AN: I should not have taken the time to write this, what with finals next week. But it's been forever since I wrote anything, and I was listening to Evanescence and I just wanted to write something pretty. I'm not sure that it worked. I think it turned out weird more than anything, but oh well...

Necromancy: the supposed practice of communicating with the dead, especially in order to predict the future.

Pairing: England/France

Chapter summary: Person A is dead and Person B sees the dead.

Necromancer

Arthur always walked to and from his high school through the graveyard.

It was the shortest path from his home to the school, true, but he could've taken the longer route through the housing district like all the other kids from his neighborhood. They only ever walked through the graveyard on dares. It scared them, the solemn gravestones with their fading epitaphs and the way the wind whispered elegies incessantly.

Arthur wasn't scared.

"Creepy fuck," the other students called him. "Sociopath."

Arthur ignored them.

He liked walking through the graveyard. He liked talking to all the ghosts sitting atop their gravestones or wandering along the edges of the cemetery, looking longingly past the boundary they couldn't cross to their family and friends still living.

"Good morning," he nodded to Thomas Pyke, the lame World War II veteran who'd spent the rest of his days teaching children to play the guitar. "How are you today, Mr. Pyke?"

A stray dog pissed on my grave yesterday, the man said, sitting atop the stone with one leg crossed over the other, fingers strumming softly on misty silver strings. Most anyone's left at my grave in a while, so I suppose I should be grateful. Made me miss Hunter though, the old mutt. Don't know where he's buried. Had him since I was a kid, but he died when I was overseas.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Pyke," Arthur said. "I'll bring you some flowers when I walk by here on my way home today, how does that sound?"

That sounds just fine. Thank you, Kirkland. Say, how did your history teacher like that WWII essay of yours?

"She said it was good, for historical fiction."

Historical fiction?! Bah! All those experiences were true!

"She didn't believe me when I said I interviewed a World War II veteran."

I suppose she wouldn't. You're a very special boy, Arthur, I hope you know that.

"Believe me, Mr. Pyke, I know." All his best friends were dead, after all.

He stopped by the grave of Kitty Smith, the eight-year-old who'd died of pneumonia, to play one of her clapping games with her. Her laughter was as bright and silver as she was.

"You have a laugh that makes fairies dance," Arthur told her, smiling as she giggled in delight.

Will you come play with me this Sunday? she asked. I always get lonely on Sunday. Most of the other ghosts go hang out around the Church, but it's so boring there.

"I'd love to. If I can finish my homework I'll come, okay? But my English teacher is trying to kill me with essays, so it's possible I won't make it."

That's not very nice of your teacher to try to kill you with essays, Kitty said.

"It's not," Arthur agreed.

Kitty was pouting, but then she brightened, her blurred outline pulsing stronger for a moment. Say, Arthur! If your teacher does end up killing you with essays, can you get buried next to me?

Arthur laughed. "I'll see what I can do, Kitty," he grinned, stroking fingers through the chilliness of her arm as she wrapped cold, incorporeal arms around his waist.

He could have walked through her, but Arthur thought that rude, so he always coaxed her to let go first. He considered himself a gentleman, after all.

It was the last leg of Arthur's walk when he finally showed up.

Arthur, the voice purred, cold air over his ear. Mon amour.

Arthur sighed. "What do you want, frog?"

Mon ami, you wound me so! the ghost cried, clutching at his heart, before he laughed and tossed back silver locks that probably used to gold. Silver eyes that probably used to be blue shone. How are you, Anglais?

"Why do you always call me that?"

You're avoiding the question, I notice.

"So are you!"

Ah, but my question is more important.

"I'm fine. I'm going to be graduating soon. It's stressful."

A pensive silence as they walked, hands barely brushing. Arthur shivered at the cold sensation.

And then you'll be leaving, the ghost said finally, quietly as they neared the edged of the cemetery. Won't you?

"Yes," Arthur said, and sighed. "Look, Francis..."

And I won't be able to come with you, Francis murmured, hand against the invisible wall that Arthur had just crossed, but which the ghost couldn't.

Arthur turned back around to face him, a sad little tilt of his lips. "No, Francis. You won't."

Francis's androgynous features were pulled in pain. You can't leave me here, Anglais.

"I don't have a choice, Frenchman."

Silver eyes downcast, silver hair streaming into a gray face, sheets of rain shimmering. There has to be a way. There has to be some way…

That sad little tilt, green eyes that felt they'd bleed all their color if the clouds broke. "I'll see if I can find something… my grandmother had some old journals, there might…"

Pale gray hand against an invisible wall, slipping down, falling limp beside pants that were probably once some ridiculously flamboyant color. You'll be late to school, Anglais.

"Yeah." A hand through blond hair. "I'll see you later today, Francis."

Green coat and brown boots disappeared around the bend.

See you later, mon amour.

Arthur had snuck out of the house again, flashlight turned off in his pocket, making his way to the graveyard. Even the bravest of the high school jocks wouldn't dare the same.

But sinister creakings to them were ghostly chatter to Arthur, and he smiled when he found the usual group dancing around and laughing to Pyke's guitar.

Only thing that would make this better is beer, Billy Goodsmith lamented. Thirty-two, injured in a car crash, died in the hospital after a week of being in a coma.

"Now that's one thing I can't do for you," Arthur said, grinning slightly. "Though I could bring some beer for myself and you could all watch me get drunk on your behalf. Besides, didn't you get in a car crash because you were driving drunk?"

You little devil child, Arthur!

A shrug. "I thought you were glad you didn't kill anyone else while you were at it. Though you must have been living happily at the time you died since you didn't revert back to a younger age as a ghost. But hey, have any of you seen Francis?"

Thought I saw him moping around the gate. Saw him trying to pet that stray dog earlier, the one that wanders in here sometimes. Seemed upset the dog wouldn't notice him. Sensitive soul, that one.

"Thanks." Arthur made is way through the headstones, him and them the only things in the cemetery with shadows. The moon was at his back, and he watched his shadow scout ahead of him, flowing over the ground. His own personal intangible ghost self.

Anglais.

Arthur looked up to see Francis, the moonlight streaming right through him. So did the wind, but somehow his hair was tossing about his face anyway. Maybe there was a ghostly wind, because the silver-blond hair seemed to be whipping in the opposite direction from the wind that was blowing through Arthur's coat.

"Frog," he greeted, sitting himself atop the Frenchman's grave. "I think I found something."

A fair eyebrow rose, so different from his own caterpillar ones. Oh?

"There's a spell, but it needs… it needs an object. One that was tied to you during life."

A musical-sounding hum, and it really wasn't fair the other could sound so elegant all the bloody time. Not fair. Not fair like it wasn't fair he was a ghost and Arthur was alive. Not fair like the fact that they were in love but could never be together, never touch one another. The one time they'd kissed had been a tingling cold sensation for one, a tingling warm sensation for the other, but no substance for either.

Hands were held, but there was no weight or pull there, no comfort. All they had were words and smiles, delicate, incorporeal things.

So why did the ghost still have such a tangible grip on Arthur's heart?

I… might have something, Francis murmured. I wonder if…

He knelt down before Arthur, on his own grave, and Arthur though mildly that one thing the Frenchman probably liked better about being dead was that he could never get his clothes dirty.

A pale hand delved into the dirt, not disturbing a speck of it, and the Frenchman leaned forward till his elbow was gone, till all the way up to his shoulder was gone.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "If you're trying to get something from your grave, you're gonna have to go all the way in, you know. You're buried six feet under."

The Frenchman glared at him, before heaving a sigh that displaced no air and diving into the ground, though not before Arthur's ears caught an annoyed, I hate doing this.

A minute later and Francis was rising out of the dirt with a triumphant smile, holding out his hand. I wasn't sure if that would work…

Arthur opened his hand, and Francis dropped something into it, something nonphysical that turned solid as soon as it left the ghost's hand.

Arthur inspected the necklace curiously.

Family heirloom, Francis said.

The necklace was a silver chain with a little silver bird on it. "Screw you, this isn't a family heirloom," Arthur snorted.

Okay, you got me, Francis said, simpering and spreading his hands. I just liked it. A lot. For some inexplicable reason.

"Hm," Arthur said, turning the cold metal over in his hands. "Yes, I think this will do."

You think so? Francis asked, and his smile made Arthur's heart beat too fast.

"I-I'll bring the spellbook tomorrow night," Arthur tried not to stammer. "W-we'll see if it works..."

Francis's grin never faded.

"How did you die?"

Cancer.

"Cancer? Sounds painful."

It was tragically boring. If I had to die, I would've liked to go out in a blaze of glory, you know?

"You don't wish you'd lived a long, happy life?"

But then I never would have met you!

"Oi. That's stupid."

Love is never stupid, mon ami.

"No, you're right. It's just you who's stupid."

Non, it is you who is stupid.

"Nope, definitely you."

I beg to differ.

"...We have such intellectual arguments."

I guess it's both of us who are stupid, then.

"Bloody hell."

That is a rather disturbing mental image.

"You're not supposed to imagineit, you nitwit!"

Beautiful flowers.

"What?"

Didn't you just think of a beautiful flowers? See, that's a pleasant mental image, but you couldn't help having a mental image, could you?

"You're impossible."

From this point on, I would prefer if you would curse by saying 'Beautiful flowers.'

"From this point on, I would prefer it if you would shut up."

Francis's laughter lit up the graveyard, but Arthur's brought it to life.

The words of the spell were thick on Arthur's tongue, the spellbook heavy in his hands. But after he said the last word and closed the tome, looking up anxiously, he met Francis's wide eyes and felt a lightening.

Anglais! Francis cried, throwing his arms around the other's neck where the necklace was hanging, laughing as the Brit tried to shove him away, hands going right through him, shivering at the cold.

"Get off me, you twat! We don't even know for sure that it worked!"

Let's test it out, shall we! said the grinning Frenchman, tails of his long jacket twirling as he turned, flapping as he ran toward the edge of the graveyard, whooping.

"Get back here!" Arthur yelled, jumping up to chase after him, slowed by the heavy book in his arms.

When Francis ran across the cemetary's boarder without hindrance, he collapsed to his knees, laughing sobs without tears, a wild, exhilarated sound.

"Twit," Arthur muttered under his breath, but he was smiling nonetheless as he caught up, panting slightly. "However, this doesn't mean freedom for you. You're tied to the necklace now, which means you can only go a certain distance from it. Maybe a mile at most."

So I'm stuck forever within a mile of you? Francis asked, looking up through shoulder-length hair and smiling. I couldn't think of a more wonderful curse.

Arthur grumbled and tried to hit Francis on the back of the head. It didn't work, of course.

Now, Francis said, smile turning sadder as he remained staring into green eyes, if only I could kiss you…

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait till I die, for that," Arthur said, looking down and fiddling with the silver bird that now lay against his chest. "Hope you don't mind waiting, 'cause I don't particularly want to kill myself."

For you, mon amour, I'd wait forever.

The other students at the university all thought Arthur was crazy. "Traumatic childhood," they whispered. "Made himself an invisible friend because he had no one else. Have you heard the way he talks to himself? He has entire arguments and conversations, sometimes cracks up for no reason. Gives me the creeps."

"Schizophrenic," whispered some. "Thinks he can communicate with the dead. Did you hear? He told Bobbi that her brother loved her and didn't blame her for what happened, that she couldn't have done anything and he was happy for the life he had. Had Bobbi in tears. Crazy fuck, that one."

"Did you hear about that Arthur kid? That he does his homework in the graveyard? Geez, what a sociopath. He doesn't even have any family or friends buried there."

They're whispering about you, Francis told him.

"Let them," Arthur snorted. "I'm used to it. They did that in high school, too. In middle school. In elementary school, even. Hell, they've always done that."

Except now I'm with you, Francis said.

"Yes," Arthur smiled. "You are."

I don't like the way they whisper about you, Anglais. I don't like the way they look at you.

"I honestly don't notice any more."

I still don't like it.

"You'll get over it."

An impalpable hand reached to brush through blond hair. Anglais…

"What?"

I love you.

"Yeah, it's pretty obvious."

Oi! You're supposed to say that you love me, too! Don't you love me, Anglais?

"Of course I do, you nitwit. If I didn't, I would've tossed this necklace long ago."

How reassuring…

"Cheer up, frog. You get to watch me bathe and get dressed all the time because there's nothing I can do to stop you. I don't see why you should be complaining."

Your body is admirable, it's true. It would be so much better if I could touch you, though…

"You are in such a hurry to see me die, aren't you?"

A sunny silver smile. Only a little bit, I promise you…

"Hmph. Maybe once I become a doctor I'll figure out how to live forever, and then what will you do?"

You want to be a children's doctor. You're going to be too busy saving their lives to figure out how to live forever. You softy.

"Well, if I pursue magic on the side..."

Even the Sorcerer Supreme wasn't immortal, Anglais. There's no way you could ever be.

"I knew it was a bad idea to let you convince me to read Alfred's comic books…"

Don't worry, I'll make it up to you by helping you study for that upcoming exam.

"Ugh, don't remind me!" Hands gripped blond hair, tugging. "I am so going to die..."

You're not going to die, mon amour. Not from an exam, anyway.

Beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. The girl's hear stopped.

Am I dead? the girl asked, sitting up and blinking. She looked down at her prone, sickly body left behind her, then down at her transparent hands. I'm dead, aren't I?

"I'm afraid so," Dr. Kirkland said, kneeling down next to her. "I'm sorry."

She looked up at him with wide, silver, used-to-be-brown eyes. Doctor! You're still alive! But you can see me? Will my mommy be able to see me? Can I speak to her?

Dr. Kirland shook his head. "I'm sorry, Bella. I'm one of the very, very few who can see the dead."

Oh, she said, looking down, ghostly tears welling in her eyes. Her fists clenched, shoulder shaking. What will happen to me? I'm scared! What happens to me now that I'm dead?!

"I wouldn't know," Dr. Kirkland murmured. "But maybe you should ask him," he gestured behind him to tall man with wavy silver hair down to his shoulders, a long coat.

My name is Francis, the man said, kneeling down and holding out his hand to the girl. I've been dead for years now. You do not need to worry, ma chèrie. Being dead takes some getting used to, but it is not scary. You'll be okay.

He held out his hand, and, hesitantly, she took it.

A plane crash, Arthur grumbled, running a hand back through silver locks, all the wrinkles gone from his face. I can't believe I died in a bloody plane crash.

Lived to the ripe age of fifty-one, though, Francis remarked. Not bad. And you aged well, almost like a fine wine. Except for your eyebrows. I hadn't though they could possibly get any more bushy, but you just kept proving me wrong.

Arthur glared at him. You—

Chut, Francis grinned, pressing a finger to silver, teenage lips that frowned against the digit. I've been waiting thirty-seven years to kiss you.

He ducked his head forward, pressing his lips against the Brit's, arms wrapping around the other's waist, pulling him close for the first time.

Hm, Arthur murmured into the kiss. Your lips aren't cold anymore…

END.

AN: Chut: the sound used for hushing in French.

Bit different from the others, in that I actually carried it through rather than leaving it at the first meeting or whatever. Still managed to somehow keep it fairly short, though, yay me!

I feel so rusty at writing, ugh.