Summary: When exactly Nations first grew hearts of their own is a mystery, but it only served to burden them in times when they are only required to obey. In Arthur Kirkland's case, his heart in his chest when asked to lie in bed with one he doesn't love.

Warning: Allusions to dub-con (non-graphic) sex and very sensitive ideologies – so definitely not for the qualmish or purists. Also, this is not UKUS-friendly, so I needn't tell you NOT to read this, if you like that dynamic more than FrUK, alright? You can't say I didn't warn you.

Disclaimer: Please take the time to read the (lengthy) standard disclaimer on my profile page. It's for all my Hetalia stories, so once you've read it you'll never have to read it again. Cheers!

Story #180:

"Superficial (Always So…)"

My heart is breaking.

An abstract ache filling my chest to bursting…

Is this what pain really feels like?

-x-

I always close my eyes.

The hands that fall upon the hem of my shirt, to pull it up and off – the same ones that unbuckle my belt and pants to undress me completely – they are calloused and rough, and they don't love me.

But I pretend I don't know.

I close my eyes and always occupy my mind with aimless thinkings in lieu…

Maybe if I shut this dreary world out and paint it over in my mind, I could keep myself. I could keep the life inside me and shut the door behind me, just like every time before; So that no matter how often I have to step out to meet it, it shall never set foot into my soul.

Then I could be free to gaze up at the breezy sky watching cloud shows instead of ceilings full of superheroes; Bundled in lush green fields, instead of musky unwashed sheets with crumbs and cheese powder that stick to my bare skin, as I lie against it with the most overweight of the world straddling me, spilling love handles and the whole happy package. They say close your eyes and think of England. And that is what I do, in the longest nights of my life.

I close my eyes so deeply I'm sinking; convincing myself that I want this: That I want this as much as they do; It would be easier if only I could make my stubborn soul understand.

But I never do, it never is, and I never win.

Sometimes I tell myself I'm really asleep and having a bad dream, that's all. All dreams, no matter how awful, always end eventually, right?

A hungry mouth eats up my plastered smile. As my insides are filled, I only feel emptier. I lull my aching body with words, '…it won't be long now', '…just a little more'. It's always been my nature to make the best of any situation, no matter how ugly.

No matter what, I don't open my eyes. Not even for a fraction of a millisecond. Because as long as I lock myself inside I'm safe; Even as tears spring to my eyes and dry sobs rack my throat; Even if the pain spikes right through shattering the reverie I strove to put in place, I liked to imagine—

To believe- that humans– no matter how frail and bound by endless desires and sin – could be devoted to something, could remain pure and beautiful, no matter how twisted their existence may be.

And we, who are only half-mortal but all too human and part god, could be no less.

I dream of falling in love, and following my heart, and freeing my will. Despite the diabolical forces and selfish motives that manipulate us…

No matter how great the temptation not to feel…

Someday, I tell myself, all would be made right with the world. And I could hold the Beautiful Dream in my hands…

We who are nothing greater than our obligation to our design; Born as fragments of an apotheosis, to become puppets. Perhaps it's a cruel retaliation of fate; karma of some forgotten unforgivable crime we have yet to atone for. Or perhaps this was merely history and the bible rewriting its characters, and each of us was another Jesus Christ to be crucified for our people's sins. The irony of the role I play was that of a useless god… As useless as a self-destruct bomb that I didn't hold the detonator to. Sometimes I liked to believe that I was really the one holding that switch.

Then I could keep smiling.

Keep believing I am the master of my fate.

(Even if that fate was that of a king who ruled over nothing— nothing but his own frail and feeble heart…)

The rest of me may be sold time and again to the next bloody demon in power or the blinded people they lead. For whatever sick purpose our existence served I knew not, nor fathom its depravity. They can have their false security, their superficial promises, and their lies; Greed, deception and all. I've known it since: we are not at all gods.

Finally, the show is over.

My legs are trembling but I leave the stage running, without a backward glance, in haste to leave it all behind. The greasy lips, the overeager mouth, and forceful homologous kisses, the unrefined touches, the mindless grunts; the stars and stripes and boredom ad nauseam.

I start to come alive again as I draw nearer to where I left my heart.

Where the real kisses are waiting for me – I could almost taste them! Kisses made of candyfloss and sunshine. Touches and smiles of lush fields and perfect clear skies; that euphonic sotto voce in my ear with the wooing endearments, my calming rainbow after a deluge.

The merry clumps of rose bushes and bearded irises greet me – and with it sweet memories of precious arguments on how it came to be. I melt into the warm embrace that has been standing by the threshold, waiting for me.

"I missed you. Welcome back."

And I sigh with a tremble in my voice, "God, I missed you too much, I'm so glad to be back…" I ask if he's been waiting long, fighting the child in me with so much pent-up fear and self-pity and tears.

He smiles and shrugs and tugs on my sleeve, ushering me into the dining room saying the food is still warm, and that it's my favorite beef stew, and fresh watercress salad with grapes, walnuts and cottage cheese (adding with a mischievous grin, that I get to choose the dessert, which he knows all too well what – or who – it will be).

Lapsing into the Beautiful Dream—

The one thing not superficial in my life,

Finally, I could open my eyes.

For I am home.

The End.

Notes:

x- "The Beautiful Dream" is what those who envisioned the Entente Cordiale (eventually the Amicale & Formidable) call the consummated relationship of France & England. It's so much more romantic sounding than the "Special Relationship"! 8D

x- Because those yummy French macarons taste so much like candyfloss (cotton candy) and sunshine to me.

My first Arthur first-person POV. D8 I didn't want to write this because it was too glum and depressing. But as much can be said on how I feel about the superficial "S.R." which was even called an "illusion" in one book. Also on U.S. often exploiting things British. They have a nasty habit of taking witty & lovely British things and making downgraded, cheap "sell-out" (Americanized) versions of it. Hence, this.

(01/12/2013 - 08/18/2013)

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