This is a work of fiction. Hetalia and the characters used from it (Francis, Arthur) belong to Himaruya Hidekaz. The French used here is gleaned from Google Translate, as I don't speak the language myself.
Warning: character death
The art used for the cover is Conversation in a Rose Garden by Pierre Auguste Renoir.
-commencer-
May fifth, ten o'clock in the evening, the artist is at his easel.
Francis set down the paintbrush and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. It was done. His chef-d'œuvre, his great masterpiece, was completed at long last. Depicted was a rose garden with a rather extensive variety of flowers, a small bench, and a table where someone was having tea. The man in the painting was smiling, his features slightly blurred, though one could make out hideously thick eyebrows where Francis' paintbrush had slipped. Ah, how lovely he was, the one in the painting. The man of Francis' dreams. If only he, so ethereal, could escape the confines of oil and canvas, and the vice of imagination.
...
May seventh, nine-thirty in the morning, the artist is having coffee in his robes.
Francis frowned. This man could not possibly exist only in his mind and paints. He had to be real, such a stunning creature, he simply had to be. But what are Real things? What justifies reality? Is it tangibility, the fleeting touch of soft lips and smooth, silky skin? Or is it concept, wherein the very idea of something defined its existence? Perhaps it is a combination of the two, though he knew deep inside that Reality could never be accomplished for a mere figure in a painting. But selective thinking takes care of that nagging thought, layering fantasy upon fantasy of clinking teacups and the faint scent of tea. This man, thought Francis, must be real. And he would do anything to achieve that.
...
May twentieth, four o'clock sharp, the artist is slowly slipping into delirium as the sun peeked curiously through the curtains.
First, a name. What would befit such a cheery lad? He was British, of course. Francis knew this much of him. He was a Brit, he couldn't cook, and he loved Earl Grey more than any other brew. "Arthur Kirkland," Francis said with a jolt, his own voice startling him. Then he repeated it over and over, rolling the name off his tongue. Perfect. Perfect Arthur sat in the perfect garden, with his perfect English blooms and perfect cup of Earl Grey. Francis faced the painting then said the name, slowly. He could've sworn the man's mouth turned upwards in a smile.
...
June second, seven o'clock in the afternoon, the artist is contemplating current affairs and his dwindling supply of light.
A name. Arthur Kirkland. That had already been established. Now all that was needed was environment. Life. Arthur needed to live as any human would live; with a quaint little countryside cottage, the occasional burnt dish and smoking kitchen, a warm fireplace to ward off the snows of an imaginary winter. Francis worked, he slaved, to bring this all to fruition. He purchased oils and canvases in bulk, and rarely did anything but paint. Night and day, he sat at his easel, palette in hand as he contemplated the colors of an English sky.
...
July. Time had ceased to exist, as did the rest of his surroundings.
Arthur consumed him; painting became his life and Arthur his only subject. Francis refused help, turned down commissions, and let his once-grand house fall to shambles. His face was that of a madman obsessed with an illusion that held him in a tight grip. High cheekbones hollowed out; eyes sunk deep into his skull. A living skeleton, if you will.
But as the artist waned, the subject waxed; two halves inversely proportional to one another. The Arthur in the paintings grew more lively, more bright with each fine stroke of Francis' brush. He gained a personality expressed through swirls of colour from a skilled hand. His surroundings grew more and more intricate, though unbeknownst to him. After all, Arthur was only a figure in a painting. A mere figment of an artist's overwhelming imagination. An idea which festered and grew and spread like an infection of the worst kind.
...
Unknown.
Francis opened his eyes and immediately squinted at the bright light. Faintly he heard birds chirping, and everything smelled strongly of.. roses. A voice called out to him, heavy with accent but light with amusement, "Are you going to lie there all day?" He jumped up then, realising he was indeed lying on some sort of gravel road. Dusting himself off, he turned. "Who-" he stopped, eyes widening as he looked upon Arthur Kirkland and his tea, bathed in sunlight. A laugh. Then that same voice, "Who else, Frog?"
—
The body was found months later, after decay had defiled most aspects of the artist's face and body. The whole place reeked of rotting flesh and dreams; the neighbors retched as they scrambled to call the police, two months too late. But the artist was content. Fingers still clutching a paintbrush, he smiled emptily at the canvas before him. There were two figures in the rose garden now, smiling at each other over a cup of tea as the flowers hummed and swayed in the still air.
-fin-
Edit 23 March 2013: Fixed Himaruya's name, which was spelled wrong. I can't believe this went unnoticed for so long augh