A/N: No real deep meanings here; a somewhat shallow view on beauty. xD But it may get deeper as I go along. Right now, it's mostly skin-deep. Still, I hope you all enjoy it. 3
Beauty
Knowing
Alfred F. Jones knew about beauty.
It wasn't what he was thought about when he woke up that morning though.
Someone had poured blue over the sky that day and dappled it with white and the sun was sitting sort of smugly in full view. The moon had long gone to bed and Alfred was running late for yet another world meeting. The meetings had started to become more and more frequent, though he never really minded; after all, a hero never ran out of advice for his fellow countries, and here, he could finally bestow upon them his infinite wisdom. A burger sat half-eaten in his fingers and in the other hand was a battered leather case, where one could see corners of notes poking out almost comically. He knew that he should have been running, or at least making an effort to pick up his pace, but instead, Alfred continued on his amiable walk, listening idly to the click of his half-polished black shoes that he used for meetings – and meetings only, as he had told Arthur many a time whenever the ex-delinquent suggested a little more finesse in his dress, but who really had the time to bother with minor things like shoes when he had saving the world on his agenda? The looks he received upon his arrival told him that if fashion was the last thing on his mind, at least try waking up on time. Alfred F. Jones was not a morning person, contrary to popular belief – not like Gilbert Weillschmidt who claimed that it wasn't the sun that rose up in the morning, it was him, and the sun only followed his example. Alfred laughed at the concept at first until he saw the albino nation jog past his home with the sun rising slowly up behind him.
The meeting hadn't seemed to have started, and the air was thick with conversation. He could smell the culture and religion and he could already see Arthur Kirkland, better known as England, shouting at Francis Bonnefoy, the anthropomorphic nation of France; a daily occurrence. Green eyes spotted him.
"It's about time you bloody well got here," the Briton spat the words at Alfred's feet and the younger nation gave a broken grin, staring down at his shoes. They gleamed mockingly back up at him.
"I got lost," he lied, the words struggling to escape through his teeth and Arthur snorted. His grin broke a little more.
Neither would say it, nor would they ever bring it up, but it hurt both of them to exchange only handfuls of words everyday; words that let the other know that they were still waiting.
I'm sorry.
Neither would say it, nor would they ever bring it up, but they were still waiting.
Ludwig had stood up, impossibly blonde hair was slicked back like a helmet and his blue eyes were cold; so cold that Alfred couldn't help but wonder how the warm Feliciano could stand to look into them without flinching. The chatter slowed; a train coming to its last stop and the German spoke like a conductor. Alfred didn't listen; not really. He hardly ever did during the meetings, unless Arthur was speaking and even then he was watching the older man with a wistful sort of observation.
Like the way his hands moved in little dainty gestures to paint a mental picture. Or the way his lashes kissed his pale cheek. Alfred gave himself a mental shake and averted his eyes, only to see the Frenchman give him a knowing wink. He glared. Arthur had finally sat down, ignoring both him and Francis. Alfred returned his gaze to the next nation. A mountain of man was standing, and Alfred knew immediately who it was. Already, a blanket of tension had covered the room, silencing even the ever-talkative Polish nation, Feliks but the man didn't seem to notice. He smiled and Alfred's breath caught with a sharp noise, as if he had just lunged into ice-cold water. How it had escaped him before, the American did not know, but Ivan Braginski was beautiful.
Not in the same way Arthur was, but he was beautiful nonetheless. The way the sunlight hit the back of his head in just the right angle made the beige blond of Ivan's hair gave him a shining halo and Alfred could see the soft tufts sway gently as he spoke. His lashes were long and dark and made his violet eyes wider and so blindingly vibrant. The scarf that followed him was wrapped thickly around his words, making his cheeks a lovely shade of red as he addressed the others excitedly. While Arthur's beauty was bittersweet, Ivan's was innocent and childlike though Alfred knew that Ivan's cruelty went beyond inhumane, but still he was masculine and handsome at the same time. Masculine was a hard word for Alfred to stick onto Arthur, though it wasn't to say that he didn't think that the Englishman was handsome, because he very much was. When the personified nation of Russia sat down once more, Alfred thought that the angelic effect would disappear as soon as it had appeared. But he was still glowing.
It was the first time Alfred F. Jones had truly seen Ivan Braginski.
Alfred decided that his hormones were playing games – he knew about beauty, but he had never bothered to notice, so why were his eyes open?