I do not own Hetalia or "You Could be Happy" by the Snow Patrol.

You Could be Happy, Part I

"You could be happy and I won't know, but you weren't happy the day I watched you go. And all the things that I wished I had not said are played in loops till it's madness in my head."

Smash.

The fine china collided with the wall, and shattered into pieces, decorating the dark hardwood floor underneath their shoes. Not that they took too much notice. The Brit was fuming, and the Frenchman was biting back all of the harsh words that were about to spill over his lips. Arguments weren't an uncommon thing in their household, but something was different about this one, definitely not their usual lover's spat.

"It's has to stop!" Arthur screamed, clenching his hands into fists, "All you bloody do is gamble, and party, and drink! Not to mention the cigarettes," he added harshly, knowing that Francis had been fighting a losing battle when it came to quitting the nasty habit. It just wasn't happening for him, and he knew there was nothing he could do. His body had become completely accustomed to the nicotine and other chemicals in the smokes. "How much money have you lost us this week, Francis? Hm?" The Brit asked, nearly fuming.

Francis gritted his teeth, glaring down at the man he had adored hotly. "I barely lost anything! Besides, it was my own money," he spat, his French accent prominent in every word he spoke. "All you do is nag me, Arthur. It's not helping anything!" Francis complained, resting his hands on his slender hips, "I've tried to stop smoking, and drinking, and gambling. I never went out for a long time, oui? I went out once and you're on my back like I've committed a 'orrible crime!"

"Well maybe if you weren't such a flirt I could trust you more! I know damn well what happens when you go out with Gilbert and Antonio, Francis. I'm no idiot!" Arthur yelled, taking a step towards the Frenchman, shards of glass crunching under his dark leather shoes. "All the girls that are there, all the men too. I know how it works. You hook up with them and then come stumbling in at two in the morning, reeking of cigarettes, alcohol and cheap perfumes," Arthur said. Francis furrowed a brow in rage. How could Arthur even think like that? No, this wasn't sitting well with him, at all.

"Oh Arthur, you act like you're so innocent. Give me a break, mon cher. I forgave you when you went behind my back with Alfred, non? You said it was a mistake, and you didn't mean to. How do you 'not mean' to fuck someone? I would surprise me if it wasn't the first... non, the last time." Francis questioned him. He knew that Arthur had indeed been intoxicated at the time, and Francis was out of the town, but he was a firm believer that "I was drunk," was not a valid excuse for cheating on your partner.

Arthur frowned, glare softening. He, naturally, had felt horrible for that incident for the longest time, and just recently had he been feeling better, and accepting that Francis had forgiven him for that. He had never gone out with the intent to cheat on his lover. Francis realized then he had made a horrible mistake bringing that up. He reached out to him, mouth open as if he was going to speak, but nothing came out for a moment.

"Arthur... I..." Francis started, struggling to find the right words to apologize with. If he did this properly, he was sure he could put an end to this argument right now. He was utterly shocked when the shorter Brit's hand shot out and slapped his straight across the face. Francis turned his head back towards him, staring at him blankly. Never before in their relationship had one struck another. No, it wasn't that kind of relationship at all.

It was Arthur's time to be shocked at his own actions. He took a few steps closer and reached both of his hands up, cradling Francis' face in his hands carefully, "Oh god, Francis I'm so sorry," he whispered, staring up at the French man through clouded green eyes. "I-I was just so angry," Arthur continued, frowning. Francis took a step back from Arthur, before walking around him and going down the hall of their single storey home to where their bedroom was. He produced a suitcase from the closet and robotically started putting his clothes into it, not caring to fold them.

Arthur recovered from his initial shock and followed him down to their bedroom, staring at him from the door way until the realization of what was happening hit him. "Francis, don't do this," he said quietly, walking into the room. "I didn't mean to hit you."

"You did mean to," he said, a humorous tone of his voice, "I wasn't thinking, I didn't mean to, I was just stressed... That's all I ever hear from you!" He exclaimed, turning around quickly and locking Arthur against their dresser. He stared at him for a long while, before he moved back and shut the suitcase, vowing to return at a later date and collect the rest of his belongings. "I need some space," he said finally, picking up the tan coloured container and walking out of the room, leaving a stunned Arthur once again. He grabbed his car keys, and made sure the house key was still there before going towards the door.

"Francis, please," Arthur said quietly, standing with him at the door. Francis frowned down at him, before shaking his head and walking out into the crisp fall air. He unlocked the car, and threw his suitcase in the back carelessly, before getting in the front and promptly pulling out of the driveway. As he sped away from the house, Arthur bit back his tears. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't going to cry.

He looked around the street, and locked eyes with their neighbour, a nice Japanese fellow who cared too much for his own good. Kiku, Arthur thought his name was. The oriental man opened up his front room window and leaned out it slightly so Arthur could hear the words that came tumbling out of his mouth in a heavily accented voice, "Is everything okay, Arthur-san? I heard a lot of smashing glass!" He called across the short distance of their houses. Arthur flinched slightly, remembering how his temper had snapped, and the nearest thing had been the china cabinet where he kept his tea cups and dishes.

"It's fine... Just an argument. No worries, Kiku," he called, offering him a weak, forced smile. The man nodded, and muttered something to himself before closing his window and drawing the curtains back shut. Arthur sighed and hung his head, walking back into the house in defeat. He shut the door, and was about to lock it, but on second thought left it open. Just in case Francis happened to come back. It didn't seem likely anymore, though.

He looked at their destroyed living room and grabbed a broom, staring to sweep up the glass shards into a pile. His thoughts ran crazy around his head, and no matter what he tried he couldn't silence them. He felt hot tears slip down over his eyes and he cursed himself for not being able to hold them back. Arthur leaned against the broom heavily. How had he just let him go like that?