Author's note: So I hadn't planned on writing a sequel to "Gone", but I woke up this morning crying and sobbing and thinking I was Arthur and I really needed to write this. Getting into a character's mindset is kind of easy for me, but it's never fun when it's a depressed and extremely saddened state. Basically, I was feeling horrible grief and just channeled that into my writing. I hate doing this to Arthur, I really do, but this thing was nagging at me to write it.

***

Arthur rolled over in bed, expecting a hairy arm to wrap around him; expecting a warm body to press against him. He was met with an empty bed and his heart sunk.

One month.

It had already been one month since Francis…

The Englishman took a shaking breath and sat up, swinging his legs to the edge of the bed. There were dry tear tracks on his face from the previous night. He padded across the floor towards his bathroom and turned on the faucet in the sink. He threw the water on his face and gripped the edges of the sink tightly as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

He looked a mess. His eyes were puffy and red from crying, and he had bags under them from lack of sleep. Sighing, he dried his face off with a towel and walked to his kitchen, mechanically grabbing a teapot to make some tea. After he filled it up with water, he turned around to put it on the stove. That’s when he saw a familiar figure standing a few feet away. His eyes widened and he stiffened, dropping the teapot to the floor where it cracked and spilled water. But he didn’t notice or care. His gaze was transfixed on the man he thought he’d never see again.

“F-Francis…?” he gasped, disbelieving.

The Frenchman smiled, something Arthur had dearly missed. “Bonjour, Angleterre,” he said softly.

“H-How?”

“I have been watching you, mon cher.”

“Watching…?”

Francis moved closer, raising a semi-transparent hand to touch Arthur’s face. Arthur felt his heart beating wildly. He took Francis’ hand into his own, pressing it against his cheek, feeling how absolutely cold it was. He turned his lips to kiss it, feeling the tears fall down his face. He’s bloody freezing, he thought. Like ice.

Francis was watching him with sad eyes. “Oh God…Francis…” Arthur sobbed, wrapping his arms around the other. “I…I…”

“Shh, Arthur.”

Arthur clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder before pulling back and taking Francis’ face between his hands. He leaned forward and kissed him, trembling when their lips met and how different and yet familiar it felt. Francis’ lips were cold, but he kissed him back with the same love and passion he always had. “You d-died,” he whimpered, not wanting to say the word, fearing he would breakdown again.

“Yes, I know.”

He stared defiantly into his eyes then. “You weren’t supposed to.”

Francis rested his forehead against Arthur’s. “Angleterre, I am sorry.”

“D-Don’t…” He bit his lip and shook his head. “Why now? Why are you coming to me now, after a month?”

“I had hoped you would move on—”

“Move on?” he repeated angrily, as though Francis had just uttered a swear word.

“Yes, Arthur, move on. I am dead.”

“No! J-Just shut up. You’re here now!”

Francis frowned at him. “You are in denial. You have closed yourself off from those that love you. I hate seeing you like this, mon cher.”

“I don’t need those prats,” he said stubbornly. “I don’t need anyone.”

“Oh Arthur…” He took the Brit’s tear stained face into his hands and brushed the tears away. “Look at yourself. Look at what you have become.”

“I…I need you,” Arthur whispered desperately. “I’ve only ever known a life where you were only an ocean away. Without you, I’m nothing, Francis. England without France…it isn’t right.”

“No, I must admit, it isn’t right at all. But we cannot change the past. You know this.”

“You’re a bloody nation, Francis! You aren’t supposed to die!”

“And yet here I am.”

Arthur choked back a sob. “You say it so casually, as though it’s nothing to you. Like your life was meaningless.”

“You know very well that it meant everything to me. That you meant everything to me.”

“Really? And what went through your head at the end?” he asked accusingly.

Francis narrowed his eyes at him before softening his expression. He traced a finger along the other’s jawline. “I thought of when we first met. How you scowled constantly, how I teased you for your eyebrows. Do you remember, Angleterre?”

Arthur’s lip trembled. “Yes,” he murmured. “I remember.”

“And I thought of the Hundred Years War, how we hated each other. How we fought and fought, trying to destroy one another. Do you remember that?”

“Y-Yes…”

“I thought of all the other wars, but mostly the second Great War, and how you stormed my beaches and saved me; how you liberated my countrymen and I. Do you remember?” Arthur nodded, closing his eyes. A tear escaped and Francis went to wipe it, rubbing the pad of his thumb against his cheek. “I thought of our night after the Entente Cordiale was established,” Francis continued. “How we made love for hours, for all those years we had hated one another.” He smiled sadly. “And my final thought, before the plane crashed, was of seeing you again, your smiling face as you burned some strange concoction over the stove.”

Arthur’s shoulders were shaking. “F-Fran…”

“Shh, mon amour. Let it be known that I, Francis Bonnefoy, la République française, was in love with you, Arthur Kirkland, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.” His arms held the Englishman tightly.

“I love you, you fucking frog,” Arthur mumbled. “Your country’s gone to shit since you’ve been…”

“I know,” Francis sighed heavily. “I have seen the riots. But there is nothing I can do, oui? Their country is gone and with it, their nationality and place in the world.” He glanced at Arthur sternly. “Why do you keep ignoring Alfred and Mathieu’s calls?”

Arthur glared at him. “All they do is pity me. I don’t want their damn pity! I just…I want…”

“You want to be alone?”

“I’ve always been alone.”

“Even when you were with me?”

“N-No! You…You made me feel important, even after my empire fell. But…”

“Arthur, spending the rest of your eternal life in isolation is not healthy.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You need help. You need someone who cares.”

“They don’t care. They don’t understand. They could never understand the pain I’m in. They…” His voice cracked and he took a rattling breath.

“They love you, Arthur. You know they do. And they’re worried about you. Let them worry, let them see you. Let them know you are all right.”

“I can’t,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’m not ready to see anyone.”

Francis looked at him with a pained expression. “Do you really love me, Angleterre?”

Arthur stared into his eyes in disbelief. “Of course, you prat.”

“Then do this for me. Call them up, invite them over, talk with them.”

“You…You just want me to forget you ever existed?” he gasped.

“Non, I want you to remember me and to always cherish what we had. But honoring my memory means moving on, Arthur.”

Arthur’s heart was breaking all over again. He had almost forgotten that he was talking to a ghost. “I don’t…know if I can,” he whispered.

The Frenchman smiled. “You are strong, oui? I believe you can and will.”

“Is this the only reason you came to see me, Francis? To tell me to move on?”

“I only want you to be happy, Angleterre. As you are now, you are not happy.”

Arthur’s resolve broke and he started to cry again. “H…How…can I…b-be happy when…the one I l-love…is gone?” he sobbed. Francis took his face in his hands and pressed his cold lips against his mouth. Arthur kissed back, never wanting to part from him. Francis pulled away with a solemn look.

“Call them, Arthur,” he said.

“But—”

“Je t’aime. Je t’aime si beaucoup.” He let his hand linger on his lover’s face one final time before turning around. “I’ll always be watching, mon cher.”

“No! Don’t go! D-Don’t leave me again! Francis!” he cried, running after him.

Francis smiled at him sadly as he disappeared. Arthur stopped in his tracks, staring at the empty space where Francis just was. He crumpled to his knees and let his tears fall, violent sobs racking his body. After a few minutes he stood up, and wiped at his face, sniffing. He walked towards where his cell phone lay on the table counter. He flipped it open and searched through his contacts. His heart constricted as he saw Francis’ name and number among the list and his thumb lingered over the ‘erase’ button. He couldn’t bring himself to delete it and moved down, unsure if he should call Alfred or Matthew.

He dialed in one of their numbers and waited a few minutes before he heard the ringing. It rang a few seconds before a familiar voice answered, sounding quite relieved. “Arthur?” Matthew said softly.

“H-Hello, Matthew. I’m sorry to be calling so late…”

“No, it’s no problem, eh. It’s…It’s good to hear from you.”

“Ah, yes. You see, about that. I would…very much like it if…if you and Alfred could…um…come over.”

“You wanna see us?”

Arthur swallowed hard, thinking of Francis. “Yes. I…I think that would be best.”

“We’ll be on the next flight to London.”

He found himself smiling and biting his quivering lip. “T-Thank you, Matthew.” He closed the phone and looked towards the ceiling, replaying Francis’ words.

They love you, Arthur.

I only want you to be happy, Angleterre.

Je t’aime si beaucoup.

“I love you too, you bloody frog…”