A/N: This is it. The End. Did anyone notice that one of Arthur's brothers was never mentioned? I wouldn't exactly call this a happy endind, but a hopeful one. I'm proud of what this story has become though. I still don't own Hetalia.

And people out there, I'm a new writer, so if you are reading this, can you please review? Even if it's just a "Cool story bro" It would be nice to know that someone out there is reading this.

But enough about that. Enjoy the grand finale.

Francis sighed. It was his day off, but he was alone in the house until his wife Michelle got home from the stand she worked at selling flowers. He himself worked in a small bakery. It was no five star restaurant, but it made him happy enough. Or at least, he didn't hate it. The truth was, it was hard to find something he has any enthusiasm for anymore. He was ever grateful to Michelle, but their love had never really had that spark of passion. It had waned long ago. Still she was decent company, and the two lived together for mutual comfort. Francis sighed again, and went back to what he was doing before. Watering his roses.

He stopped briefly to smell them, before continuing to his bedroom to water his favourite plant. It was a rose, like all the others, but instead of being red, it was sort of white and red streaked. Someone had left it on his doorstep, soon after Jeanne died. He had almost completely severed the stem opening his door, but the plant had made a full recovery. Almost as if it had done something similar before…

He'd never found out who had sent him that flower. He would have to assume that whoever it was had great taste, because the rose bush was beautiful.

He was interrupted by a nock on the door. Covering ground swiftly, he moved to open the door, to reveal a person he'd never seen before in his life.

Bright red hair, piercing green eyes, and enormous eyebrows, wait…

"William?"

"Good to see you too Francis," William said from the other side of the door.

"I-uhh, It's nice to see you… Uh" Francis was at a loss for words, having no clue what to do when the brother of his friend/rival showed up on his doorstep after almost fourteen years of no contact. "Is Arthur here with you as well?" Francis had never been on any sort of speaking terms with any of Arthur's brothers so…

The smile fell off William's face as quickly as it appeared. "Mind if I come in?" he asked. Francis stepped aside, allowing the redhead into his home. Something must have happened otherwise he wouldn't be here, Francis concluded. William did a full spin taking in the decorum, before settling his eyes on Francis.

"Why don't you come and sit down," Francis said, leading the way to the living room. "Can I get you anything? Some tea, perhaps?"

"No, I'm good." With that Francis dropped easily onto his comfortable but ugly floral patterned couch. William sat awkwardly on the chair opposite, made of smooth faux leather. It looked fantastic, but wasn't actually a nice chair comfort wise.

"Did Arthur send you, or something?"

"Francis," he began, then hesitated. He visibly took a deep breath before making eye contact and continuing. "Arthur's dead." Francis felt his heart sink. Sorry, that's an understatement. It felt like someone had ripped his heart from his chest dropped it in liquid nitrogen and then threw it on the floor so it shattered. That same person had then picked of the shattered shards and tried to shove them back in. As slowly as possible, so that Francis was writhing in agony.

"What? When? How?" Francis' voice was quiet. William looked at him with sympathetic eyes.

"Bout three years ago. Cancer. Died in his sleep ya know. He was lucky."

"But, why—Three years ago that's just… So long… Couldn't I have been told earlier or…"

"I tried, Ya Idiot!" Francis flinched at the tone. "I've been searching for you this entire time! It wasn't like your tracks were easy to trace!" Francis felt guilt at that. He really hadn't wanted to be found.

"But you… Why?" William sighed.

"I was in America, studying to be an architect, Alistair only told me when it was imminent that Arthur was going to die within the week. Before that I hadn't even know. And the other brothers… yeah they visited, but they essentially ignored him and left him to die. Alone." Francis swallowed, his mouth dry. Where were the tears when he desperately wanted to cry? "Anyways, the hospital nurses told me that when he was awake, pretty much all he did was write."

William pulled a stack of letters out of his satchel. Francis noted that they were all addressed to him.

"He would have sent them himself, ya know. If he knew where to… Anyways, I didn't read any of them. But he poured his heart and soul into those things. And I thought he would want me to give them to you." Francis nodded, emotions overfilling him and not letting him trust himself to speak. He accepted the letters, silently.

"I'll leave ya then." William's voice was soft. "If ya want me, ya know where to find me."

"Wait!" Francis called. William froze. "Where," Francis forced out the words, "where is he buried?"

"On the top of the hill, between Gilbert and Lovino. He would have wanted it." Francis nodded solemnly. William bowed, before turning again.

He closed the door softly on his way out.

Francis curled into a tight ball, vision blurring as the tears finally came. Arthur had died like the rest of them. He had been ripped away from an uncaring world and Francis would never get to see him again. Never get to see his smile, hear his laugh, and his insults. Never smell his hair, or feel the taste of his lips…

He clung to the letters with desperate fingers, hoping that there were some kind words, some kind of hope contained within them. After all, the handful of crumpled pages were the only things left of the person who might just have been the most important figure in his life. His first love…

Had Arthur really spent so much of his time, when he knew he was dying, trying to send a message he couldn't? Francis curled even tighter, his sobs echoing through the house. He had been wrong. Oh so wrong, when he ran away from everything he knew, abandoning those who cared about him. He should have at least left some way to contact him.

The regret that had been slowly gnawing on him came back in full force, like a mallet to the head. A wave smashing violently onto the shore. Arthur had died, and Arthur had died alone.

But Arthur had sent him a message. The letters were a link to the past, and maybe, maybe if he was just lucky enough, they would guide him on a journey. Backwards through all the pain and suffering, the years of silence that hurt worse than that fighting. Back to where it all began.

The journey home.

Could he do it? Did he have enough strength to pull through the unhappy memories? He had to do it for Arthur's sake. He had to.

Arthur did not deserve to die alone.

Dear Francis,

I can hear the nurses whispering in corners now. They want to give a good impression, provide hope, but I know there isn't much time left for me. Or in fact, any time at all. I'm going to talk to a doctor, and ask them to cut off my life support while I'm asleep. I really don't want to drag this out; all it would do is hurt, especially for William who flew in from America just to see me.

He says Alistair didn't tell him until now. Typical. He shouldn't have to be here to see this. I don't want others to watch me die. At the same time, I'm rather glad to know he cares.

You know, Francis, wherever you are, I hope you have a good life. I hope you fill it with good food, and with passion and romance. I hope you laugh until you burst, and wake up with a smile on your face, happy to start of each day. You deserved so much better that the cards you were dealt. But, you know.

Take what you can get.

If I could see you one last time, do you know what I would do? What I would want? Because it's not to tell you I love you. It's not to kiss you or sleep with you (We never did that Goddamit!) or anything else.

Not to smile, or tell jokes, or tease you about your feminine hair, which I loved to death is you must know.

What I want is something we never had. In truth, my only wish… Is a chance to say goodbye.

Instead of the harsh words that left us broken and storming away from each other, never to look at each other's faces again, I want to look into the face of my love, and tell him sincerely, the one thing I wish I could say now.

Live long and prosper, my love.

Goodbye.

~Three Months Later~

William sighed, as he strode through the graveyard; on his last visit here before he headed back to America. He'd bumped into the Frenchman heading out, as he was on the way in. Just another chance encounter. Francis hadn't looked happy, but there was a determination in his eyes that hadn't been there before. William looked down on his brother's grave.

"Hey laddie. I've uh, got some things to say to ye, before I head back to America, ya know? Well I just wanted to say… I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything you had to go through. Everything I'd done to hurt you, and everything our brothers are too stupid to take responsibility for. I'd never wanted this for you. I wanted you to be happy. So I uh, gave the Frenchman your letters. Hope you're happy about that; it sure was hard for me to find him. But you deserve to rest in peace."

"I just bumped into him on my way here, actually. He said something about you dying with a million regrets, and how he was going to change that. He's going to Spain, ya know? Said he was going to get a second chance. And if that chance wasn't given, he was going to take it by force. I don't know what he was talking about, do you? But he was going to talk of Antonio and Feliciano, and said something about tracking down Alfred and Matthew. He was going to 're-build the family' whatever that means. But anyways. I never told ye that I really did love you, even if I had a poor way of showing it. You're dead now, so it doesn't matter but… No matter what you think, you did die loved. So I guess this is goodbye, my sweet, sweet brother. I'll miss ya more than ya'd think."

William stopped speaking and looked at the grave. His brother was gone now, and he had to open a new chapter in his book. He had to move on. He laid his bouquet of daisies, mindful of the other flowers scattering the grave. Then he turned, and left the graveyard.

In front of the head stone, forgotten but still present and bound with a blue ribbon, was a single rose. White, with splashes of red. Almost like streaks. And a smooth white card bore words in sharp green ink and looping handwriting:

Love you too, Mon Amour.