Chapter Text
I've always had some connection to Arthur Kirkland.
My longest rival, my acquaintance, mon ami. I believe that he means more to me than he knows. Although we bicker and we fight, I could never see myself trusting another man as much as he... Merde, it's hard for me to admit this, even if it's my own thoughts. I was so deep in my thoughts that I didn't realize the World Conference had ended. A snap in front of my eyes from Alfred made me come to, and my hands came down from fidgeting with the ends of my hair to scoop up the papers I had in front of me.
"Dude! You were totally out of it! Are you good?" Alfred piped up from above, smirking at the back of my head.
" I'm fine, merci. I was just... thinking about something." I replied, pushing back from my chair and tucking the stack of papers under my arm. A sigh left my lips, and Alfred quirked an eyebrow.
"I've never seen you so deep in thought before, bro. It's like, super weird!"
Weird. Yes, something was weird. I look to my side and Arthur isn't sitting there. Usually he moves to another seat halfway through the meeting... yet today he never came. My brow furrows in confusion and a blanket of dread slowly coaxed it's way over my shoulders as I stared at the name plate sitting at his absent spot.
"Alfred," I spoke, making Alfred look up from the sloppy chocolate donut he had snatched up from the breakfast bar. "Have you seen Arthur today? I can't recall if he has been to the past few meetings. "
Alfred shrugged as I turned to face him, stuffing the pastry in his mouth and talking as he chewed. "Don't know, dude. I don't think he's been here, but then again, I totally space out during these things so I'm not the best guy to ask--"
His response was cut short when he suddenly began to choke, balling up his fist and beating his chest until he hacked up the wet chunk of bread into his hand. I grimaced at the whole ordeal, debating if I should go over and help or not. After collecting himself and catching his breath, Alfred popped back up like nothing had happened with chocolate still smeared on the apples of his cheeks.
" You should totally check the attendance book! Y'know, the sheets we sign before we start each meeting? If he were showing up, he'd have to sign it!"
My eyes widen. Surprisingly good advice from someone so idiotic; why didn't I think of that before he did?
"Merci beaucoup, Alfred. For once in your life you are not so... yourself." My hand shoves the back of my chair in, the wooden legs screeching against the glossy floor.
" Haha, no problem bro! Wait, what do you mean by that--"
Before I could provide an explanation to that insult -- which I knew he would not understand regardless -- I rushed out the doors of the conference room. My boots filled the halls with a creeping melody of footsteps. The reverberating sound of my own panic made me pump my legs harder as I dashed. Down in the lobby, the ringed binder labelled "Attendance Records" sat on the front desk where Ludwig had set it out prior to the arrival of everyone.
I caught my breath and placed the stack of papers tucked under my arm, now a bit crumpled due to being squished under my bicep, and placed it down with a thud. My hands flipped open the laminated cover and pushed back all of the pages to the other side, revealing today's sheet. My nail glides down the page, past my own name, past many others, and landing right at 'K'.
Kirkland.
His signature was blank. My frown deepens. I was correct; he wasn't here today.
I flip another page, finger tracing down until...
Kirkland.
His signature was blank again. My eyes squint in frustration. Non, this cannot be true.
Page after page, sheet after sheet, name after name I check... his name is gone. The last time he had appeared was about a month ago.
This was so unlike him, I started to feel dread pool in my gut. Quite honestly, I couldn't exactly explain why I cared so much. I should feel relieved, no? My rival is gone; I didn't have to hear his grating voice or his idiotic opinions, and yet...
I was worried. I was worried over this man who hated my insides with a fury that would make any normal man fearful.
I shut the book and gathered my papers once more, holding them to my chest as I exited the building. Yet I wasn't frantic like I was rushing to the lobby. A still feeling sat within me. A feeling similar to watching a beautiful orchid die, and knowing you were at fault for not giving it the water or sunlight it had oh-so desperately needed. Something felt... preventable. Or as if his absences were somehow related to me.
--
The travel home was a damp grey blur. Raindrops raced down the windows of my chauffer, merging into others and coagulating into a pearl at it's final destination. The car pulled into my driveway, and I tipped my driver some pocket change I had from earlier. I feel bad about it now; I probably looked so selfish. I will have to double his tip the next time he is needed.
The smell of flour and fire baked bread greeted me as I stepped through the threshold of my door. I had baked some croissants and other pastries before I had left for the conference this morning. They were laying out in perfect lines on the wire rack i Seeing the perfect spiral of my croissants filled me with a surge of pride for my handiwork. As I raised the croissant to my lips and bit down, perfect buttery layers of croissant filled my mouth. Hah, Angelterre would be so--
My mood soured immediately as I thought about Arthur. This time, however, it wasn't due to our bickering, but rather... guilt. My mind keeps repeating what I had saw as I stared down at the rounded layers of pastry. His empty name, his empty seat; it all felt vacant without Arthur. My gut twisted with a sadness that I had not felt in awhile. Chewing and swallowing felt like a mechanical task. My hand shook as I set down the bread. I couldn't bring myself to finish it.
" Reprends-toi, Francis," I tell myself, burying my head in my hands. My fingers grasped at my own blonde strands, tugging them to ground myself. The pain on my scalp-- no, the pain in my heart-- made tears well up in the corners of my eyes.
"I need to see him. Immediately." My heart spoke before my mind did. I had to ask myself why I cared for him so deeply. He was just a man; a man I constantly fight tooth and claw with. I can't remember the last time we have had a civil conversation. Yet still care, in my heart of hearts, for him and his wellbeing. I wiped the tears from my eyes and exhaled the breath that was festering in my chest.
That was it.
I scoured the house for a wicker basket. I remember using it to have picnics with the others when i was young. Since then, it has been stored in the closet untouched. I brushed out the centuries old specks of dirt stuck to the linen lining and brought it over to the kitchen. I grabbed an assortment of artisan cheeses, breads, fruit, and wine and carefully stacked them in the basket. They were arranged beautifully, the custard yellow cheeses and the shining red peels of the apples looked something out of a painting. Even though I was somber, the fertility of the crops in my country couldn't help but make me feel fulfilled.
I hope he would like them too.
I turned down the hall. My sister Monaco wasn't in her room; I'll leave her a note that I have left and I wont return for a few days. I enter my room, and look around. My pet pigeon, Pierre, sat in his cage, his tiny head tucked under his fluffy wing. He looked like a big marshmallow. Mon fils à plumes, he is just so adorable. I open the cage and stick my finger in, waking him up from his nap. He gave me an angry coo, and I chuckled.
"Je suis désolé de vous avoir réveillé, Pierre. Nous partons en voyage." I murmur as he perches himself on my finger and then climbs up my arm to perch on my shoulder.
--
My hands smooth the letter down onto Monaco's door. I'm ready to go.
The basket is tucked in the crease of my arm, heavy with gifts. Did I pack too much? Perhaps, but I don't mind. I have had so many cheeses in my fridge that I cant go through them fast enough, so its good to share. With Pierre still perched on my shoulder, I walk to my bike leaning on the side of my house and place the cargo in the bike basket. The border between our countries isn't that far. I placed my own silver helmet which hung on the handlebars upon my head, buckling it under my chin. The second, much smaller helmet, was meant for Pierre. I brought him down from my shoulder and placed the tiny helmet on his head, buckling it in place. Was it necessary? No. Did he look adorable? Of course he did.
" Okay, Pierre. You'll have to hold on. We have a little bit of a ride ahead of us."
Pierre cooed at me, roosting on the handlebars. I took that as him saying he was ready to go. With that, I pushed down on the pedals, and we were off.
Not many men would decide to bike all the way from Paris to London. It's quite a long trip, tiring for the mortal man. But I am different. Unlike humans, it takes longer for us to become exhausted. We have been around for so long that time behaves differently to us. What may seem long or tiring to a human can be short to me. Despite this, I make the most of my time on the bicycle looking at the scenic views my path has to offer me. The River Seine flowing steadfast as always was parallel to my trail. I remember when I was young, how I would invite the other countries over and we would play in the cold water. Then we would all go home and I would prepare us all stew and vegetables. I yearn for a day like that, where we all come together for a meal instead of fighting all the time... A sigh leaves my lips.
The rest of my bike ride consisted of me stopping periodically for the views or to rest my legs. Sometimes I caught myself plucking grapes out of the basket meant for Arthur and popping them in my mouth as I drove. Everything was so vibrant, like fields of flowers spread across the rolling countryside, golden light hitting their petals. The rushing sound of water as babbling brooks curved their ways under bridges and drains. Driving along them, feeling the wind envelope my face and blow my golden brown hair out of my eyes, it all soothed my soul about my fears of Arthur's wellbeing... Though thinking of it made the unease come creeping back. It slid under my skin like a parasite and branched its veiny fingers of horror through the very fibers of my being. Shaking it off did nothing.
My eyes stared vacantly at the waters of the English Channel as the ferry leisurely carried us across. This channel was all that was separating me from Arthur -- I mean, from a country standpoint. We are so close, yet so far. As men, we are similar. So close, yet so far.
--
London. Finally.
Hours of cycling, beautiful views, and thinking about my acquaintance later, and I've arrived in the bustling city of Westminster. The rainstorms were hanging high in the sky, putting the city in a torrential downpour. I tucked Pierre in my coat to keep him dry as I dragged my bike through the puddles on the sidewalk. I found refuge under the awning of a flower shop. Merde, I've known that his country had history for a lot of rain, yet I didn't know it was this bad. I watched the cars spray rain onto the sidewalk and push water into the sewers. I turn to look at the flowers on display. Roses, carnations, lilies... They were all beautifully manicured and selected. Each bouquet was wrapped in newspaper with a bow tying them all together.
" Excuse me," I pop my head in the store, catching the attention of the florist. She was an older lady, hunched over herself, yet she had a pleasant expression on her face. "May I buy some of these roses?"
"Of course you can, young man! They're £20 pounds each."
I shuffle through the few paper bills I had stored for safekeeping in my wallet. I've been holding onto them for probably as long as this woman has been alive; Arthur and I had an argument over which of our currencies are better, and he had gave me pocket change to prove his point. I had enough, great. Handing the payment over, I pick a bouquet of red roses up and place them in the basket of my bicycle.
A short bike ride later and I'm at the door of Arthur's house. My bicycle was stored safely at the rack outside, weary from our travels. Pierre sat like a gargoyle on my shoulder, watching ever so patiently for me to knock on the door. Climbing the steps, I had adjusted my arm to hide the roses from view. He might get the wrong impression, as if I were trying to seduce him or force him to sign more marriage contracts. I don't think he'd want to deal with that form of stress. I take a deep breath and I raise my fist above the door.
Knock, knock, knock...
Nobody answers. The air is stagnant and dry despite the storm outside. I try again.
Knock, knock, knock...
Nothing.
Knock, knock, knock--
The door pushes open when I give the final knock a little more force, yet nobody was in view. Gently, I opened the door and stepped inside.
Arthur's house seemed to be in a state of disarray. Clothes strewn everywhere, piles of trash and empty metal cans of beer were barricades to step over.
"Arthur? Are you home?" I ask, looking down at my boots so I do not step in any large piles of litter.
That's when I saw it.
I raised my view and saw Arthur hung from the ceiling with a cord bound around his neck, digging into the pink flesh of his muscle. Sinew was dug out and rotten near the cord, bitten off by houseflies.
His front had vomit congealed on his clothes, the passage of time making it a thick gel that had bits and flecks of the rotted meal he had ate mixed in.
His body was pale, the color of bone. He has been like this for some time now.
"ARTHUR!" I screamed, dropping everything and racing towards him.