I do not own Hetalia or "You Could be Happy" by the Snow Patrol

You Could be Happy, Part III

"You could be happy, I hope you are. You made me happier than I'd been by far. Somehow everything I own smells of you, and for the tiniest moment it's all not true."

Francis Bonnefoy gazed out the window over the city. He didn't necessarily mind living in town, it wasn't that big of a deal. But it wasn't the calm community he had lived in before with Arthur. The people on the streets yelled, and car tires squealed against the pavement. It gave him a headache. He took a long drag off of his cigarette, before exhaling softly, and watching it float away into the night lit sky.

'Arthur,' he thought wistfully. He would admit, after living at Antonio's apartment for a couple weeks, he really missed life with his lover back at their home. He tapped the ashes off the end of his cigarette before putting it out on the window sill and leaving it there. He walked back to the couch where he had been sleeping, and laid down, closing his eyes.

He felt lost without the Brit, to be honest. He had grown so accustomed to having his presence, he had forgotten what it was like without him. Even getting up and going to work seemed like a chore without his lover snuggled next to him in their bed.

When Francis had first stumbled upon Arthur, he had been enchanted. He wanted to get to know him desperately, and was going to do so at any means possible. He went directly over to him, noticing he looked completely alone and somewhat somber on that evening. They had started talking, and Francis grew attached immediately. He knew he wasn't going to let Arthur go no matter what. He needed him more than anything else before.

The Frenchman had lived a fairly lonely life. His parents had neglected him something horrible when he was growing up. He smoked his first cigarette when he was fourteen, and had his first drink when he was fifteen. He had slept around during high school, and earned himself a reputation he didn't want to carry for the rest of his life. He moved to Canada, catching a midnight flight out of France with only a note explaining to his parents where he had gone. He had one bag with clothes and a few belongings, and one-hundred-forty Canadian dollars. He immediately wanted to find work, and started as an intern at a high end business, having a basic knowledge after reading his father's books. He didn't have friends, and he didn't have a nice apartment. He lived in a hell hole, alone.

He climbed up to the top of the business slowly. With no college education, and barely anything to his name, he became vice president of the company after years of work. It was something that was only supposed to happen in movies, or fairy tales, but it had sure enough happened to Francis. Along the way he had managed to make two very good friends, Gilbert and Antonio of course, who helped him along the way.

He moved out of the little apartment into a loft, bought himself a car, and started living. Sure he went out a lot in the past, and perhaps drank a little too much, but it was just how he learned to survive when he was younger.

Arthur had changed a lot of that in his life. He no longer felt the need for partying, or finding comfort and solace in the bottle. He made him feel so much better, and optimistic about life than he had ever before. He was literately his saving grace, Francis was sure of that. The three years they had spent together meant the world to Francis.

That's why this fight was killing him. As he laid on the couch, he tried to build up his nerve to call Arthur. It had to be done, and he needed to hear his voice right in that moment. Would Arthur even answer him, though? He had stormed out and left him alone. That wasn't exactly the best thing he had ever done.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Francis jolted upright at the sound of his cellphone, snapping him out of his thoughts entirely. He snatched it off the table and read the number he had memorized years ago with greedy eyes. His heart jumped out of his chest as he answered the phone, "Hello?" He asked.

"Francis?" Arthur's voice filled his eyes and he instantly felt a smile coat his lips. How he had missed that British accent of his. "I... I was going to call earlier, but I never had the chance," he said quietly.

"That's okay," Francis lied, wishing that he had called him the night he had walked out. He needed to be back in their house together, with Arthur and everything back to normal.

"Yeah... I was just wondering if you wanted to come by and pick up the rest of your things," he said sadly. Francis frowned, missing the tone. So Arthur hadn't forgiven him. That was definitely not what he had wanted to hear. His heart sank in his chest, and his brows pulled together.

"Oh... ah, oui. I'll come and get them tomorrow?" Francis asked more than said into the phone. No, he wanted to go and stay. He didn't want to take his belongings with him. He heard Arthur breath a sigh on the other side of the line before he spoke.

"Grand, I'll see you then," he said before hanging up before Francis had a chance to say anything else. He held the phone to his ear until the line went dead, and slipped it shut, setting it back on the coffee table. He rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. How had he managed to fuck everything up so much? He buried his face in his pillow that he had brought with him, and smiled at the fact it still smelled like his ex-lover. How long would it smell like that? He hoped forever.

Soon Antonio returned home, and the Frenchman had to pull himself together. Tomorrow he would to to Arthur's house, get his things, and be done with this whole ordeal. He would be able to move on.

That was a lie, and Francis Bonnefoy knew it.