Author's note: I DON'T KNOW WHY I WROTE THIS BUT IT'S SAD AND IF YOU WON'T WANT TO CRY, DON'T READ IT ;____; Kay, so I just wrote this cuz I was feeling a little sad and then the idea for a death fic popped up in my head and I KNEW I wanted to have it be Francis, because I wanted to write it from Arthur's viewpoint and I know he would be the type to deny everything and just pretend it's not real. I do the same thing. My mental defenses are quite strong. I actually still haven't quite come to terms with my grandpa's death in 2004. I still feel like he's here, so yeah. BUT ANYWAY. SAD AND ANGSTY FIC IS SAD AND ANGSTY.

***

No. No, he couldn’t be gone. There was just no fucking way. Arthur didn’t believe anything anyone told him. It wasn’t true. Francis was fine. His plane was coming and he was on it and—

He choked back a sob as he rushed down the hallways of his home. Where was he? Where was that damn frog?! His plane should have been back. He was only flying from Spain. The flight was never this long. The only messages on his phone were from Matthew and Alfred, telling him that something had happened. But he didn’t believe it. He didn’t WANT to. Francis was coming. He would he there and walk through his door and say ‘I’m back, mon cher~’ in that annoying French accent of his…

He stayed locked up in his house the rest of the time, waiting and waiting for Francis. “Goddammit, you bloody git,” he growled, reaching for his phone to send a text. There was no reply. Matthew tried calling him but as soon as he had uttered the words ‘I’m sorry’, Arthur hung up. He didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to hear Francis’ laugh, his annoying fucking laugh that he loved, and he wanted to be held by him, to feel his heartbeat.

Arthur felt tears coming to his eyes the longer he stared at the clock and realized Francis wasn’t coming. Alfred texted him, trying to explain to him what had happened but Arthur didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know how Francis had met his end; how the nation of France had fallen. He just wanted Francis home, in his arms and safe. But he knew he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. He hugged his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth, hating the silence.

Francis should be cooking dinner now, singing a stupid song and prancing around in a pink apron. He should be sitting next to Arthur, comforting him. He should be arguing with Arthur over something trivial because that’s what they do and what they will always do.

“F-Francis…” he whimpered out, remembering the Frenchman’s smiling face when they first met as child nations. “Y-You weren’t supposed to go,” he sobbed out. “You aren’t supposed to leave me, you prat! W-What am I supposed to do without you? There is no England without France!” He fell to his knees and cried then, pounding the floor with his fist. The tears wouldn’t stop, even as he stood up and stumbled to the mantel to grab a picture of the two of them shaking hands during the Entente Cordiale. He traced his hand over Francis’ face and felt his lower lip trembling.

“I loved you, you fucking arse,” he whispered. “You weren’t supposed to go…” He choked out another sob and clutched the picture to his chest, curling up on the floor, and waiting for the one he loved who would never show.