Vanish. - France x Dead!Reader.

You sat on the dull and lonely sofa back at a shared home amongst two, anticipation and angst washing over the remainder of your soul. You slowly turn to come to terms with a photo frame that was covered in ages of dust. You reached to touch it, but it seemed so distant, you couldn't feel it any longer.

In fact, there was nothing that you could sense anymore.

All you had left was your heart, and that was about to burn out anyway.

You continue to stare at the photo. At the smiling faces that once were. The blonde had his arm around yours, cheeks meshed together with yours – smiling giddily. You smiled at the thought of the memories rushing back to you. You inspected the living room with your naked eyes. Books written in French were scattered upon the wooden ground. The shattered champagne glasses could only tell, and remind you of his inexhaustible drinking that sent him to rage each time he began to drown himself in happiness – failing to find it in the end.

He became so unorganized, and subsequently unhappy. Losing you meant losing himself.

Tears shred down your face in remorse.

Where was he now?

Your eyes shut to relax as you let the tranquility obscure you into rest.

The Frenchman could feel his heart hurting as he roamed through the night of Paris. He never felt this way since Joan has passed away long ago. His golden locks wavered in the moonlight as a woman approached him by the bench.

"Sir, do you need an escort tonight?"

He didn't even think twice before taking her back home in a cab. His drunken state had made him lose to himself – again, for the countless and boundless nights.

Francis' lips was already on the young woman, who hadn't even told him her own identity. Even so, Francis wouldn't have cared. His blonde hair was pulled as he whispered sweet nothings into her ear.

The cab arrived in front of Francis, who carelessly tossed himself and the lass within the taxi. Giving simple directions and address to the unhappy driver, he went back to the woman. The young woman was obviously pleased with Francis as sounds of pleasure could be heard from the backseats. Though clothes were still in place, they knew better than announcing things as such in publicity.

The taxi arrived in of his house as he threw some money to the driver, hastily reaching for his keys to open the door with the woman in hand.

The door opened as you awoke, seeing Francis by the door – drunken, falling, and most importantly, with a young blonde haired woman to spare. Their clothes were messily arranged, hair in another pattern of disorder.

"Francis," you bit down on your lips. "Wake up!" You got up on your feet and ran to him, hoping he'd hear you, see you, or perhaps feel your emotions from afar.

Francis snapped as his eyes dilated, pushing the woman away from him. "Please leave," his tone held a tint of regret."I'm sorry." The lass fixed her own clothes as she sped out of the house. Francis moved to the couch where you once sat, looking over to the photo that you had just glanced at minutes ago. This time, he took the photo frame in hand, wiping the grime off the memory. "(Name), where are you...? I miss you so much... I feel like no matter how much I try to forget, I just remember you more..."

"I'm right here next to you, Francis..." You moved to the sofa, sitting next to him. You wanted to touch him, but you were imperceptible and it was just simply impossible.

"Mon amour, I feel like I'm dead without you here. Each day, I'm walking to work like a zombie. Without your packed lunches, everything I eat is tasteless. Those who flirts with me are never as beautiful, or as understanding as you are." The Frenchman placed the frame back onto the stand, palm holding his chin. "I would give up anything to have you back again as my own..." He mumbled your name again and again.

"Francis... I feel the same..."

"It was my entire fault anyway," you fixed your (e/c) eyes on him. "If I didn't cheat on you, you wouldn't have left my side that night. If you didn't leave, then you wouldn't have died..." You could hear him cry. "When I knew I was wrong and had made a mistake, it was all too late... I loved you, and still do..."

"Find someone else who deserves you better than I do, Francis..." You heard him let out a strained laugh under his breath.

"I know you're probably laughing at me somewhere, (Name)... and probably telling me to marry someone else better." He had read your mind completely. "Let me tell you this, (Name)." You waited for him to continue. "I can never find anyone better than you even if I try my hardest to. You were the best that I could ever ask for."

You let the tears freely fall from your eyes as you hugged him, or the transparent air.

"Fran-" You could feel yourself vanishing.

"I know you probably won't forgive me for cheating on you, but I really am sorry."

You were running out of time. "Francis Bonnefoy! I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm going to give this a shot anyway. I forgive you!  Please stop drinking every night; it'll hurt your body! Please don't trash yourself like that, this is not who I fell in love with. Work was where you always give your best, so you mustn't give up! Eat food, don't starve yourself. Clean the house without me here, I'm counting on you..." You mumbled his name into thin air as you felt yourself needing to give him your last words. "I love you too, Francis. I'm sorry for leaving you so soon."

Tears draped over one last time before purity consumed you perfectly.

Francis felt a wind blow over his figure as he experienced a renewed light spark within him. He stood up, reaching for the books on the floor and the broom on the side of the stairwell. The Frenchman began sweeping the glass, disposing it into a trash bin. The books were now neatly stacked upon the shelves where he usually placed them. A wet mop flounced on the floor as the filth was absorbed. The photograph of Francis and yourself now cleaned was placed ahead of the television counter, where it was visible to him and his guests, probably the Englishman – Arthur Kirkland, whom was a frequent visitor at his home.

Francis was pleased with the outcome of his cleaning as he called Arthur, who only began bickering and tinkering with his humorous side.

In the end, Francis Bonnefoy returned to his old self – not forgetting who the woman once loved dearly was. In fact, the Frenchman still loves her.

He smiled at the lovely thought of you once again, recalling all memories.

"J'taime, mon amour."