I'm told that our lives aren't worth much,

They pass like an instant, like wilting roses.

I'm told that time slipping by is a bastard,

Making its coat of our sorrows.

Yet someone told me…

.

That you still loved me.

xQuelqu'un M'a Dit-Carla Bruni (English translation)



What are you doing here?

I wonder the same thing myself, and the answer never seems to come. To be honest and fair, I suppose I haven't done much of anything to deserve the answers to the universe's many mysteries and common place miracles. Still, it would appear that this particular unanswered question is cruel to many, maybe myself included. The sky tonight is full; stars line the blues, outlining the dips and shadows of the clouds that barely conceal a crescent moon. The dying rays of the sun only disappeared a short few minutes prior and it seems to me that it's natural for beautiful things to be fleeting. It also seems that the end of one beauty simply leads into the next. Many don't like change, but I can't say I mind it.

"Gilbert!" A familiar French accent calls to me. I turn to see my blonde haired friend, Francis moving towards me, those long curls bobbing against a stylish powder blue scarf. His smile is bright and genuine as he pulls his coat just a little tighter around himself, shivering from the coldness of the night. I smile back; the Frenchman's smile is contagious (it would also seem my other best friend, Antonio, has a catching smile also. Could I be so lucky?).

What are you doing here?

There's a sudden undeniable ache in my chest and my smile falls. I don't have to look up to know that Francis is giving me a worried look at my sudden change in expression. He and I have known each other far too long to not know each other's habits. Sure enough, there's that velvet voice, "Prusse? Gilbert, what's wrong?" The accent makes me smile and I simply shake my head, much to the now-frowning Frenchman's bewilderment. He just shakes his head back, letting a smile re-light his smooth, soft features.

"'Tonio's late." I mutter, shifting from side to side, "Doesn't he know it's freezing?" I feign being cross, letting a small pout paint my usually sharp features instead. A sympathetic grin replaces France's collected smile.

"Oui, I'm sure 'e is feeling it more zan you or I, ami. You know zat it's bright and sunny and warm where 'e is from." Francis pointed out in that round-about way that only he could pull off, making the inconvenience sound more like we were inconveniencing Antonio and not the other way around.

"I... I'm here!" I turn to see my Spanish friend rushing over, stopping just in front of me before leaning down, hands on his knees as he panted. I just smirked and shrugged.

"It's fine." I said, reaching out and ruffling his hair affectionately, "Besides, Francis's house is just around the corner. Ve'll be there in no time."

And I was right; we arrived at the Frenchman's house not ten minutes later. I shed my coat and immediately made my way over to the record player, putting on a record of my choosing. Though Francis and I have always been extremely prideful of our countries, we were also open to their arts. All three of us shared a particular passion for a number of different art forms. Antonio and I were hopeless music enthusiasts, our homes filled with records of songs of every genre. Francis and I both loved sketching, though in my opinion, the Frenchman has always been better at it than me. Francis and Antonio both love to cook and when I'm with the two of them, I can rest knowing that my needs will be taken care of; they simply love to stuff people with amazing food. We have individual talents of course; Antonio enjoys gardening, Francis bakes and I play piano (but don't tell anyone. It's doesn't sound as awesome as it actually is.).

What are you doing here?

"Hey, Toni, Francis?" I ask softly, plopping down on the white couch beside the Spaniard. The warmth in the room was making me feel sleepy.

Each answered an immediate 'yes' in their own native languages and I smiled a little, tilting my head, "What would you say if… I told you I was going to disappear?" It wasn't the first time I'd asked and I watch as the two exchange worried glances.

Carefully, Antonio pressed, "Come on Gil, that won't happen. We told you that already. Everything's going to be fine. Why do you ask?" I study him; his tanned mocha skin and his dark brown eyebrows knitting together in concern, green eyes shimmering with affection.

"I've… just been getting a feeling more… strongly lately." I mumble, shrugging before smiling brightly, "But you're right! I'm sure it's fine!" I just can't shake the feeling. Francis, however, seems thoroughly reassured and grins, standing up.

"Great! I'll go get some wine-" I give him and look and he returns it with an amused one of his own, "-and a beer for you also!" I relax back into the couch cushions, making light conversation with Antonio until Francis comes back with the drinks, and additionally, a camera, in tow.

"'Ow about a picture?" The Frenchman smiles sweetly, already motioning a member of his staff to take the photo. We give our best smiles. I sit between the two, head leaning on Antonio's shoulder, Francis's cheek pressed to my own and their arms around me. The flash signals it's over. I smile, actually happy and completely at ease for the first time that night; maybe I wasn't going to disappear. Paranoia wouldn't get me anywhere, after all.

When the picture turns out, we flip it over and France scrawls across the back in his pretty, curly (girly…) writing, 'Francis, Gilbert, Antonio. 1939.'