AN: So I wrote this a while ago, and decided to upload! I had to redo this for the AN, it didn't work, but to my Guest reviewer - I can't be certain if I'll do a sequal, it's been forever since I've been near this fic! I'm not saying I won't but don't wait for one, sorry!
DISCLAIMER: Sadly, Hetalia is not mine
Nobody loves him.
His hands curl around the dark wood of the window pane.
They all have their partners, or their single and happy lives; they are all happy. Nobody ever stays for long around him though. He has long since grown used to the one night stands and drunken fumblings, they are all he gets any more. They don't seem to see past the smiles and kisses, and they seem content to believe the suggestive looks and flirtatious actions are all he needs. They'll bat him off, send him away with a black eye for his troubles. Especially Arthur.
The wind tugs gently on his golden locks, made darker by the shadows night brings.
The man with the emerald eyes does not love him, no. He has enough bruises and scars to prove that. The times he has tried to spark an interest in the Brit's heart, oh the times. Never has he taken them seriously. Nobody ever does, and it leave the Frenchman cold. They do not believe that all he wants is someone to love him, someone to hold his hand and smile at him. He wants what they have, what they seem to find easily. It's not fair. He can find beautiful women, handsome men, who are willing to spend a night, a day with him. But those same men and women broke him and left him shattered. And there is never anyone to help him pick up the pieces.
Feet find the window sill of their own accord, then he hauls himself up to watch the sky.
One would think he'd get better at repairing the damage over time. But he never quite learnt how to fix himself properly, there was always something missing. Slowly, he lost his heart, never managing to fit the last part of the puzzle in. It slowly grew dark. It got to the point where he gave up on ever finding the answer. There was so little heart to love with now anyway. Nobody wanted such a shadow of a man. He would put on his smile for meetings now, the witty remarks and suggestive smiles a second nature by now. It was an easy mask to wear.
Eyes dart to the ground, then back to the sky.
But one night, he is too slow to hide behind his mask. Arthur's birthday and he is just one of the many who now crowd in the Brit's house, his fourth glass of wine already half finished. He watches from the bookcase, as the Brit slowly makes rounds, thanking guests for the evening. His own glass has been refilled numerous times when he finally gets around to the Frenchman, and he is the drunkest Francis remembers ever seeing him. He slurs out a thanks, draping an arm around him, so unlike his sober counterpart. He smiles, more fond than anything else.
"Ahh, l'Angleterre, I think you have had one too many wines, non?
"What? Don't be pre-perh... preposterous! I'm fine!"
"Whatever you say then, Angleterre, whatever you say," he calls as the intoxicated Brit finds another guest to hang onto. Francis can let the smile slip again, and goes back to his drink, grateful for an excuse to let his guard down for once. Then suddenly, there's a hand on his shoulder.
Breaths come out in wisps in the cold air.
"Dude, you alright?" He know before he turns his head that it is Alfred who is peering at him. Sure enough, bright blue eyes regard him warily through glasses, and he has to scramble to find his smile. No use, the American has already noticed the empty look in his eyes, though Francis now tries to hide it.
He makes no sound, bar the rustle of fabric as his feet move.
"Ah! Amérique! You scared the life out of me! Do not creep up on me like that," he scolds, allowing his mask to slide on as he grins. Alfred won't let it go just yet though.
"I didn't; I've been next to you all night. You're like, totally zoned out. What's wrong?"
In his last second, he lets the mask drop.
"Nothing, mon cher, nothing. I am a little tired, is all." He knows this is wrong. He knows he should be asking for help, but it's too late. What can they do? He has fallen to far to be caught, broken beyond repair. He should just smile and get on with it. There's no point dragging them down with him. He fixes the smile into place, and it seems to please the American a little.
What's left of his heart crumbles... "Je t'aime, Angleterre"
"Well, alright then dude... Be sure to catch some shut eye, yeah?" he calls, and then melts away into the crowd when a tray of burgers are brought out. A hint of the smile hits his eyes at the grin on the boys face. He's so happy already. He doesn't need Francis messing up his life, making him sad with him.
... and then he takes the plunge. A blur of blonde, red and blue.
Watching the party over the night, he sees his friends smile and cheer and laugh with each other. Such a happy picture. Arthur is grinning as he entwines fingers with a blushing Alfred, who is nudging a smiling Matthew towards one of Arthur's red-headed brothers. They're all so happy. He isn't needed any more.
And the lights go out for a final time.
They won't be happy tomorrow though, when a hung-over Arthur finds Francis in a heap outside. There won't be smiles as trembling hands pound at his chest and Arthur forces air into the Frenchman's lungs.
"God, no, Francis, you idiot!"
As paramedics take the body away, they'll all shed tears for him. They'll all feel upset, angry, frustrated... but mostly guilt. That they never did more to question the smiles, or asked him how he was every once in a while. They'll regret not telling him what he meant to them. They'll never forget him, not once.
Because everybody loved him.