And this, dear children, is what happens when one thinks about Hetalia during the homily at Mass. :D

I actually started this a couple weeks ago, but I wanted to get the chapter of my other story up before posting it. It was kind of a random and weird idea, so I hope it's not too boring and I hope Artie doesn't come off as being too OOC...

Also, I'll just give the disclaimer here saying that the views expressed in this fic do not necessarily represent those of the author. It's just what England might think of the Bible passage here-nothing more or less.

ENJOY, DARLINGS~! I don't own Hetalia or 1 Corinthians.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails.

In that case… Arthur began thinking to himself, as one of his rather cynical chuckles escaped his throat. In that case, there's no way in hell I could possibly be in love.

The pastry on the cafe table in front of him was shedding its flaky outer crust, allowing the strawberry filling to bleed out slowly and collect on the plate like some sort of culinary murder scene. It was topped by sweet, delicate sprinkles of powdered sugar that mimicked the dusting of snow currently resting upon every available surface around him. The thing was warm and delectable, yet he had left it half-eaten there, allowing the interloping pigeons strutting about beneath him to eye the snack greedily. He had not been hungry when he had bought the food from a nearby bakery, and he was not hungry now-he had only wanted something to busy himself with while he waited.

Through the chilled air the warm, welcoming clang of the church bells from across the street sounded, brassy voices rising to draw in the faithful for the early morning Mass. Arthur had overheard a cluster of elderly worshipers emerging from one of the earlier services, discussing the day's sermons amongst themselves-apparently 1 Corinthians 13:4-8 had been a part of one of the readings that day. To be honest, though he had read and heard certain sections of the Bible countless times in the past centuries, he had rarely ever managed to memorize a passage of any great length from it. It was strange that he would be able to recall so easily those particular verses, ones that appeared to be so simple and frivolous.

He shivered slightly, his body trying to shake off the cold that had settled on his skin, and pulled his scarf a bit more tightly around his neck. Love was all that, was it? It had never once chosen to "dishonor others", to embarrass them and shame them and make them wish that they could scrub themselves clean of the terrible affliction known as affection?

Bullshit.

He couldn't count the number of times that he had felt like a fool, because only a fool had the ill judgment to love an enemy.

Love had apparently had no effect of his personality in all those eons either, had granted him no extra measure of morality or corrected his glaring faults. He was just as proud and boastful as he had always been, delighting in the moments in which he could show the blonde annoyance from across the Channel his unquestionable superiority—he seized every opportunity to do so even now. And as far as envy...well, there was a reason why more than one acquaintance had referred to him in the past as the very incarnation of the fabled Green-Eyed Monster. Oh, how he hated being considered unworthy or below another, since so many in the past-especially the goddamn Frog himself-had made him feel that way.

He certainly had his "record of wrongs" that he simply adored holding against the cyan-eyed nation...not just a record, in fact, but an extensive mental list that spanned history, beginning with their years as a couple of quarreling children and continuing into the present. And that list had been written, word by belligerent word, with the ink of anger. Perhaps he no longer made to skewer his fellow country with one of his arrows, or attempt to plant a bullet in his heart so that a crimson flower could sprout from the lead seed, but he still remembered the multitude of violent conflicts that they had shared whenever they engaged in a particularly bad row.

And love had never been about truth, was always full of lies...for how many times had the words "I hate you" passed so effortlessly from his lips, a phrase laced with falsehoods?

But the biggest untruth that the Bible insisted upon was that love did not amount to evil.

How many crimes and cruelties had they committed against each other in years past? How many blades of grass that sprouted on the battlefield had been watered by the blood of French and English alike? How many clean ivory bones had been interred without a name or marker to remind the living of their sacrifice, skeletons still clutching their weapons with spindly white fingers, deaf and rotting ears waiting patiently to hear the commands of a general that would never come? Was war not evil? Was killing and purposely causing horror not evil?

And yet, the most brutal thing that love had ever done to him was make him care. Otherwise, he would have been perfectly content knowing that he had caused so much destruction in his day. It was purely because he cared that regret grasped him tight and wrung all the pride and arrogance out of him, leaving him with head hung, weighed down by profound guilt.

The pigeons watched him, tilted their beaks at him wonderingly.

"Love is patient, love is kind."

And yet…

The thought was as tentative and delicate as the ivory flakes in their slow-motion descent.

And yet, maybe the Bible did get one thing right.

Love had indeed made him patient…had given him the patience, in fact, to wait for centuries.

Through turmoil, he had waited.

Through death, he had waited.

Even though usually he had usually had no idea what he was waiting for, had no idea love was driving him, he had still waited.

At that moment, he noticed the form of Francis appear, stepping towards him in his usual sauntering gait.

And maybe—just occasionally—love can also be kind.

Arthur did not mind leaving the rest of that pastry to the birds as he stood to walk over to the other nation. He was walking toward something that was often much harder to swallow than the food, and always far harder to deal with, but also much, much sweeter.