Warnings: attempted suicide, you know me well enough to know this is angst

Based on the song of the same name by Queen.
watch?v=_Jtpf8N5IDE

It wasn't the first time something like this happened, but it was the first time it hurt so much. Her silky, short, blonde hair slowly scorching into black smoke. Her smooth skin turning red and then black and then white, and then nothing. Her apologetic smile fading into a withering grimace of agony.

It wasn't Arthur's fault, he repeated to himself. It was mine.

Francis wasn't sure whether he was sad, angry, stunned, or all at once, as he tearfully watched Joan, the love of his life, burn away. The only one? No. The first one? No. The last one? Probably not. But she was unique in his long life.

Emphasis on was.

Why must this love story have a sad ending? Weren't love stories supposed to have the couple unite after every hardship, marry, have children, grow old, and die together?

There lay the point. Die together. It wasn't the first time Francis longed for a mortal life. In his current form, it was unwise and dangerous to fall in love with a human. There was just no time and place in this cruel world for that kind of bittersweet relationship. Yet what being could control who they fell in love with? Definitely not Francis.

What a wonderful, horrible thing love is, something whispered in the back of his mind. It builds our dreams, gives up such naive hopes… And then it slips away with a snap of the fingers.

It happened again. Yet this time, not only was he forced to watch, he realized, but he cooperated. He was among the revolutionaries when they captured her, his dear Marie Antoinette. Sweet, naive, sensual Marie Antoinette.

He was the one who handed her to the executioner.

There were no tears this time. Just a sorrowful, grudging trance, as he realized that the person he loved was about to be wrenched away from him by none other than himself, again.

The only moment they spent together was that passionate night in Versailles, when the King was too busy for her. He knew she probably did not return his feelings, but he was content with just being hers for one night. One night, which lasted like a fraction of a second for him. One night of which, had he been mortal, he would remember every detail until old age. But as he knew, the memory of that one night would fade with the centuries and become nothing but a mere ghost. Just a vague reassurance that it did happen. It was already decided for him, it always was. He'd live on, and watch as those around him die.

As he saw her head roll, he pictured his own.

This time it was different. This time, the one he loved had a chance to graze his world with his fingertips. And who would've known Francis would fall in love with this kind of enemy?

Prussia- no, Gilbert was his lover, and the best one he ever had. Their relationship didn't reach their countries, not even close, but it was the happiest they ever had been. Francis knew their love would last forever, just like them.

Then came the war. It passed quickly and led way for the nightmare. Francis was the one who had to kill Prussia.

Forever is our today, Gilbert had said to him in his dying moments, with a tender smile that spoke a thousand apologies.

Francis went over the edge that day. Driven mad by his very existence, he slit his own throat and bled out in his bathtub, hoping to meet again those he had so painfully lost. Even if he probably wouldn't stay dead, he'd at least catch a glimpse of them, just like so many people had narrated they did when they neared the other side. Who waits forever, anyway?

It seemed like he only blinked when he woke up on his bed fully healed.

Arthur slapped him and gave him a long lecture about being selfish, about their duty to their country, about all those things Francis had ignored. So that was it, huh? No one on the other side, no light at the end of the tunnel. Just darkness.

Francis returned to normal in the following weeks, but something inside him never recovered. Though his behavior suggested the opposite, he was afraid to love again. Afraid to find a person he could devote himself to. Afraid to love forever, when love must die.