it looked. Almost elegant, as with everything he did. But still, he fell. Pale skin much prided on perfection marred with fatigue, worry, regret, failure, and red paint. A mask. Underneath Francis hid. Somewhere deep down in there he was waiting to tease him for being so afraid of something so idiotic. He couldn't die. He was France. An almighty god among the rest of the disgusting human race. An arrogant prince long forgotten by everyone but him. Kissing his mouth, he urged him awake. Death was too sudden and permanent. Too real.
Au Revoir.