[fanfiction] What the Heart Forgets - Goodbye
Title: Goodbye
Author: comptine
Rating: M
Genre: Romance/Drama
Warnings: sex/puddles of angst
Summary: There is a distinct difference between a goodbye and au revoir, as one lasts forever while the other promises that there will never be an ending.
Note: Written for one of the most influential fruk writers out there, a final thank you.
Goodbye
Arthur goes to bed alone and wakes up alone.
The sheets are pulled over his body in a manner that lets him know two things: one, Francis has left already; and two he was coming back.
While he wakes up alone, it is once again a matter of fact. The spot next to his bed is empty but there is a creaking of floorboard on the floor below, and this lets him know that he not alone. He sits up and sighs.
The comforter that was nestling near his neck falls down around his hips and Arthur shifts in the heaviness of morning, sitting up and rubbing his neck. In this early morning sleepiness, he's surprised to find no scars there.
Their room is filled with the muted light of the snowing morning outside and Arthur considers going back to bed for a moment.
That could be nice.
Arthur was old now and as he glances outside to catch his own reflection in the window, he stares at his eyes. No matter how his body aged, those green eyes of his were ancient, indomitable and green as the fields of his true childhood.
Francis loved them.
However, his bones, white like the cliffs (where England once stood and saw France for the first time.), were tired and had a habit of creaking against each other so he grumbled as he sat up, relaxing back against the headboard.
But before his can have his back muscles loosen and allow him to find solace in the bed, there is the telltale creak of the stairs before Francis appeared at the door, carrying two mugs in his hands.
Arthur shifts so Francis can sit down, reaching up and taking the blue mug, thanking the Frenchman with a yawn, which Francis is quick to take advantage of, poking his sides and murmuring something about pudge. Grumbling, Arthur pulled back and replaces Francis' lips with the rim of his mug and mutters something about too much butter in his diet thanks to a certain frog.
Francis let the teabag steep too long again. Arthur drinks anyway.
"The boys don't have school again." He says. Arthur looks at him, Francis' eyes are heavy with sleep and as Arthur watches, the blond head leans back against the headboard.
The blue eyes, once again the shade he knew so well (though the tiredness is from writer's block and dealing with two stuck-inside six-year-old boys rather than a famine), close and it only takes a moment for the coffee in Francis' hand to wobble dangerously in the loose grip.
Taking the cup from his hand, Arthur allows his fingers to lace with the sleepy Frenchman's, leaning over, nestling a kiss in his neck before sliding out of the bed and getting ready. One shower, shave and gargling of mouth wash passes and Francis is still passed out on the bed.
The Englishman can already hear two sets of feet padding towards the door, carrying two hungry mouths and two minds, small and yet big, that will need attention for a day. Arthur is more than happy to play with the two boys so that Francis can sleep, write, pop by the kitchen to watch Arthur try to piece together a sandwich and receive a snappish response when he asks when peanut butter and tomatoes went well together, take another nap and then write some more.
Arthur will take care of the boys and Francis will not fight him for the chance and this alone is enough for Arthur.
When he puts the boys to bed that night and walks to Francis' office, it's to find the floor littered with paper and the man asleep on the desk.
The afghan, now worn and musty with being used as a cosy, mop for spilt juice and for picnics at the local park, finds itself wrapped around Francis' shoulders.
And so Arthur goes to bed alone and wakes up alone.
But he doesn't mind. Not in the least.
So when he wakes alone, some years later, it's merely a matter of fact and nothing more.
But this time Francis isn't there to greet him and he slips out of bed, standing and places his hands in his lower back, pressing his spine forward, groaning and humming as the bones rearrange itself.
But Francis isn't downstairs.
Isn't in the bathroom.
Isn't in the boys' room.
Isn't in the office.
Arthur knows he isn't out as the little blue car he drives in sitting in the front way and has shield of tiny drops of rain that reflect the grey sky.
Arthur stands in the kitchen, watching the rain outside as the kettle whistles next to him. He doesn't notice, mind blank, not even thinking because he's been doing too much of that lately. Thinking hurt his head so he stares at the car that tells him that Francis has gone somewhere he wasn't allowed to follow.
"Dad?"
His head jerks and he looks around to see Alfred standing in the doorframe of the kitchen, one of those tiny earbud inflicting terrible rap music into his left ear while the right bud rests in Alfred hand as he blinks at his father.
They stare at each other for a bit, and Arthur cans see Alfred considering to just leave because his father is being strange, the kind of strange where a child suddenly becomes the adult and Alfred isn't sure if he wants to parent right now.
But he lets the ear bud flop down on the large scarf that Arthur made for him and nudges the Brit aside, taking the kettle off of the stove, holding it and pouring the steaming water into the cup. Arthur wonders vaguely when the boy got so tall. Like last time… He looks away and looks back a moment later and his little boys are tall and handsome and everything they were.
Alfred smiles. "You're thinkin' about Pa, aren't ya?" Alfred gloved hands press the mug into Arthur's hands and the head from both mug and the warm skin of his son's fingers as they poke through the ridiculous hobo gloves he insists on wearing no matter how many mittens Arthur makes.
A nod as Arthur's mind starts painting thoughts again, the canvas of his blank mind filled with broad strokes of worry, anxiety and guilt in the pit of his stomach. But Alfred's blue eyes peer into him with that same boundless sky past the cover of rain and it helps him relax just barely.
He sinks against the counter. "I know he only left this morning…" The cup rests against Arthur's chest and his breath creates tiny ripples on the surface. "But I'm still worried. I wish he would've let me come but-"
Arthur's head hangs and his sigh causes a burning drop of water to escape from the mug, searing a line over the knuckles of his hand. His hand doesn't twitch.
"It's hard." Alfred finishes for him, adjusting the bag on his shoulder, leaning on the counter next to his father, fingerless gloves curling against the edge. "It's weird though. I know I should be sad, but I just can't be. I mean… I've never met the woman."
There passes a minute of silence as Arthur takes a sip of his tea and Alfred's rap music continues to pound, the bass louder than the patter of rain against the window. "You should stop listening to such tripe." Arthur says, hiding a smile into his cup.
Alfred lets the subject change happen. "It's good. You're just too old to appreciate it." He straightens, nuzzling lower into his scarf, starting to back out of the kitchen. "I'll be out late tonight."
"Who are you meeting up with?" Arthur asks because this fathering business takes his mind away from the fact that his husband is somewhere across the Channel without him with a woman he's never met.
The blond grins. "Ivan. We're gonna go do something. Dunno what yet." And before Arthur could protest that Alfred should not be hanging out with mentally unstable Russians, the American has already blocked out his father with the ridiculous rap music and is in the front entrance hall, slipping out into the rain.
After the blond disappears, Arthur is left with his thoughts and a warm cup of tea. These two things will make him think, because damned if he can ignore it anymore. Francis was gone to a funeral to a woman that he ran away from.
Francis' mother was in the hospital and was not going to last the week.
When Francis told Arthur this, it was decided -silently as always (some things never changed)- that the Brit would not be attending. There was something sacred about Francis' mother, one of those subjects that was never breeched and yet was always a prominent part of their lives.
So that morning, at four am when Arthur could barely register the goodbye and the brush of lips against his own, Francis had left. And Arthur woke up alone.
Francis leaves for France, to care for a dying mother while Arthur has to explain to the boys why they are suddenly with a grandmother who wants nothing to do with them. Of course Arthur has to reveal to the boys that they have a grandmother who dislikes them.
Matthew does what Arthur wants to do which is lock himself in his room and hide while Alfred continues on with life, like always. Arthur spends the rest of the day milling about waiting in the kitchen, then to the living room, trying to curl up with a book and finding himself staring at the outside window for hours until the rain lets up.
Alfred returns, late like he said, and blinks as he finds his father curled up on a couch. Carefully, he walks over and pulls the afghan a little higher, jerking Arthur out of his reverie. "Just thought I'd tell you have I haven't been sold to a slave ring." A wink and a hand passes through Arthur's tousled hair before Alfred's feet retreat upstairs.
Taking a moment, Arthur listens to the quiet conversation he hears going on between the twins, glad that Matthew was talking. While he was tight-lipped at times to the Brit, Matthew always found some way to talk Alfred (or Alfred managed to get his brother to talk). Carefully marking his page, 4, Arthur places the book on a side table, gathering up the blanket, folding it carefully before holding it to his chest, nose buried in it.
It still smelt a little like the Frenchman.
Arthur stands there for a moment, lost in his loneliness, eyes closed and buried away into the afghan taking deep breathes as he tries to deny the fact that he misses the Frenchman with ever sane part of his body.
The phone rings quietly in the background. Arthur drops the blanket as if it shocked him, hurrying over to the phone, picking it up and clutching it to his ear. "Hello, Arthur speak-"
He can barely get the words out before he hears a watery breath from the other side. "Let me just nip upstairs, love." He slips up the stairs, past the boys' room and into his own room. Well, their room.
Crawling up onto the bed, the phone cradles between his shoulder and ear as he curls his knees to his chest. "How are you doing?"
The first night Francis is across the Channel, he calls Arthur and sobs.
It takes a few minutes to calm him down with hushed words and Arthur sits on their bed, right hand holding the phone with his sobbing husband on one end while his left hand is curled into the sheets, anchoring himself there so he doesn't jump up and run to France (as he's done before, in this life and the other).
"S-She didn't even let me into the room Arthur." Francis says, his voice shaky and Arthur lets him take another deep breath. "What am I going to do? She re- refuses to see me a-and I couldn't even go in until she was u-under."
Arthur stares at the wall, swallowing. "You should come home." He says quietly. He knows it's selfish and he knows that the Frenchman will smile just a fraction. "To where you will be let in, despite you being a frog."
There is a watery chuckle then a long exhale. "I just do not know… I wish to come back but I must… settle affairs here."
"Of course." Arthur is quiet for a moment. "I love you Francis. Don't forget that."
"I could never forget." But there is a tone of sadness behind the words and they both notice. There is a heaviness on the word 'never' and Arthur's heart clenches and he closes his eyes, breathing out quietly.
Quiet before Francis mutters a near-silent je t'aime and then the dial tone and the quiet tap of rain on the window.
Arthur goes to bed alone and wakes up alone for the next week. He does not hear from Francis for the rest of the week and seems to pass from day-to-day in a haze. The boys try to take care of him but the Brit seems lost. By the end of the week, he's reached page ten in his book. But his head snaps up as there is the crunch of feet on gravel as a figure makes its way towards the front door.
On his feet within the second, Arthur rushes to the front door and opens it.
Standing a few feet from the covered entrance, Francis lurks in the rain. Arthur takes a step outside, slippers moving across the welcome mat as he stares at the Frenchman, lips parting.
His eyes flick over Francis, taking in his dishevelled appearing, the eyes heavy with the loss of a loved one and then stops to stare at the cross of tarnished gold now resting at his collarbone.
Francis stands there, unmoving, staring at the Brit with the eyes that Arthur all at once missed and wished to never see again. They stands, mere inches apart, as if seeing each other for the first time.
"You weren't this bad with Joan." Arthur says, pulling Francis flush to his chest.
The response is at first stony and Arthur knows that unsure hands wrap themselves around his back. The moment this happens he feels the first shudder and with that the Francis relaxes against him, holding them together as he makes use of Arthur's sweater, unfashionable as it is, as a tissue.
"S-She spoke to me Arthur-" The Brit feels the words breathed into his ears, happy past all the sobs. "S-She forgave me. S-Said e-everyone could be forgiven." Once these words and managed, more sobs follow
Arthur smiles, drawing Francis inside and out of the rain. "That's fantastic, you've found some closure then- no need to worry about it anymore."
Following him, Francis takes off his jacket, still wiping at his eyes as he places his shoes in the spot that has been empty for days, looking at Arthur. "It is good to see you cher."
Quiet floats over the pair as they stare at each other. The Brit is expecting the Frenchman to do something ridiculous and romantic that will make him flush from embarrassment and growl in flustered rage but Francis watches him, almost unsure and long fingers tug at the cross.
"Well let's get you unpacked and everything…" Picking up the bag, Arthur makes his way upstairs and two steps from their room, Francis' fingers close around his arm, stopping him.
"I would actually like to sleep in the guest room." Arthur's slackened fingers are freed from the suitcase and Francis takes it. There is a brief kiss to his hair, but there is something missing from the gesture, perhaps it was too short- too lacking of passion that Arthur has come to expect from Francis.
He stands on the landing and watches Francis move away from their room and into the guest one. And he is alone. Just like that. In an instant it is like Francis had not even come home.
When the boys come home, Francis greets both of them in the same way as he does Arthur, as family that he loves, not a lovers. They do not notice how their adoptive father has changed and dinner is spent with filling in Francis with all the things he missed while he was gone.
It makes Arthur sick to watch. Because Francis seems okay with this change and when Arthur offers a glass of wine to top off the night, the Frenchman refuses, ungluing himself from the couch were he'd been cured and goes upstairs. Arthur watches as the door to the guest room closes before picking up the afghan Francis had been curled under.
He lifts it to his nose. There is no lingering smell and Arthur tosses it onto the couch.
The bottle of whiskey he keeps hidden in a desk drawer will need refilling by the time Arthur manages up into his bed.
This night, Arthur also falls asleep alone and wakes up very much alone.
It is a different aloneness. Before this, the loneliness of a cold bed was a matter of fact, now it was a choice of the Frenchman who was merely one door away from him.
Arthur wants to rip that golden chain from his throat and merely be all the Frenchman needs instead of his mother controlling him from beyond the grave.
And yet Arthur merely goes downstairs, trying to mask his hangover behind drowsy eyes, finds Francis making coffee and kisses the place where the clasp lays, murmuring a good morning and demanding as to why he hasn't made tea yet.
Things become normal again. As normal as it can be. The boys come and go from school, friends, sports and whatever else they do and this distance allows them to go through their days without notice of their fathers. Francis is writing and Arthur continues to work but every night, after the dinner and the television and the reading in the living room.
For a month, Arthur sleeps alone and wakes up alone and for the first time it bothers him.
When he suggests that Francis come back, it's winter.
They both could use heat but the Frenchman says, voice quiet and demure, that he is perfectly fine with draping another quilt over himself and points out that Arthur can always just get a hot water bottle.
Francis doesn't look at him when he says this and Arthur watches as the delicate hands continue to prepare dinner. He traces them for a moment with his eyes before flickering to the ring that is resting on the edge of the sink. He knows that Francis has only taken it off to cook but the angry and hurt part of him that he's been suppressing for nearly a month finally comes out in a simple sentence.
"Well if you don't want to sleep with me, you need only to say."
He doesn't regret saying it and in fact the immense feeling of satisfaction at finally saying this. Not keen on having it ruined by a guilty conscious, Arthur turns to leave so he doesn't see the way Francis drops the knife, doesn't see the way Francis' fists clutch and doesn't see the way Francis closes his shining eyes.
But Francis says something and Arthur stays.
"I do not want to sleep with you."
The Brit looks back, sees that Francis is standing straight, but not looking at Arthur, fixing his hair as if he hadn't said anything. The anger continues to boil in Arthur's gut and, even though he knows the boys are upstairs, his voice raises along with the rage that infects his heart.
"That's bloody fantastic! Really, I was just waiting for the finalisation of that. Really, classy Francis. I hope your good-for-nothing-bible-thumping mum tucks you in right and tells you nice stories about saints and angels! Oh- and I hope that you're warm in heaven and before I'll sure as hell be warm without YOU!"
Arthur yells because he is hurt.
Every inch of him is ready to strike, the rage and to expel the monster that is rampant inside his very bones, like the fierceness of a war or of a people and he is amazed that these feelings, so hot and real and overwhelming in their force, are his own.
But they are doused quickly as he watches the Frenchman's shoulders shake. They hunch. A sob, and then-
Francis picks up a knife with a steady hand while the other lifts, casually, to brush across his eyes.
"Dinner will be ready soon."
Silence, save for the gentle tap of blade against a wooden cutting board.
He swallows and turns on his heel and locks himself in their- his room.
They fight and fight and fight and it hurts. And they sleep apart for different reasons than the cross around his neck and it hurts. And everything is just tense and sore, painful and he finds he can't even look Francis in the eye, can't even speak a word without a harsh and unforgiving tone behind it and this hurts.
It hurts because this is what it was like before they were born anew. And bloody hell Arthur's pride won't let him apologise for demanding Francis to take off the stupid cross and start sharing a bed with him and he knows Francis' stubbornness won't let him forgive Arthur, even if the reluctant Brit manages a growled apology.
No armies at a standstill, no colonies bristling against each other. Just raw human stupidity keeping them apart and it drives Arthur up the wall.
For weeks, Arthur goes to sleep alone and wakes up from sleepless nights alone.
Everything is alone now. No matter how often the boys are not home, they still can't help but notice the obvious signs. Francis is not writing and Arthur is coming home later and later and though he blames this on work hours, the smell on his breath tells anyone that he is becoming familiar with the city's bars.
Nothing is every breached as the house becomes silent as the grave save for the boys but even their talk is quiet as they creep around their silent guardians. The two see less and less of their parents as they do their best to spend more and more time away from the house.
Francis makes dinner, lets stew boil and starts to move his things to the other room (and some of it into cardboard boxes, ready to be moved.)
Arthur pretends that Francis doesn't exist. Coming back just late enough to miss dinner.
But he comes home one day from work to a cold and quiet house.
He calls out for the boys and then, an afterthought, for Francis. No answer and Arthur is fine until he steps into the kitchen and the scarf he's been unravelling from his neck falls to the ground as he just stops.
There is an empty bottle of wine on the table and another, knocked over and bleeding.
Arthur's calls from the boys are frantic and as he rushes through the house, finding no one and his hearts pounds and his stomach is ready to heave because this can't be happening right now until-
There.
He stops at the top of the stairs. Francis leans in the doorway of the twins' room, a glass of the reddest wine forgotten in his hand, dripping steadily onto the floor. Lazily, the drops form a puddle.
His other hand rests on the doorkob.
The top step creaks and Francis' head turns. The door closes with a quiet noise.
For the first time in a month, Arthur gets a good look at his husband.
Blue eyes, bruised with the same sleepless nights Arthur has been having, watch him and the body, worn with a sadness Arthur doesn't even begin to comprehend, turns to face the man standing at the top of the stairs.
"The boys asked me which one of us was leaving..." Francis' voice is raw with disuse.
He rubs at his eyes-
Once.
Twice.
Arthur takes a step-
Before the glass falls to the ground and shatters.
And Francis is quick to follow. He sinks to his knees amid the pieces of a broken wine glass, holding himself and sobbing. "We are idiots-" he says while Arthur can only stand and watch because another part of him as seen this before, this breakdown, this rawness of emotion (in a hall lined with mirrors in an empty palace) and yet the human mind has stored, blurred and rejected the memory of another sobbing mess in a small house in the French countryside.
This feels like a first time.
"We thought we could hide this from them but- non… Mes pauvres fils-"
Arthur watches and part of him wants to run and pass by this vivid display of emotions. He'd find solace, isolation, in his room and they would wake up the next morning and act as if nothing had gone wrong. That would be best for Arthur.
But another part of him, a very human part he notices, takes his feet and moves them, lets his knees rest on the fragments of glass and lets the tiny pieces tear at skin and cloth as he gently rests his hands on the sobbing man's shoulders. His lips find the soft hair and murmur sweet, sweet nothings and apologies and comforts and reprimands and the words that Arthur has been holding back weave into the golden strands.
He feels tugs on his elbows where Francis' fingers curl and pull Arthur's hands so they slip, down, and over shivering shoulder blades to wrap around the man.
They stay there for a long while, until Francis stops shaking and Arthur is sure he isn't going to start crying himself. They pull back as one and Francis nudges their faces together, noses bumping as they kiss awkwardly, as if for the first time.
After this, they are back to their old habits and it's not long before their both back in their room and Arthur is relearning Francis' body while Francis relearns the Englishman's mouth.
Hands are caught between lacing their fingers together and exploiting buttons, belts and lips are interrupted as sweaters as pulled up and pass between them.
Moaning, Arthur falls back onto the bed, pulling Francis on top of him, holding his neck before trailing down his chest. Both bare, Francis pulls back from the embrace, swallowing as Arthur's fingers accidentally brush against the chain round his neck.
They look down and the Brit opens his mouth to speak but a long finger presses against his half-swollen lips.
"Let me."
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Francis lifts his hair, pulling it down over one shoulder before pulling the clasp loose, draping the cross over his night table. Arthur's mouth is on the spot in an instant, kissing the very tip of his spine before sliding down, reeling in on himself to kiss each piece of the delicate spine.
Francis pushes him back into the bed and they are a pile of tangled limbs, missed and desperate kisses and curling fingers holding onto each other. Every breath is either shared through a kiss or stolen from the air as desperate lungs fight to pant.
Arthur is weak under the Frenchman and the wandering fingers press into him and within the minute he is yearning into the hand and open to the fingers and needy a level he'd never willingly sink to but good God he missed the hot mouth on his chest and the curling press that is just right.
Not waiting to keep them further apart any longer, Francis brings them together with his fingers tight in the sheets, Arthur's arms tighter around his shoulders as he feel his eyes warm with tears from the pain of the time apart and how his body aches.
He can't care because each tiny wave of pain means that they are together again and pleasure starts to boil in his gut and it's like the time apart meant nothing anymore because this is all that matters, all that will ever matter.
His spine arches and he groans but the sound is swallowed by a greedy kiss of the Frenchman as there is a shuddering release between the pair of them.
Sweaty foreheads press together and their hair plasters to skin as they both sink to sheets, curling with each other so tightly, they would almost lose themselves in each other if not for the skin between their hearts.
Arthur immediately starts to apologise.
"There is nothing to worry about." Francis says, blue eyes remarkably clear, petting Arthur's face with his fingers, forcing the ancient green to close. They remain closed as Francis presses a kiss to each closed eye, gently sliding out of the bed.
The Brit panics for a moment as he hears a door open and when he turns in the bed to see where Francis is going because this night might have meant nothing. But Francis only goes to the washroom, leaving the door open just a crack.
Arthur falls asleep alone and quickly from exhaustion and does not wake up when Francis slides in beside him. Nor does he wake when Francis leaves to make tea.
When Arthur wakes up alone this time, the bed beside him is warm and the pillow smells like the overly flowery scent of Francis' hair.
Most of the day is spent inside as the snow outside is thick and sticky. The boys have already excused themselves from school to visit the skihills and neither parents is to keen on telling them they should be going to school. Besides, the house is empty which is all they need.
By afternoon tea, all of Francis' possessions have moved from boxes and the guest bedroom back into their room. Kisses sprinkle the day and Arthur is almost certain that for every minute that day, Francis holds his hand, wraps an arm around his waist or kisses his neck.
Arthur tells him to stop trying to make up for the last month or he will get sick of the Frenchman. This is a lie, but they don't care.
The boys come home to find their parents waiting for them. Matthew looks worried but Alfred notices the fact that the two are holding hands and launches himself at his parents, squeezing them. Matthew is quick to join and Arthur and Francis are lost within the taller boys' arms.
Dinner is whatever Francis can scrounge up which is still better than anything Francis remarks, earning himself a pinch while dessert is old ice-cream sandwiches and marshmallows made over the stove. Alfred and Matthew fall asleep in a pile in the middle of the living room (Arthur notices that Alfred's hand is closed over a phone with an unfinished text to "Russki" on the screen).
He wants to join them but Francis tells him no because he wants to spend the night with Arthur. The Brit doesn't protest as he's brought upstairs, door closing and immediately pulled into a long and quiet kiss. Fingers curl into the long hair as Arthur sinks against the door, humming.
They strip down quickly, Arthur finding himself with bottoms while Francis kneels on the bed in a t-shirt, grinning as he slips under the covers. Joining him, Arthur let Francis use his arm as a pillow and for a few minutes, they sit and let their breathing sync.
"I was going to tell you goodbye that night." Francis murmurs, resting his hand on Francis' s side. "I needed the wine and I was going to tell the boys goodbye but I got to the top of the stairs and I couldn't."
Arthur close his eyes, rolling away slightly and sighing but Francis kept speaking, the hand sliding to the space between them. "I realised that I could never say 'au revoir' because it was a lie."
Green eyes open and he frowns.
"Au revoir." He murmured. "It means… 'to the next seeing'. It is not a goodbye, non. We will see each other again. It's never a complete goodbye, only a promise that one day, we will meet again."
He reaches over, across the line of moonlight separating them so that his ring catches the light, and takes Arthur's hand.
That moment, of staring across into the Frenchman's eyes is one Arthur has seen, not just now, but when he was one with the earth and the sea and the wind-
and everything, everything is just simple at that moment. Where he is Arthur and the man across from him, the one he lost everything for to save and then found again, is Francis.
Francis speaks; Arthur listens.
"There is never a goodbye; only the time apart."
They move close, like the pull of the tides and England falls asleep beside his France and Arthur wakes up next to his Francis.
Together. Time and time again.
Author's Note
Really is just a callback to the fantastic universe created by lenarix_klinde. I owe a lot to her, inspiring me to be a better writer, one of her quality. With a series like What the Heart Forgets, it never really ends as new readers will always find and appreciate it and even though she's finished with it, it still is very alive.