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

You Could be Happy, Part IV

"Do the things that you always wanted to without me there to hold you back. Don't think, just do. More than anything I want to see you, boy. Take a glorious bite out of the whole world."

Arthur took a nervous sip of his tea, and paced around the living room, glancing at his watch for the umpteenth time. He was nervous to see Francis. He wanted to convince him to stay, but he seemed more than willing to get his belongings and be done with the Brit. Arthur didn't want to humiliate himself anymore than he already had.

At the familiar sound of Francis' car rolling up into the drive way, Arthur nearly panicked. He instantly went to sit down so it didn't look like he had been anxiously waiting for him, which he most certainly had been. He didn't want to look like a stalker, either. He had expected Francis to ring the door bell, or knock, but to his surprise he listened to the door being unlocked like he had hundreds of times when Francis returned home from work. The Frenchman emerged a second later, and slipped his shoes off, peeking into the living room.

"Bonjour," he said, offering Arthur a small smile. The Brit set his tea cup down, and got up.

"Hello," he said briskly. He wasn't sure how this encounter was going to go, therefore he was very nervous. Francis masked a frown at his tone, but it was still present in his eyes; there was nothing he could do about that. He wanted nothing more in that moment then to take Arthur back into his arms, apologize for leaving and beg him to let him stay. He didn't want to sleep alone one more night. He shook the thoughts out of his head and sighed.

"Well, I guess I'll go and get my things," he told him dejectedly. Arthur stared at him numbly before standing up.

"Ah, yeah. I'll help you get it all together, hm?" The Brit fidgeted with his hands linked together nervously, taking a step towards the Frenchman. Francis nodded and walked towards their... no, Arthur's bedroom and opened up the closet, getting out a large box. He started putting items into it, while Arthur merely stood in the doorway, frowning gently.

"So, what have you been doing lately?" Francis asked. He glanced over at Arthur and assessed him quietly. It was obvious to him that he had lost weight. He was smaller and more frail looking. He looked far too tired for anyone to be healthy. He wondered if it was his fault, then he realized that was a stupid question. Of course it was his fault.

"I've been writing, actually," Arthur said. He had always wanted to become an author, and now that he had so much spare time, he had been able to get some of his ideas down and written out. He was quite proud of them so far. Francis nodded and smiled sadly.

"That's good, you always did love writing, oui?" He asked, folding a pair of pants before setting them into the bottom of the box. He let his eyes linger there, not willing to look at Arthur as he moved his belongings into the box.

"Yeah," Arthur said simply, "It's been going quite well," 'It's depressing as hell, however,' he thought to himself with a frown. It wasn't an easy thing to write, as he was nearly pouring his heart and complete self into that novel. He was sure it would turn out well in the end though. All of this pain had to profit someway.

The two men went about the house in silence, gathering Francis' belongings together. Arthur had shamefully stashed away a shirt or two of his. He had to at least have some sort of positive reminder of him, and his scent was definitely the ticket he had needed. Francis looked around the house woefully, and sighed. "I guess that's everything," he said sadly. He didn't want to leave, because he knew as soon as he stepped out of that door he would have no excuse to see Arthur again. That would be the end of them.

Arthur nodded softly, "I guess so," he agreed. He looked around the hall they were standing in, and then rested his eyes on Francis. Both of them knew that this was wrong, so why were they still going through with this? Francis tried to smile softly, but it almost ended up looking like a grimace.

"Take care, mon cher," he said quietly, pressing his lips to Arthur's forehead before he picked up the last box and walked out to his car. Arthur walked to the door and watched him go like he did weeks ago when they had first split up. He wanted to scream at him to come back, he wanted to cry, and beg him not to leave. But his voice wasn't there anymore. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and offered Francis a weak smile in return as he climbed into the car, and carefully pulled out of the drive way. Arthur stepped out onto the porch, and watched him drive until he was out of sight. He reached up and brushed the tears off of his cheeks, willing the rest to stay back. He stood there numbly, before turning and walking back into the cold, unwelcoming house once more. He didn't want to stay here alone, but he knew now that he had no option. Alfred had been calling and calling, trying to apologize for everything that had happened because of their night together, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to answer. It just made it all the more real.

He didn't want to come to terms with the fact his lover was gone now. He walked over to his desk chair and turned on the monitor of his computer, listening to it hum quietly as it warmed up.

Then, he began to write.