Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who started following this, adding it to their favorites, etc. ^_^ I hope this lives up to your expectations.
Disclaimer: Hetalia and its respective characters are property of Himaruya, and not me.
~X~
Arthur stood on the side of the pavement, watching as the crowds of people walked by. From what little he had gathered from the file, Francis was supposed to work in this area. He was the last person Arthur was to kill, so he was the last person Arthur tracked down.
Or, tried to track down, to be more accurate. After checking in all the buildings on the street, Arthur had yet to find the soon-to-be dead man. He knew what he looked like; blond hair, blue eyes, an arrogant set to his mouth… Arthur had paid more attention to the photograph than he needed to.
With a sigh, he leaned back against a brick building. It was a shame. Arthur had easily found Ms. Parks and Mr. Michaels; he had been feeling good about his tracking capabilities up until now.
"They're beautiful, no?" a lightly accented voice noted.
Arthur glanced over to the person who was speaking, and froze. He recognized that face. A photograph of it had been included in the files. Francis Bonnefoy.
The picture didn't do him justice, Arthur noted with faint dissatisfaction. It didn't capture the mischievousness in his light blue eyes, or the gentle wave of his honey-toned hair. The arrogant curve of his mouth was still there, but it was tempered with amusement.
A quick grin turned his lips at the punk's shocked expression. "You've been standing here a while. Watching the crowds, I assume? Or are you waiting for someone?"
Arthur grimaced. "Neither. What, I can't stand here for no reason?"
Francis chuckled quietly. "You certainly can, but that would be rather boring. Besides, you don't look the type." Slowly, he appraised Arthur, who cringed from the scrutiny. "Why don't you come by my corner? For you, free of charge."
A sudden flush covered his cheeks. Surely, the man couldn't be implying…? "What kind of person do you think I am?" he snapped. "I don't… That's… Christ! What is wrong with you?"
Francis looked at him with a sort of bemused concern for a moment. "What exactly are you babbling about? You should be flattered; I don't offer a free portrait to everyone. It would be terrible for business."
Confusion set in instantly. "What?" he asked, cursing his failed eloquence. Any ability with words Arthur once had seemed to have vanished the second the Frenchman opened his mouth.
He laughed lowly, enchantingly. "My dear, I am merely asking for you to be my muse for a moment. Unless… You have no plans, correct? No reason you should refuse?"
There was something compelling in the man's tone; something that Arthur found himself nearly entranced by. Something in Francis' voice had Arthur willing to do almost anything he requested.
Almost.
"I have no reason to agree," he retorted. "Why would you even bother? Like you said, it's bad business to be doing this sort of thing. You don't even know who the hell I am."
Francis shrugged, somehow making the movement look elegant. "I am not one to turn down inspiration. I don't need to know you to know that you would look nice on a sheet of paper."
Arthur's eyes widened at the potential double meaning. "I don't know a thing about you," he tried instead. "How do I know all you want to do is draw me?"
Instead of answering right away, Francis offered his right hand for Arthur's inspection. Black charcoal stained his fingertips. The lighter gray of graphite was smudged on the heel of his hand, and small calluses from holding a pencil were evident.
"Is this enough proof of my occupation?" he asked, dropping his hand back to his side. "Or must I show you a portfolio?" He paused for a moment. "My name is Francis Bonnefoy," he added.
Arthur shook his head mutely. To be honest, it wasn't much proof. All that showed is that Francis was an artist. It didn't mean that he had no ulterior motives.
"'No', that's not enough proof, or 'no', you don't need to see my portfolio?"
"You don't need to show me," Arthur murmured. "I'll trust you." It was a first for Arthur; he had learned the hard way not to trust anyone. But, he didn't see how the Frenchman could hurt him any more than he had already been.
A smile quirked his lips once more. "Good. Now, you will follow me?"
Almost mechanically, Arthur did as asked. He wasn't sure why he was going to trust this man. Maybe it was the fact that Francis was slated to die soon that the assassin was obliging him. Arthur could see no other reason.
Once Francis led him into an alleyway, Arthur began to regret following. "You better not be planning anything shady," he muttered, glaring at the brickwork around him.
He scoffed. "Please. You're much too young, and with those eyebrows…" He shuddered. "It's much quieter here. I'll be able to focus better."
Arthur grimaced. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with my eyebrows, and that's not reassuring in the slightest."
Francis rolled his eyes, but didn't bother refuting the statement. Instead, he motioned over to a little alcove. "There is a chair in there; take a seat. I never caught your name, incidentally."
Arthur leveled a glare at him before complying. It wasn't much; just a worn wooden chair facing a brick wall. "Arthur Kirkland," he answered as he eased himself into the chair. He felt a bit awkward just sitting there; he could feel the intense gaze of the other blond.
"Arthur Kirkland," he repeated slowly, as if tasting the name. "Well, Arthur, would you turn the chair maybe fifteen degrees towards me," Francis instructed. "Just like that. Now put your legs over the left arm of the it… Perfect. Rest your right elbow on the other arm, and lean your chin against your hand."
Arthur rolled his eyes at the non-stop demands as he tried to position himself to Francis' will. After nearly ten minutes of listening to the artist nag his posture, he snapped. "If you don't like it, why don't you find someone else to draw?"
"Because 'someone else' doesn't have those dreamer's eyes," Francis snapped right back. "I picked you for a reason. Now do as I ask, and arch your neck back more."
Arthur growled. "Fine." He ignored the 'dreamer's eyes' comment; likely he didn't mean anything by it.
It took another five minutes before Francis was finally satisfied with the way Arthur looked. "Try not to move too much," he ordered as he eased out a rather large sheet of paper from a portfolio case. A case of pencils was opened next to him. "This will take about an hour or two."
Arthur did his best to follow that order. He resisted the urge to fidget, to adjust himself into a more comfortable position.
He ended up watching Francis for quite a while; closer than he would admit to. He noted how those blue eyes would frequently flick from Arthur to the page, and then back again.
Arthur noted the wide, sweeping motions of his hand and arm at the beginning, and the gradual shift to smaller, more precise movements.
It was odd to think that in two month's time, this man would be no more. Francis wouldn't be taking people to this little niche in the alley to draw them. The family he might have would never see him again.
These thoughts occasionally passed Arthur's mind during his stint as Death's Assassin; rarely did he entertain them long. But, then, he rarely took the time to actually watch those he was to kill. Mr. Stephens had been the first he knew more than in passing.
"Why me?" Arthur asked, finally deciding to ignore the 'don't move' rule.
For what it was worth, Francis didn't seem irritated. He didn't even bother looking up from the portrait in progress. "I know what you are. I felt like I should extend you some courtesy based on that. Besides, I'm not passing up the opportunity to draw a face like that."
"What I am?" Arthur repeated. He realized that Francis could be referring to anything. But somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that Francis could possibly know that he wasn't exactly alive.
"Stop talking until I'm done. I'll answer you then," Francis said.
Arthur huffed. "I'm holding you to that," he muttered almost inaudibly.
Again, they were reduced to silence. They could still hear the thinning crowds on the street, and the scratching of graphite on paper, but aside from that, there was nothing.
A small sense of dread coursed through Arthur. If Francis knew… If Francis knew what he was, then his death would be slotted up to 'now'. Normal people weren't supposed to know about people like Arthur; it wasn't allowed.
It made it much more difficult to stay motionless when these thoughts ran rampant.
After what felt like an eternity, Francis finally put down the pencil. "You are free," he said simply. "Would you like to see?"
Arthur shook his head as he stood. He could just take it from Francis once he was dead if he decided he wanted it after all. "I don't want it. I just want to know what you meant when you said 'I know what you are'."
Francis pouted slightly. "I create you a masterpiece and you do not want it? That's rather rude. And here I put so much time and effort into it. It's an insult, really."
He refused to be distracted by Francis' ramblings. "Answer my question," Arthur said.
Francis rolled his eyes and carefully placed the drawing back with the rest of his paper. "I meant I know what you are. You are a spirit. My mamma always said to be gracious to the dead. I must say, I was almost fooled at first. You seem completely normal at first glance."
He was going to have to kill Francis, Arthur realized. Not in three months, but now. He couldn't live with this knowledge. "You realize you sound like a madman, right?" Arthur asked. "I'm just as alive as you."
Those usually bright blue eyes darkened slightly. "Arthur, don't lie to me. You don't have a shadow, and you're skin is lighter than the page I just drew you on. Mamma taught me the markers of the deceased. Though I wonder… Are you just a ghost, or are you one of the angels?"
Arthur had to try not to laugh. 'Try the other end of the spectrum,' he thought bitterly. "I'm not dead," he repeated. "Now, if you don't mind, I'll be taking my leave." Arthur turned on his heel, and headed back towards the street.
He had to remind himself to breathe. He couldn't take Francis' life. Not now. He would have to clear it with death. If he were to kill him now, Arthur's chance at life would vanish.
"You cannot deny what you are, Arthur," Francis called to him. "No more than I can deny what I am."
Arthur refused to look back. Instead, he joined the nearly nonexistent drones of people back on the street. Much as Vash didn't want to see him again, and as much as Arthur didn't want to go back to that building, he didn't have a choice right now.
~X~
Vash shot him a look of 'I don't want to know what you got into, but I expect you to tell me anyways' when Arthur half-ran past his desk.
He had to go to Death's room as quickly as possible. If Francis told anyone, it was Arthur's head that would roll.
He shoved open the unmarked door, and everything was black. Just like that first day.
"And what are you doing here?" Death asked, amusement barely hiding his irritation.
"I think Francis Bonnefoy knows," he blurted out. "He said something about me being one of the dead, and how his mother knew the signs." His hands were trembling lightly, partially out of fear of Death, but mostly out of fear of what Francis' punishment would be.
"And that's exactly what he said?" Death asked. The darkness seemed to shift, closing in on Arthur. "I want you to think carefully about this, Arthur."
He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. "He called me a 'spirit'. Said I was one of the deceased, and asked if I might be an angel."
There was a heavy silence as Death pondered this. "This Francis Bonnefoy is to die in two months," he mused. "He does not suspect you of working for me, so it is my decision to allow him to live until then. I would expect you to be more careful, Arthur. You've been at this long enough to not make these careless mistakes."
It was like a father admonishing a child, Arthur thought with disgust. "I'm sorry. I'll be more careful."
"I expect you to. Now leave. We still have a deal, and I expect your end to be upheld."
Arthur nodded once, and left the room as quickly as he entered.