Author's Notes: Thank you for being so patient with me and my slow, erratic updating. Also, a thank you to everyone who read, favorited, started following, and/or reviewed.

Disclaimer: Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya. All books mentioned are property of their respective authors.

~X~

It wasn't even noon when Francis rang the doorbell of Arthur's sizable home. There was another five hundred pages in 'Les Misérables' to read. The Frenchman fully intended on getting that done before dusk.

However, when Alfred answered the door, Francis could tell that his plans weren't going to go the way he hoped. He had nearly forgotten that the two of them had been friends. Arthur was constantly saying that he hated company, yet here was Alfred standing barefoot in the doorway.

That perpetual, idiot's grin had completely vanished from his face. Obviously, something serious had happened. Something that shook even the American's permanently sunny outlook.

"Hey bro," Al greeted, oblivious to his step-cousin's scrutiny. "Artie's in the library."

"I'd prefer if he invited me in," Francis replied. It was only after the words were spoken he realized the ice sharpening them.

"Ah…" Alfred looked back into the house for a moment. "I don't think he's moving today. Want me to go back and ask him? I'm really pretty sure that he's not going to care."

Now he was almost positive that he wasn't going to be getting the reading done today. Likely, he would end up doing for Arthur what he had done for Francis yesterday instead. The Frenchman shook his head. "It's fine, I suppose. Are you here visiting?"

Al ruffled a hand through his hair, nervously glancing back again. That seemed to be a common theme with this house, Francis decided. Everyone was always checking back into it.

"I think I've stayed too long," he admitted. "I was just about to leave when you showed up. You didn't box me in, right?"

Francis' brow furrowed. He didn't remember seeing Al's oversized pickup outside the house. "I didn't even see you out there."

He shrugged, picking his shoes off the floor. "I'll take that as a good sign. Oh, and be careful with Artie today, ok? I think he's upset." Without waiting for a response, Al shrugged past his step-cousin, still without his shoes on.

He watched the younger blond as he practically sprinted across the lawn to the side of the house. Only when Alfred was out of sight did he shut the door, taking care to actually lock it this time.

Once again, he picked his way through the mansion-like estate. By now, he had pretty much memorized how to get to the books. Instead of focusing on the path, Francis paid a bit more attention to the books.

Not even a speck of dust was visible on any of the covers. The stacks, while a bit uneven, were all perfectly straight, and lined up according to the size of the novel. The titles faced the hallways, each of them visible were one to crouch down to read them. He wondered if there was any sort of legitimate organization to them, or if it was merely an order of convenience.

When Francis entered the library, he found Arthur laying on the floor, a heavy book held against his chest. He was on his back with his ankles neatly crossed. Wide, dazed eyes were turned to the heavens. The Brit didn't even acknowledge his entrance.

It was then that he noticed that Arthur was wearing the exact same thing he had worn yesterday. Though, his dark slacks were wrinkled, and the white button down looked a general wreck today. All appearances indicated that the librarian hadn't left this room since last night.

Francis cleared his throat, hoping to gain the other's attention.

"If you've come to read, by all means," Arthur murmured. "If you've come to argue, today isn't really a good day." Still, he never looked away from the ceiling.

"Trust me, I'm not in the mood for a fight," the Frenchman replied. "Much as I hate to admit you were right about 'Les Misérables'. I'd like to finish it today."

Finally, Arthur glanced over to him. Somber, olive eyes were bright against the dark circles that ringed them. His grip on the novel tightened as golden bangs slowly fell over his heavy brows. "I don't know if I can lend her to you today," he admitted.

Francis frowned slightly, not understanding why until he realized that was the book Arthur was hugging against himself. "Perhaps a different distraction then," he allowed.

Arthur sighed softly, turning onto his side. "Why would you even want such a depressing read anyways? Life is horrible enough as is. People are suffering; they get hurt, they die, and they're just miserable." For a brief moment, the librarian pressed his lips together. "Why would you want to read something that's just more heartache?"

Francis simply held the other's gaze. Arthur was trying to ask more. He could feel it. But what?

The image Francis saw before him was that of a young man in mourning. This was someone who was crying inside; hiding behind the shell of a perfect, solitary life.

"Sometimes I need to be reminded that it could be worse," he finally replied.

A slight smile tugged at the Englishman's lips. "You seem to remind yourself of that rather often," he noted, eyes slipping shut. "In the short time I've known you, you have devoured every tragedy I've thrown at you. Huxley, Sinclair, and now Hugo… Doesn't it make you sad?"

That put Francis at a loss for words. Did it make him sad? Not really, he decided. It made him think, but it didn't actually upset him.

Should it, though?

"I read them all on your recommendation," he reminded. "Do they hurt you?"

Arthur pulled his knees to his chest, pressing the book further against himself. "Some more than others. This one especially…" Again, those sharp green eyes pierced through the café-owner. "I don't want you to read this today. On the far left shelf on the bottom row, I have a better distraction for you."

For several seconds, Francis held that gaze. He was searching for whatever it was that Arthur was really trying to say. Was he worried about the Frenchman, or was he simply trying to hold on to his mother's book for a little while longer? Still, he made his way over to the allotted shelf, kneeling before it.

"It's a bit childish, I know, but I think you need a little 'Harry Potter' in your life," Arthur said. His voice had fallen back down to a near-whisper. "A little magic could be just what you need right now."

Almost unbidden, a gentle smile curved his lips. Lined up especially neatly were two different copies of each book: one in paperback, and the other hardback. These books were especially well-worn, yet remarkably well taken care of. The binding looked soft, yet sturdy, while the paper was creased into near whiteness on each of the paperbacks.

"I take it these are your favorites," he said.

Arthur hummed softly. "Asking me what my favorite books are is like asking a woman which is her favorite child," he replied. "Though I will admit that I have a… fondness for them."

Francis shook his head, that rueful grin still in place. "I believe I told you that I don't believe in magic. Honestly, all I want is another bit of tragedy to keep me going from yesterday. You were reading 'Hunchback of Notre Dame' last night, weren't you? Perhaps I can read that instead."

"Not today Francis," Arthur repeated. "If you're dead-set on reading something like that, it won't be here. I'm sure the actual library has what you want."

But the actual library wouldn't have Arthur, Francis realized. That's why he was here today. "Is there a reason you're so upset today?" he asked, completely changing the subject. "I met Alfred on my way in; he said you were likely to just lay on the floor all day."

The silence between them was sharp. The way that the house made no noise when Arthur didn't was almost like a knife to the heart. Francis looked over to the librarian, who had curled up on his side facing away from his guest.

"You wouldn't understand," he mumbled. "Let's just leave it at Al has no sense of tact whatsoever."

Francis remained motionless, kneeling in front of the shelves. On one hand, he wanted to ask. He wanted to know what had made the Englishman pretty much immobile with a book against his chest. Why Alfred looked strained as he bolted out the door, and why Arthur wasn't keeping up with the long string of angst.

Yet, it wasn't his place to ask. So instead, he stood up, and walked over to where the other blond lay. "Maybe reading can wait for another day," Francis commented as he sat down beside him, legs neatly tucked beneath him.

"Are you going to go home then?" Francis noticed the barest note of sadness in the words. Arthur kept his eyes unfocused, not looking up towards him.

Without thinking about it, Francis brushed the Brit's hair back from his forehead. "I thought we could just enjoy each other's company," he admitted. "We don't have to talk, or anything. You can sit and wallow about Alfred, and I will do the same about a few others."

Arthur's lids slipped shut as a he almost smiled. "I can live with that."