#hetalia fruk

holyshit rhey genuinely look so fucking ugly 🥹🥹🥹 they were truly made for eachother 🩷🩷😊

Characters: England, France, America, Canada

Pages: 23

Artist: egg-piyo?

Vibes: wholesome

Summary: England asks Santa for a lovely morning.

WebArchive

Chapters: 1/6 Fandom: Hetalia (Anime & Manga) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: England/France (Hetalia), England & Sealand (Hetalia) Characters: England (Hetalia), France (Hetalia), Sealand (Hetalia) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Misunderstandings, Alternate Universe - YouTubers, Alternate Universe - Pet Store, REPTILES, Exotic Animals, they're all his babies, instead of colonizing the world Arthur gets to just adopt the world, Autistic England (Hetalia) Series: Part 15 of Anon's hetalia fics Summary:

Francis is overjoyed when his favourite YouTuber turns out to be a regular at his new job, especially since he's even cuter in person.

Hetalia FrUK Oneshot Crossposted on AO3

Border by @cafekitsune

Notes (Contains Spoilers): Angst, Heavy Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Human!AU, Countries use Human Names, Hanahaki Disease, France has Hanahaki Disease, Unrequited Love, Loosely Inspired by True Events, Love Confessions, Deathbed Confessions, Major Character Death, no beta we die like francis, arthur being a dense mf

Francis Bonnefoy looks at Arthur Kirkland as if he were looking at dancing stars. He listens to him as if he were listening to fairies’ chatter. He embraces him as if he were embracing the essence of life itself.

The world has known quite a number of lovers like one such as Francis. Many poems, tales, and ballads have been sung about the intense proliferation of one’s love for another; how these feelings bloom and blossom, as if nourished by the sun itself. Francis was never alone in that regard, which brings him some comfort in his rather unbecoming circumstances.

Francis loves making Arthur let out giggles that chime sweeter than bells—this one of the many signs that indicate that the Englishman enjoys the company of the Frenchman. Francis recalls the time when they were younger—he had braided Arthur’s hair, which was quite long back in the day. He intertwined each little lock of hair with many flowers and charms.

“You look like the Queen of Witches, mon cher ami,” cooed Francis. “You’re ready to take on the entire realm.”

Arthur blushed. “Oh hush. I’m just a mere sorcerer. I do not have such capabilities.”

Francis brushed his fingers through Arthur’s unbraided strands. “But your looks alone could cast a spell,” gushed the Frenchman. “Any fair lad and lass would be utterly captivated by you.”

And so, Arthur’s giggles rang out. They were as clear as day, as fresh as summer, as delightful as morning, as energising as sunrise. Francis felt his heart melt like chocolate—the kind that coats sweet strawberries. Eat my chocolate–strawberry heart, mon amour…

“Mon amour”... to this day Francis still addresses Arthur as “mon cher ami”. That was the closest he could ever be from calling the Englishman something that truly reflected his actual feelings. He silently watches Arthur and falls in with him more and more. Whether he had long hair or short hair, Francis wished to bury himself forever in his beloved’s wispy, champagne blonde hair. He desires nothing more but to take Arthur’s hair and twirl him around in a never–ending waltz of romance. The world around them would no longer matter, because Francis would have his world right in front of him.

An excruciating pain now greets Francis daily—one that, quite literally, blossoms in his lungs. He is fully aware of the cause, the flowers that mark the symbol of unreturned passion. Yet, Francis chooses to keep this fact to himself. If he dies, no one will feel guilty, for a single person harbouring an intensely realised unshared love is better than causing a burden to come crashing down onto the other party’s head. Francis cannot fathom the idea of begging Arthur to love him back, as mountains cannot plead the sunrise to last forever. The Englishman must be willing to let the dew off of his leaves and roll down onto the Frenchman’s. For Francis to drink up any form of love, Arthur must willingly offer it first.

Life–threatening pneumonia is what Francis told the world. He was beyond saving, but all he wished for right now was to be with his most beloved at his deathbed. No one knew when he was going to be gone, so he gets visits everyday to keep him company right before he leaves this realm. With each visit, he managed to hide all the flowers he was coughing out, but the sensation was akin to keeping vomit inside one’s mouth to avoid throwing it all up. The flowers in his mouth made him sound ghastlier whenever he spoke with the visitors. Most of his words could still be understood, but the smooth and velvety quality of his voice had long been dissolved into an empty, soundless void.

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“Hello, Francis.” The words had come from Arthur. “How have you been?”

Francis looked up at the Englishman. He then began to cough out more flowers, but locked them all behind his teeth. “Oh… just about average, mon cher ami.” Arthur chuckled at that, which made Francis proud—he managed to joke about his situation and make his beloved laugh at the same time.

“I came here to visit,” Arthur added. “Just me, though. The others have certain matters to attend to.”

Francis nodded matter–of–factually, but on the inside, he felt grateful. No uncomfortable crowds towering over him, no overstimulating conversations. Just Arthur—Arthur and his beautiful face that represents home. A familiar source of comfort and tenderness manifested on the delicate physicalities of the Englishman. No other individual’s features can make Francis feel a warm and loving embrace despite not experiencing any physical contact. Arthur was Francis’s home, the one he desires to return to once his life’s journey has come to an end.

“Arthur,” began Francis. “Can’t the world just freeze for a bit?”

Arthur nodded silently, then replied, “I feel the same way.”

Francis sighed. “My death is inevitable, but I wish to experience at least a little bit more of life before I go.” His body was so paralysed that he could only move his head. “I’ve fallen in love and had my heart broken, then fallen in love once again. Death doesn’t let us choose when we are to go, so as much as I desire to attempt to cultivate this love I have, I simply have no time at all.”

Francis hasn’t spoken anything longer than three words for the past couple of weeks, so this was a momentous feat. Arthur’s eyes lit up when he realized this, which Francis noticed. The Frenchman chuckled.

“I can overexert myself at this point. Time will never stop for anyone, let alone me. I need to make the most out of my final moments,” declared Francis.

Arthur’s expression was unreadable, but Francis observed that perhaps many thoughts and emotions rushed to his head. The specifics didn’t matter, because Arthur’s face soon morphed into sadness. “You say too many pessimistic things,” he said.

“Love has turned me into a pessimist,” said Francis. “My heart was damaged not from the fall, but rather from the break.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur rubbed his chin in curiosity and concern.

Francis chuckled. “All the roads in good romances end in death.”

“Well now you’re scaring me.”

“There’s nothing to fear when I’ll finally be at peace, right?”

Arthur huffed in a frustrated manner. “God, Francis, stop talking in riddles for one second please?”

“I cannot think straight nor can I speak normally when I am in love,” Francis explained. “I see nothing but the beauty of my dearly beloved; which, despite being a sickly and dying man, motivates my drives to stay alive for a few more days. I wish to see my dearest before I go. But…” the Frenchman paused. “I wish to say certain things about myself first. Final words, if you will.

“How pitiful. The end has come for Francis Bonnefoy, and he dies of a broken heart and bursting lungs. His situation is truly laughable, pathetic even, for he is not killed by the pneumonia he was diagnosed with, but by the love that rips and tears through his very being. The one he loves does not and cannot return the feelings he is caged by, but Francis pays no mind. Things would be better off in the unrequited manner.

“And you might be thinking, ‘Francis, you are literally dying. Will you not try to not be on the verge of death? Fight for life a little harder?’ Well, mon cher ami, to that I say, what’s the point? My sickness has no ready cure, but I have long accepted the fact that it will eat away at my lungs, my heart, and my body.”

Arthur looked as if his eyes were drenched with tears, ready to drown his cheeks with the salty drops. “Francis… I…” Arthur swallowed the stutter before continuing. “You’re in such a cruel state that it has got you talking nonsense. Maybe the doctors are wrong. Maybe your pneumonia can still be cured…”

Francis chuckled brightly, a sound that has never been heard ever since he was admitted to the hospital weeks ago. “Oh, you dense idiot. And yet…” Mustering all the strength he had left, Francis pulled Arthur down into a warm, tight, embrace. “I still love you.”

Francis experienced two things before losing consciousness: First, he saw the Englishman pulling away to look at him with a shocked, tear–filled face; he was breathing heavily and unevenly. Second, he felt the flowers fall freely out of his mouth; they were more than enough to form a bouquet.