2p!Hetalia Boyfriend Scenarios

54: The States of Grief

54 : The States of Grief

The Aftermath of Her Death

FRANCOIS BONNEFOY

Francois Bonnefoy, in the sheer bad luck of his fate, grows to accept the fact that he can never have the good things in life. He can never have true love, and if he could, it'll be gone before he knows it. '(Y/N) had only been a lesson', Francois tells himself, 'love someone so deeply and you'll allow your heart and mind to be ruined'—and that's exactly what happened.

He accepts his fate, the never-ending solitude. He accepts the pain—all the loss and the tragedies. After all, it's all he's ever known. (Y/N) was a blissful slap to drag him back to reality.

He may accept these events, but it will never ever mean that he'll forget.

He'll never forget the constant lack of grace in her posture and the way she would desperately try to keep the conversation with the new individual that approached her out of the blue. She's always polite and tries to make friends. She would ramble on about this and that, all with passion in her eyes. She'd end up driving the stranger away, but Francois found it adoring.

She never really needed to fit in with the others. Francois firmly believed that she alone was enough. She didn't know everything, but she was smart. She knew her manners and limits, but she was never afraid to speak her mind. She was home and to him, that was everything.

And so, the thought of marriage came to his mind more frequently in the late years. If it were him a decade ago, he would've had a good laugh with a resting bitch face. Ah, but his intentions of marrying her was nothing but sincere.

It was such a shame, really. The only special occasion that allowed him to see her in white was a funeral. Still, she looked so beautiful.

It had been months since.

Had it been four or five? Francois couldn't care any less.

March had begun to thaw the ice and bring forth the warmth of spring. It was May now, and yet it held no temperate cordiality. Francois sits in Paris, alone in the midst of a bustling cafe. The bitterness of the coffee he sipped seemed to match him quite well.

The bell chimes for the umpteenth time. Francois sees a man dressed in a crisp, pin-striped, grey ensemble walk out of the premises. Several men followed him, all in black.

Francois remains silent as ever. He stands as the last of his drink was drained. The breeze greeted him as he feels the pocket of his coat for the gun he had brought along for the task. All the while, his eyes were trained on the man he intended to follow.

He may have accepted these events, but it will never ever mean that he'll forgive and forget.

ALLEN JONES

It was a fine day in May—at least, he'd like to be the optimistic bastard and look at it that way.

Alfred Jones allows a gasp to stagger past his lips. Never, in all of his days, did he imagine to be this concerned with Allen before.

Just an hour ago, Allen's landlady came to contact Alfred. The old lady was nice and new Allen for years now, but she had been concerned about Allen's lack of response and paying the bills. She decided to contact Alfred about this, because she knew that Allen always got in trouble with the police.

When Alfred entered the room, everything he saw was a ghastly sight.

The entire loft was in disarray. The place reeked rotten of the food the couple had left behind. Picture frames were shattered and the coffee table was split into two. In the midst of it all was Allen Jones, hanging from the small candelabra on the ceiling. His face was tinted blue from the lack of air entering his system.