Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, you know the drill by now. This is a oneshot I broke up. The prompt was the laws of physics do not apply to the soul.
The Physics of a Soul
I. Family Portrait
There is a portrait in Arthur's house that stands taller than the rest. It is not buried in a corner, there is no scrap of cloth covering it, there is no other item in the room overshadowing it. To be perfectly honest, there is nothing in the exaggerated and flamboyantly decorated room that he is more proud of, save for, perhaps, who is in the portrait itself. For this reason and this reason alone, the portrait remains in the middle of the wall, not above the fireplace but instead the wall adjacent to it so that he does not have to free the precious paints melting away.
The portrait is not of himself, the portrait is of no hero or knight on horseback, nor is it of a beloved queen long dead or forgotten. The portrait is entirely ordinary, no different than one you would expect to find in a different house. It is of an angel. Well, more accurately, his personal angel. What differs in this portrait from that of another is a subject so wonderful, he often found words impossible to express it. It was of someone who smiled so bright, he couldn't help but let his heart swoon and melt with it. It was of someone who was fragile, who needed him so much that it was obvious to the both of them, and it broke Arthur's heart into a thousand pieces whenever he had to give a promise to return later. It was of someone he loved dearly, someone who stole away the stress and worries of Europe with a warm embarrass and a wet kiss to his cheek.
In short, the portrait is of something he planned on keeping forever. (Likewise, the portrait itself he also plans on keeping for as long as he shall last.) Still, there was more to the portrait and, like the subject in it, he couldn't quite put his finger on it when he tried to speak of it. "He and I," was the furthest to date he had come in his attempts to discuss it over a shared pot of tea. Some years later, he would be able to add onto that sentence.
"He's mine," Arthur murmured, mostly into his China set, with such a soft and precious smile, he was sure whomever witnessed it had assumed the absent words. Money and a drive for land might forever turn the world but there were some other things he liked to think did the same. Magic was one such thing, though for what had happened just a short century ago, he dared not voice that to anyone but himself. Magic had made their existence possible, magic brought them together and it would be that same magic that kept their faces the same whenever they would meet, time after time again. So witch trials would come and pass, innocents and the guilty alike would hang, his southern neighbor's land would be stricken with a fear of werewolves slaughtering their people but Arthur would never give up on magic.
To give up on magic, after all, would be to deny the very existence of that portrait, and that was something he was certain he would never do.
He would always remember the day the portrait was made and thinking back on it, if he allowed himself, he would still feel the pity for the painter that had been commissioned for it. It was impossible to get both Arthur and the subject in together. The subject was wicked, talented, and could have him bent over any way they liked should they just say the word. (At least, that was how they had started.) Not being able to sit still was a poor skill to posses. Even now, Arthur could think of at least half a dozen things it reflected against poorly but at the moment, his mind couldn't bare to think of anything else but the portrait itself as his forced his feet against the cobblestone of England.
For there was, as usual, a painted portrait in Arthur Kirkland's house that stands taller than the rest. It is not buried in a corner, there is no scrap of cloth covering it, there is no other item in the room overshadowing it. The portrait is not of himself, the portrait is of no hero or knight on horseback, nor is it of a beloved queen long dead or forgotten. It was a portrait of someone whom he often associated growing numbers with. It was a portrait of someone who couldn't stand to be cold and as such, kept to whatever house he was left it. It was a portrait of someone who reminded Arthur that he soon might hold the very world in his hands. It was a portrait of someone who was never satisfied with short answers or short visitations. It was a portrait of someone who's crying would forever haunt him in ways he was certain few people could understand.
There is a portrait in Arthur's house that stands taller than the rest. It is not buried in a corner, there is no scrap of cloth covering it, there is no other item in the room overshadowing it. To be perfectly honest, there is nothing in the exaggerated and flamboyantly decorated room that he is more proud of, save for, perhaps, who is in the portrait itself. It is a portrait of a certain someone who would forever cause Arthur countless sleepless nights, would had burned him, ruined him, cut him and left him to bleed. It is a portrait of someone that Arthur could never help but love.
There is a portrait in Arthur's house that stands taller than the rest.
It is not buried in a corner.
There is no scrap of cloth covering it.
There is no other item in the room overshadowing it.
There is a portrait in Arthur's house that stands taller than the rest.
Tonight will be the night he takes it down to burn.
Tonight will be the night he takes it down and discards it forever with a wail of despair. Exaggerated. Tonight he will scream out his frustrations. Tonight he will curse like he has never cursed before. Tonight he will take the Lord's name in vain countless times as he utters every single word he swore never to breathe in the presence of the subject of that once precious portrait. Tonight his nails will claw at his arms, tonight his fingers will grip at his hair, then later, he'll drink himself into a numb oblivion. When morning comes, he will vaguely become aware of the odd, crushing smell of paints and ash.
What he notices first is that it is morning and he remembers someone promised he wouldn't make it through the night. There is no urging forcing him to rise from the floor, there is no hope to make him think it was all a terrible dream, just a terrible, cutting pain that informs him of the truth and that he has bled through yet another cotton shirt. It isn't until he rises to change out of his own soon to be rotting filth that the absence of his portrait becomes noticeable. Something, he tells himself, is wrong with the room. When he realizes what it is, when he catches that the pile of ash in the fireplace is misshapen and greater than usual, Arthur Kirkland drops to his knees. But he does not cry, he does not scream and he certainly does not perform any act of indignity.
For the briefest time, his mind is transported to another time all together. There is another body crumbled before another sight of fire, here is another pile of ash and with it, a terrible, sickening smell.