Re: What the Heart Forgets [3]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 19:42:18 UTC
Francis can’t quite think of a good rebuttal for that, nor does he really want to. He enjoys the time he spends with Arthur, can’t wait for breaks when they text, e-mail one another, or even exchange a rare phone call.
Still, sitting here with England, watching old Christmas classics and sipping wine, is infinitely preferable to the alternative of spending Christmas alone.
At some point, Arthur’s neck becomes more appealing than It’s a Wonderful Life. Kissing it, licking it, and planting little nips along it becomes more important than the sound from the television.
The moments melt into one another, indistinct and slippery, until Arthur’s naked and sighing under Francis’ hands and tongue and deep, blue eyes.
Francis feels something in the air between them, something soft and velvety and reverent. He keeps his thrusts slow and steady, tries to keep that something intact and beautiful.
He touches Arthur and jerks him off, watches every little flicker and twitch of pleasure on that face. He brings his free hand up to cup Arthur’s cheek and kisses him on the head with a light brush of lips. “Arthur,” he whispers.
Arthur freezes under his fingers, and then shakes, throws his arms over Francis’ shoulders and sobs what sounds like a name into his ear. And it’s so sad, and the wetness on the shoulder is so wet, that Arthur can’t even bring himself to be angry as they gasp and jerk and come.
(“You had a lover before me, didn’t you?” Francis asks him afterwards, as Arthur traces circles around one of the hickeys on Francis’ collarbone. The question makes him freeze. “Did you love him as well?” And Arthur gives Francis a sad smile, kisses his lips, and says no, I did not have a lover, but long, long ago, I did have somebody I loved, and I’m not going to repeat the same mistake I made with him.)
Not enough?! What - but -
There is something more you must pay if you wish for them to live. She inhales, exhales, and the smoke slithers past her lips. The other half of your price is that you must bear these memories, and you alone.
Memories…?
Of nationhood.
The breeze stills, and the smoke hangs suspended in the air.
If I grant this wish, you and you alone will remember your Nationhood in your mortality. The others shall live their lives as humans, and they shall not remember. You will be alone.
That is the price, Arthur Kirkland. Are you willing to pay it?
Francis discovers the store room on his thirtieth birthday, four years since he moved to London to live with Arthur.
He comes home early, pausing for a moment to look in the mirror. He doesn’t think he looks that different. Arthur told him he does, and Francis asked him how. “It’s your eyes,” he remembers Arthur saying, touches his cheek with the memory of Arthur’s fingertips. “They’re a bit wiser than last year.” Pause. “That, and you have a few new wrinkles.”
Francis snorts and hangs his purse up. Well, he may be older, but that doesn’t mean he’s more mature. He’ll take this extra time to look for whatever present Arthur got him. He’ll find it this year, he knows.
Francis sets about searching, under bed, couch, and table, in cupboards and drawers, even underneath Arthur’s boxers. Nothing. No such luck. He has no idea where Arthur could be hiding his gift, and for a brief second he’s stumped.
…And then he remembers the store room.
“Don’t go in there,” Arthur told him when he moved in. “There’s nothing interesting - just dust and a lot of old memories.”
And my gift, Francis thinks with a smirk. What a perfect hiding place.
Francis walks down the hall and turns the knob. The door creaks and reveals a stairwell peppered with spiderwebs and dust.
Francis climbs the stairs and turns on the flickering lightbulb. His eyes grow wide at what he sees.
Surrounding him are cardboard boxes, yes, but also things Francis never imagined Arthur having - guns, old WWII uniforms, books that look ancient and crumbling. He lifts one with ginger fingers and feels his eyes widen when he sees writing on the parchment. They really are as old as they look, then.
Francis lifts fingertips to his temple and rubs, bracing himself for an oncoming headache. Present. Right.
Re: What the Heart Forgets [4]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 19:43:53 UTC
Francis moves on, stumbles and curses as he almost trips over something. Frowning, he reaches down to pick it up. It looks like a rag, a little - but no, it’s too nice to be a rag.
Francis unfolds it to discover a green shirt with yellow embroidery.
“Oh, you don’t want this? I guess I’ll just wear it on my head, then~”
“Y-you bastard, give it back!”
Francis shakes his head. The whispers in his head do not help his headache. He puts the shirt down and moves on, just looking now. Presents are the farthest thing from his mind, and -
His eyes land on a frame. He pauses. He reaches up and lifts it off the wall.
His fingers trace over the glass, and the daisy chain the frame holds.
God.
Oh, God.
He is granted a single, clear moment of comprehension, of memories of warm evenings in a field - with a little boy, who looked just like Arthur, but that’s ridiculous, because Arthur’s just a human name, he’s really England, and -
“I’m…Gaul. I’m France,” he whispers.
Oh God. The kiss. The name Arthur’s cried a few times they’ve had sex with a voice so heart-wrenching that Francis forgives him, always forgives him.
It makes sense.
He remembers, oh, God, he remembers little Italy, remembers taunting England and chasing after Spain and the occupation of his lands and fighting back and oh dear God it hurts so much
“Francis? Francis, where - oh, you are up here. Bloody hell, you never grow up, do you?”
France turns around with wide eyes and parted lips, and there’s England, looking more tired and older than he ever did as a Nation, but still England. “Angleterre,” he whispers.
A look of horror and surprise crosses Arthur’s face. “France,” he whispers. “God, France, no.”
“I remember,” France says, running over and grabbing Arthur’s shoulders with shaking hands. “God, dear God, I remember, Angleterre - I - I never got to tell you -”
But it’s slipping, this revelation; his human mind can’t hold onto those memories for some reason, and no, no! Not now!
“Angleterre,” he says, feeling these memories slip fast from him. “I lo - I -”
And no, he’s not going to get it out, so he smashes his lips against England’s and hopes in his last moments of remembering that Arthur understands.
When they part, Francis Bonnefoy blinks down at a shellshocked Arthur. “Arthur?” he asks, frowning in concern. “Arthur, are you all right?”
“I - oh, y-yes, Francis, I’m all right.” He gives the other a shaky grin and kisses the corner of his mouth, taking the frame from his hands. “You?”
Francis blinks. “I…feel a little dizzy. My head hurts.”
“Always such a whiner,” Arthur teases, thumping Francis on the shoulder. “Go down and take a nap, then.”
“I think…I think that is a good idea.” Francis walks past Arthur, down the stairs, leaving the storeroom behind. Bits and pieces of his mind come back through the throbbing, and by the time he lays his head down on the pillow he’s floating on the disappointment that he never found his gift.
He only meant to rest his eyes, but when he opens them again, sunset is filtering through the curtains and Arthur is watching him sleep. Francis frowns and blinks away sleep, notices how red and swollen Arthur’s eyes look, how utterly miserable he seems.
Francis feels tenderness unfurl in his belly, and hugs Arthur’s head to his chest. His hand smoothes over his back and his cheek presses to the other’s temple.
His body moves on his own; he’s not even aware of what he’s done right until he backs away and sees Arthur smiling. “Have a nice nap?” Arthur asks.
“An excellent one. My headache is entirely gone.”
“That’s good.” Arthur stretches, yawns, and swings his legs off their bed. “C’mon, then, you need to get fancied up for dinner.”
“Erm, Arthur, I appreciate that you want to make me a homemade meal, but -”
“If you don’t hurry up, I will home cook for you instead of taking you out to this nice restaurant.”
Francis laughs as he gets off the bed and moves towards his closet.
Re: What the Heart Forgets [Final]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 19:46:17 UTC
(Arthur never tells Francis how he took the daisy chain out from its frame, the petals breaking under his fingers. He crushed it in his fist, into something finer than dust, and took the ashes of his old life down to their bedroom. Francis was fast asleep, and he never saw how Arthur pressed one tear-stained cheek to the pile before opening the window and casting it out on the wind, scattering it, reminding himself that he loved France, but France was dead; and he loved Francis, so he just focused on the jewelry box in his pocket while making a note to himself to run by the hardware store and get something to keep Francis away from those memories for good.)
…I will pay it.
Are you certain?
I’m not going to let them die.
She says no more, but guides him around to the back of her shop. He lets her position him how she wants, watches as magic circles blossom under both their feet. Something lifts from him, something heavy and bittersweet. He feels bones replace his islands, feels the headache as his newly-mortal brain tries to maintain his memories as this Nation, this land.
When it’s finished, he falls to the ground and sobs, broken, quiet; and this is how it ends, he thinks.
On their fifth anniversary, Francis catches Arthur nearly walking in on him rocking Mathieu to sleep, humming a lullaby under his breath. Arthur leans against the doorframe and waits.
Once those little eyelids flutter closed, Francis kisses Mathieu’s delicate temple and carries him back to the crib, laying him next to his brother, Alfred. Francis takes a moment to run fingertips through their wispy hair; it was an uphill fight to adopt these two, their precious sons, but Francis regrets none of it.
“Working overtime again?” Francis asks as he turns on the monitor and turns off the light.
“You have no bloody idea,” Arthur mutters. “You’re lucky your job lets you work from home, Francis.”
“True, but I can’t wait until I’m traveling again. Local news can only be so interesting.”
Arthur snorts as they turn into the bedroom, as he eases off his suit and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Francis chuckles and leans back on the bed, watching through lidded eyes.
“Are you expecting a show, you horny bastard?” Arthur mutters.
“Am I not allowed to look at my husband?”
“I keep forgetting you have that excuse,” Arthur mutters. He tosses his pants aside, and in nothing but his boxers he crawls into bed beside Francis. They don’t kiss, not yet; they just lay there and watch one another. Francis frowns in thought.
“What?”
“I’m just thinking.”
“You look like you’re constipated.”
Francis rolls his eyes and tries not to whap Arthur upside the head.
“What are you thinking about?” Arthur asks.
Francis pauses a moment and gathers his thoughts.
“Do you ever wonder if we…rushed through this?”
Arthur blinks. “What?”
“If we moved too fast with this relationship. Do you think…do you think we’ll ever come to regret this?”
Arthur is quiet for a moment. Francis is about to tell him to forget it, it’s stupid, anyway, when Arthur answers.
“What do you feel? What did you feel - when you saw me those nine years ago?”
Now it is Francis who is quiet as he reaches forward to touch Arthur’s cheek, thinking, letting the words form behind his lips.
“…I thought you were adorable,” he murmured. “I also thought you were very sad, and tired.”
Arthur turns his lips into Francis’ palm. “What else?”
Francis digs deep for the answer. “I felt as though I knew you,” he murmurs. “I felt as though we’d been separated, and that we could make up for lost time.” A pause. “I wondered why I felt like I already loved you.” His eyes flick up to Arthur’s. “That sounds completely ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
Arthur leans forward and kisses him through a smile. That’s all the answer Francis needs, falling into the kiss that feels too familiar and sweet to be coincidence.
(That’s all the answer Arthur needs, too.)
She says only one thing as Arthur gathers himself and turns to leave, gives him only one spot of comfort in his growing loneliness:
What the heart forgets, Arthur Kirkland, the body remembers. ___
So, aside from the horrible plot-device-no-jutsu, I hope you guys got some enjoyment from that. Thank you for reading!
Re: What the Heart Forgets [Final]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 20:59:42 UTC
Yuuko~~~~~~~~~~~ 8DDDDDDDDDDDDDD The moment I read the 'shop that grants wishes'... *cough*
This is all kinds of sad and sweet and and and... ;A; This anon's heart was ripped and mended and cracked and patched back again and again. I always love the thought of 'heart forgets, body remembers'. ^^ Ahhhhhhhhhh~ This is just too wonderful!!!
For part three, this sentence: Still, sitting here with England, watching old Christmas classics and sipping wine... It's supposed to be Arthur right? =]
<3333333333333 Love love this fill, and Matt and Al... Also, not OP though a massive FrUK fan.
Gawd I love the FrUK one you wrote, that had me in tears. ;A; Anon admits that I'm a FrUK and Spain/Romano fan so anything on them works... Or with Germany, Prussia, Russia, China, Canada... >_<
Re: What the Heart Forgets [Final]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 22:16:28 UTC
oh, god. this was utterly painful. i've myself entertained in yuuko-related crosses, but i would have never thought this would be so terribly beautiful and terribly hurtful. *reduced to tears*
everything was just so perfect, and it pains me that france will never really remember. it is SO yuuko to do something like this, it is SO england to make this choice and be the onyl one to remember. just so that he could save them all.
i was moved to tears by the first part, but it kept getting more painful every part passing by. when france had the subtle remembrance, it broke my heart. he forgetting afterwards was even more painful.
and england's sacrifice... god, how much this is beautiful...
and matthew and alfred... they're THE alfred and matthew, right? and they're a family.
thanks for writing this. I'm not op, but i'm terribly happy i read this, even though it hurt me. thanks. really, thanks.
Re: What the Heart Forgets [Final]
anonymous
July 9 2009, 23:03:32 UTC
Well, aside from the massive Tsubasa fandom nostalgia this caused, the writing was utterly spectacular--I really liked that we got this principally from Francis' point of view, while the little snatches of Arthur's just finish the reader off. Just. *incoherent hand motions* ;;
Man, every fic you write is a fic I never knew I wanted but definitely end up rereading about 5 million times (seriously, sob) because they're so well done and well-developed and fill out an entire facet to the pairing (France/England in this case) so thoroughly.
IDK YOUR FICS ARE JUST SO SATISFYING, GD IT. ♥;;
P.S. One thing I noticed:
And it’s so sad, and the wetness on the shoulder is so wet, that Arthur can’t even bring himself to be angry as they gasp and jerk and come.
Re: What the Heart Forgets [Final]
anonymous
July 10 2009, 03:59:41 UTC
Oh wow... I cried reading this as well. I thought the plot device was used to the best possible effect, it was just so beautifully done. All those memories, oh Yuuko... Thank you for sharing this beautiful piece with us.
Re: What the Heart Forgets [Final]
anonymous
July 10 2009, 05:42:52 UTC
Jesus Christ authornon! I love you, I really, really do. D:
This fic made me tear up like nobody's business...and I *never* tear up - not even when I watched Titanic or all those tragic korean dramas where the characters die a slow and agonizing death. ;____;
When I clicked on the link to this fic through the filled request page, I did not even anticipate that a fic for the fill 'velvet apocolypse' will have other fandoms crossed over, let alone xxxholic. Kudos on catching me by complete surprise and making everything *work* beautifully. You honestly did justice to both Hetalia and holic. You made my night authornon with this fantastic piece of writing. I've got a feeling that I'll be remembering *this* piece for a long time cause of the amount of emotion that's in it.
Re: What the Heart Forgets [Final]
anonymous
July 10 2009, 22:23:37 UTC
I've been waiting to see Hetalia crossed with xxxHolic, and even though it wasn't very intrusive as anything but backgorund here - goddamn but this story yanked at my heartstrings. True, England/France is one of those YES PLEASE pairings of mine, but the bittersweet tang here is absolutely wonderful. I've read this three times, and I think I'll read it many more in the future. Thank you for writing it ♥
Still, sitting here with England, watching old Christmas classics and sipping wine, is infinitely preferable to the alternative of spending Christmas alone.
At some point, Arthur’s neck becomes more appealing than It’s a Wonderful Life. Kissing it, licking it, and planting little nips along it becomes more important than the sound from the television.
The moments melt into one another, indistinct and slippery, until Arthur’s naked and sighing under Francis’ hands and tongue and deep, blue eyes.
Francis feels something in the air between them, something soft and velvety and reverent. He keeps his thrusts slow and steady, tries to keep that something intact and beautiful.
He touches Arthur and jerks him off, watches every little flicker and twitch of pleasure on that face. He brings his free hand up to cup Arthur’s cheek and kisses him on the head with a light brush of lips. “Arthur,” he whispers.
Arthur freezes under his fingers, and then shakes, throws his arms over Francis’ shoulders and sobs what sounds like a name into his ear. And it’s so sad, and the wetness on the shoulder is so wet, that Arthur can’t even bring himself to be angry as they gasp and jerk and come.
(“You had a lover before me, didn’t you?” Francis asks him afterwards, as Arthur traces circles around one of the hickeys on Francis’ collarbone. The question makes him freeze. “Did you love him as well?” And Arthur gives Francis a sad smile, kisses his lips, and says no, I did not have a lover, but long, long ago, I did have somebody I loved, and I’m not going to repeat the same mistake I made with him.)
Not enough?! What - but -
There is something more you must pay if you wish for them to live. She inhales, exhales, and the smoke slithers past her lips. The other half of your price is that you must bear these memories, and you alone.
Memories…?
Of nationhood.
The breeze stills, and the smoke hangs suspended in the air.
If I grant this wish, you and you alone will remember your Nationhood in your mortality. The others shall live their lives as humans, and they shall not remember. You will be alone.
That is the price, Arthur Kirkland. Are you willing to pay it?
Francis discovers the store room on his thirtieth birthday, four years since he moved to London to live with Arthur.
He comes home early, pausing for a moment to look in the mirror. He doesn’t think he looks that different. Arthur told him he does, and Francis asked him how. “It’s your eyes,” he remembers Arthur saying, touches his cheek with the memory of Arthur’s fingertips. “They’re a bit wiser than last year.” Pause. “That, and you have a few new wrinkles.”
Francis snorts and hangs his purse up. Well, he may be older, but that doesn’t mean he’s more mature. He’ll take this extra time to look for whatever present Arthur got him. He’ll find it this year, he knows.
Francis sets about searching, under bed, couch, and table, in cupboards and drawers, even underneath Arthur’s boxers. Nothing. No such luck. He has no idea where Arthur could be hiding his gift, and for a brief second he’s stumped.
…And then he remembers the store room.
“Don’t go in there,” Arthur told him when he moved in. “There’s nothing interesting - just dust and a lot of old memories.”
And my gift, Francis thinks with a smirk. What a perfect hiding place.
Francis walks down the hall and turns the knob. The door creaks and reveals a stairwell peppered with spiderwebs and dust.
Francis climbs the stairs and turns on the flickering lightbulb. His eyes grow wide at what he sees.
Surrounding him are cardboard boxes, yes, but also things Francis never imagined Arthur having - guns, old WWII uniforms, books that look ancient and crumbling. He lifts one with ginger fingers and feels his eyes widen when he sees writing on the parchment. They really are as old as they look, then.
Francis lifts fingertips to his temple and rubs, bracing himself for an oncoming headache. Present. Right.
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Francis unfolds it to discover a green shirt with yellow embroidery.
“Oh, you don’t want this? I guess I’ll just wear it on my head, then~”
“Y-you bastard, give it back!”
Francis shakes his head. The whispers in his head do not help his headache. He puts the shirt down and moves on, just looking now. Presents are the farthest thing from his mind, and -
His eyes land on a frame. He pauses. He reaches up and lifts it off the wall.
His fingers trace over the glass, and the daisy chain the frame holds.
God.
Oh, God.
He is granted a single, clear moment of comprehension, of memories of warm evenings in a field - with a little boy, who looked just like Arthur, but that’s ridiculous, because Arthur’s just a human name, he’s really England, and -
“I’m…Gaul. I’m France,” he whispers.
Oh God. The kiss. The name Arthur’s cried a few times they’ve had sex with a voice so heart-wrenching that Francis forgives him, always forgives him.
It makes sense.
He remembers, oh, God, he remembers little Italy, remembers taunting England and chasing after Spain and the occupation of his lands and fighting back and oh dear God it hurts so much
“Francis? Francis, where - oh, you are up here. Bloody hell, you never grow up, do you?”
France turns around with wide eyes and parted lips, and there’s England, looking more tired and older than he ever did as a Nation, but still England. “Angleterre,” he whispers.
A look of horror and surprise crosses Arthur’s face. “France,” he whispers. “God, France, no.”
“I remember,” France says, running over and grabbing Arthur’s shoulders with shaking hands. “God, dear God, I remember, Angleterre - I - I never got to tell you -”
But it’s slipping, this revelation; his human mind can’t hold onto those memories for some reason, and no, no! Not now!
“Angleterre,” he says, feeling these memories slip fast from him. “I lo - I -”
And no, he’s not going to get it out, so he smashes his lips against England’s and hopes in his last moments of remembering that Arthur understands.
When they part, Francis Bonnefoy blinks down at a shellshocked Arthur. “Arthur?” he asks, frowning in concern. “Arthur, are you all right?”
“I - oh, y-yes, Francis, I’m all right.” He gives the other a shaky grin and kisses the corner of his mouth, taking the frame from his hands. “You?”
Francis blinks. “I…feel a little dizzy. My head hurts.”
“Always such a whiner,” Arthur teases, thumping Francis on the shoulder. “Go down and take a nap, then.”
“I think…I think that is a good idea.” Francis walks past Arthur, down the stairs, leaving the storeroom behind. Bits and pieces of his mind come back through the throbbing, and by the time he lays his head down on the pillow he’s floating on the disappointment that he never found his gift.
He only meant to rest his eyes, but when he opens them again, sunset is filtering through the curtains and Arthur is watching him sleep. Francis frowns and blinks away sleep, notices how red and swollen Arthur’s eyes look, how utterly miserable he seems.
Francis feels tenderness unfurl in his belly, and hugs Arthur’s head to his chest. His hand smoothes over his back and his cheek presses to the other’s temple.
His body moves on his own; he’s not even aware of what he’s done right until he backs away and sees Arthur smiling. “Have a nice nap?” Arthur asks.
“An excellent one. My headache is entirely gone.”
“That’s good.” Arthur stretches, yawns, and swings his legs off their bed. “C’mon, then, you need to get fancied up for dinner.”
“Erm, Arthur, I appreciate that you want to make me a homemade meal, but -”
“If you don’t hurry up, I will home cook for you instead of taking you out to this nice restaurant.”
Francis laughs as he gets off the bed and moves towards his closet.
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…I will pay it.
Are you certain?
I’m not going to let them die.
She says no more, but guides him around to the back of her shop. He lets her position him how she wants, watches as magic circles blossom under both their feet. Something lifts from him, something heavy and bittersweet. He feels bones replace his islands, feels the headache as his newly-mortal brain tries to maintain his memories as this Nation, this land.
When it’s finished, he falls to the ground and sobs, broken, quiet; and this is how it ends, he thinks.
On their fifth anniversary, Francis catches Arthur nearly walking in on him rocking Mathieu to sleep, humming a lullaby under his breath. Arthur leans against the doorframe and waits.
Once those little eyelids flutter closed, Francis kisses Mathieu’s delicate temple and carries him back to the crib, laying him next to his brother, Alfred. Francis takes a moment to run fingertips through their wispy hair; it was an uphill fight to adopt these two, their precious sons, but Francis regrets none of it.
“Working overtime again?” Francis asks as he turns on the monitor and turns off the light.
“You have no bloody idea,” Arthur mutters. “You’re lucky your job lets you work from home, Francis.”
“True, but I can’t wait until I’m traveling again. Local news can only be so interesting.”
Arthur snorts as they turn into the bedroom, as he eases off his suit and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Francis chuckles and leans back on the bed, watching through lidded eyes.
“Are you expecting a show, you horny bastard?” Arthur mutters.
“Am I not allowed to look at my husband?”
“I keep forgetting you have that excuse,” Arthur mutters. He tosses his pants aside, and in nothing but his boxers he crawls into bed beside Francis. They don’t kiss, not yet; they just lay there and watch one another. Francis frowns in thought.
“What?”
“I’m just thinking.”
“You look like you’re constipated.”
Francis rolls his eyes and tries not to whap Arthur upside the head.
“What are you thinking about?” Arthur asks.
Francis pauses a moment and gathers his thoughts.
“Do you ever wonder if we…rushed through this?”
Arthur blinks. “What?”
“If we moved too fast with this relationship. Do you think…do you think we’ll ever come to regret this?”
Arthur is quiet for a moment. Francis is about to tell him to forget it, it’s stupid, anyway, when Arthur answers.
“What do you feel? What did you feel - when you saw me those nine years ago?”
Now it is Francis who is quiet as he reaches forward to touch Arthur’s cheek, thinking, letting the words form behind his lips.
“…I thought you were adorable,” he murmured. “I also thought you were very sad, and tired.”
Arthur turns his lips into Francis’ palm. “What else?”
Francis digs deep for the answer. “I felt as though I knew you,” he murmurs. “I felt as though we’d been separated, and that we could make up for lost time.” A pause. “I wondered why I felt like I already loved you.” His eyes flick up to Arthur’s. “That sounds completely ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
Arthur leans forward and kisses him through a smile. That’s all the answer Francis needs, falling into the kiss that feels too familiar and sweet to be coincidence.
(That’s all the answer Arthur needs, too.)
She says only one thing as Arthur gathers himself and turns to leave, gives him only one spot of comfort in his growing loneliness:
What the heart forgets, Arthur Kirkland, the body remembers.
___
So, aside from the horrible plot-device-no-jutsu, I hope you guys got some enjoyment from that. Thank you for reading!
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This is all kinds of sad and sweet and and and... ;A; This anon's heart was ripped and mended and cracked and patched back again and again. I always love the thought of 'heart forgets, body remembers'. ^^ Ahhhhhhhhhh~ This is just too wonderful!!!
For part three, this sentence: Still, sitting here with England, watching old Christmas classics and sipping wine... It's supposed to be Arthur right? =]
<3333333333333 Love love this fill, and Matt and Al... Also, not OP though a massive FrUK fan.
recaptcha: parently moroni. =D
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Have you written other fills on the meme here?
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I wrote Are You Sleeping, Brother John?, and some America/Japan. I've done two Fem!England fills, but my favorite is Just That Good.
And, uh, I'm also writing "But Hold Me Fast" on page 1.
If you'd like more links, just ask.
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Yes, anon here wouldn't mind links~ \o/
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everything was just so perfect, and it pains me that france will never really remember. it is SO yuuko to do something like this, it is SO england to make this choice and be the onyl one to remember. just so that he could save them all.
i was moved to tears by the first part, but it kept getting more painful every part passing by. when france had the subtle remembrance, it broke my heart. he forgetting afterwards was even more painful.
and england's sacrifice... god, how much this is beautiful...
and matthew and alfred... they're THE alfred and matthew, right? and they're a family.
thanks for writing this. I'm not op, but i'm terribly happy i read this, even though it hurt me. thanks. really, thanks.
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Man, every fic you write is a fic I never knew I wanted but definitely end up rereading about 5 million times (seriously, sob) because they're so well done and well-developed and fill out an entire facet to the pairing (France/England in this case) so thoroughly.
IDK YOUR FICS ARE JUST SO SATISFYING, GD IT. ♥;;
P.S. One thing I noticed:
And it’s so sad, and the wetness on the shoulder is so wet, that Arthur can’t even bring himself to be angry as they gasp and jerk and come.
Should that be 'Francis'?
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This fic made me tear up like nobody's business...and I *never* tear up - not even when I watched Titanic or all those tragic korean dramas where the characters die a slow and agonizing death. ;____;
When I clicked on the link to this fic through the filled request page, I did not even anticipate that a fic for the fill 'velvet apocolypse' will have other fandoms crossed over, let alone xxxholic. Kudos on catching me by complete surprise and making everything *work* beautifully. You honestly did justice to both Hetalia and holic. You made my night authornon with this fantastic piece of writing. I've got a feeling that I'll be remembering *this* piece for a long time cause of the amount of emotion that's in it.
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And lo and behold, to my (not!)surprise, you're the author of my favorite fills, as well as one of my requests (hold me fast).
ILU. So hard. I love how you write these two, the poignancy, the heartbreak, the utter LOVE between them, it is PERFECT.
Oh these two, having sons at what, nearly 40? XD But Arthur is younger than Francis?
Never stop writing this two. Because you write them so beautifully.
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