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
Caring
Arthur Kirkland didn't care much about beauty.
Not really.
He knew what it was- he had seen it, felt it, heard, smelled and even indulged himself in it - but his life did not revolve around it. There wasn't much that prompted him to bother making an effort to making something beautiful. If it was practical, and it worked, then it was perfect – it did not need to be beautiful. If something did not look ugly, it did not need to look beautiful, it would simply be simple. Arthur Kirkland was not a simple man, of course. He was a complex puzzle that was once taken apart and put together again; he would be completely different, each and every time. He baffled everyone and yet he was still the voice of reason. The sky was a dreary gray with cardboard cut-outs for clouds in London. They hung from a string and the sun decided that it would sleep in for the day. He hardly noticed. What Arthur had been thinking about as he walked through the rain; black umbrella propped up to protect his newly pressed suit, was the meeting. Or rather, what he had seen during the meeting. He had seen those blue eyes – those bright, bright eyes– wide with fascination as they eyed the Russian. It hurt. For as long as Arthur could remember, even during and after their war, Alfred had never looked at another person the same way he looked at the Briton. Arthur knew that Alfred watched him closely, still looked at him longingly and Arthur had to use all his willpower not to do the same. The boy – for was that's what he was. Perhaps not a child, but still a boy – had wanted to talk to him after the meeting but Arthur didn't and so left quickly and as stealthily as he could manage. Now, all he wanted was a drink of something strong enough to knock him out for a good few hours before taking on the world again.
Before he started caring again.
His foot slipped and he stepped into a puddle. He cursed and shook his foot irritably, spraying droplets. The rain continued to pour and Arthur wondered whether it would ever stop. Thankfully he could see a pub coming into his view. It wasn't like the newer ones that were popping up suddenly; no, this club was local and authentic – and probably older than America.
America.
He was the reason Arthur wanted to go and lose himself.
No, not America – Alfred.
Alfred had been the reason for a lot things Arthur had done, and perhaps he was the reason for what was to happen next; something Arthur could or would not have foreseen. The pub was just a hundred metres away now. He picked up his pace, wet shoes narrowly missing puddles then stopped suddenly. Something was blocking his was way – someone was standing before him; shivering and drenched, much like his sock. At first, Arthur had only seen the blond hair and his heart skipped a beat. Then he saw that it was not who he had thought it was. His hair was a dirty blond and much shorter and his eyes were wide; inquisitive and blue like the sky. This man had hair like gold that flowed over this shoulder like silk strands and his eyes were half-lidded and clouded; more the ocean than the sky. The ocean found the forest gaze of his own and the man brightened considerably, in spite of his rather miserable appearance.
"L'Angleterre!" he cried.
A step forward.
A step backward.
"What are you doing here, you frog?"
The Frenchman gave a shrug, his smile drooping slightly at the less than warming welcome. Arthur took in the figure before him; his ridiculously fashionable clothes clung to his person, outlining the structure that was Francis Bonnefoy. The rain had soaked his hair thoroughly, tangling the strands –not unattractively so, instead accenting his strong jaw, and the lilting pipeline lips that looked so –
Arthur stopped himself. But how could he ignore the way the drop of water trailed from his forehead down to the tip of his nose that blended perfectly into his face? Those impossibly long lashes fluttered and so did the Briton.
"I just wanted to see if you were alright. You left the meeting very early," Francis tugged his coat closer around him and Arthur's grip tightened around the umbrella. For some reason, he did not laugh at the shivering man.
"I always leave meetings early," His response was dry despite the weather.
Francis clucked his tongue and ignored the irritated look. "But mon amour-"
"Don't call me that."
"-You've never left that early." Francis took another step forward and this time, Arthur did not move. "What's wrong?" Arthur laughed bitterly and shook his head. This time it was the Frenchman who looked irritated. He grabbed Arthur's arm and the two nations stood in silence; staring up, staring down. They had known each other for too long. Once upon a century, they had fallen in love – and they knew each other too well. For Arthur, Francis was a hand print on his heart, but he could no longer find it in himself, the one thing that once had him hooked hopelessly onto the other man. Francis smiled sadly at him and removed his hand.
They both knew the answer to the Frenchman's question.
Suddenly, Arthur was against the wall, and the umbrella was on the ground; forgotten. The rain crashed freely unto the nations.
Hands in hair.
Mouth on mouth.
Heart against heart.
Maybe Arthur did not care about beauty, but it did not mean he couldn't see it.
Not when it was this close.