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Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers: Hetalia. It rightfully belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I merely own the AU plot and setting. Additionally, I'm not an expert in teaching and blindness. All information comes from observation and speculation. Please do not reference.
Enjoy!
Nihilism
"There are two ways to be fooled. One is to believe what isn't true; the other is to refuse to believe what is true."
—Søren Kierkegaard
Arthur came to school much earlier than normal. At the early hour of 3, he already unlocked the music room. His heart had fallen off the cliff the day before, and he couldn't sleep. He still couldn't sleep, so he decided to spend his time in school, where it was lonely, but not lonely enough that he would become exceedingly depressed over it. The music room had a beautiful guitar. It was the best instrument he had seen since he was a child; two years ago, he had wanted to rent the guitar out, but the school refused, with good reason.
He picked the guitar up, got a few sheets of staff paper and a pencil, and, huddled in a little corner of the room, began to compose, picking away on a improvised monotype melody.
Three hours passed by, and he filled in two sheets with scratched out measures and edited notes. He could hear footsteps walking down hallways above him, and voices coming from the echoey stairwell nearby. However, he was too engrossed in his composition to really notice; he was on a roll, and he didn't want to stop. Sure, he knew that the parts were rather crude and unrefined, but he could always change the weak parts for better ones, especially if he could think of a bass line and a harmony.
"It sounds beautiful, mon ami."
Arthur sputtered, playing a gross chord and dropping the instrument. "What? Bonnefoy? How did you get here?"
Francis, who had been leaning against the doorframe, straightened up. "I always get here around now." The cane came untucked from his arm, and he guided himself into the room. "Is this another one of those pieces from your favourite Romantic era? Are you practicing for something? A recital?"
Arthur scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Hardly. I wrote this."
"Really? No wonder it sounds so beautiful," Francis said. His hip bumped against the side of the electric piano as he approached Arthur.
"Stop spitting out pretty words. It's crude." Francis' cane prodded against Arthur's guitar, and Arthur quickly gathered the instrument up again, shifting.
"Oh, but mon ami, it's a good type of crude. The song lured me here." Francis chuckled. Then Francis reached down and he took a seat on the ground beside Arthur, feeling his way.
"It's a piece, not a song! There are no lyrics!" Arthur snapped. Then he felt something on his leg. He looked down. Francis had accidentally placed his hand there—Arthur slapped it away.
"Oh-la-la, somebody is playing hard to get," Francis joked, laughing as he leaned back against the wall. Arthur kicked him. But he only laughed more.
"Shut the bloody hell up. I'm not. I hate your guts."
Francis wrapped his arms around his stomach, giving Arthur an offended duck face. "What did my guts ever do to you? They're only a tad bloody and filled with undigested food."
Arthur shoved Francis away. "That was a figure of speech. Learn English, frog."
"Ribbit."
Arthur crinkled his nose in disgust. "Bloody frog." With a grunt, he got back onto his feet.
"No! Ribbit!" Francis whined and clung onto Arthur's left foot. "Don't leave the frog prince! Royalty demands it!"
"Prince? What prince? I don't see a bloody prince." Arthur trudged forward, dragging Francis along. He could hear the painful sound of rug against cloth and skin, but Francis didn't let go and simply flipped onto his back instead. "Bloody hell! Let go of me, you fool! You're being unprofessional!"
"But the fool has fallen for the music of the bard! He doesn't want to perform for the king no more! He quits! He wants to sit on the throne and listen to all of the bard's music!"
Finally, Arthur slipped from Francis' grip, losing a shoe in the process. He quickly collected the shoe and ran to the door of the music room before Francis could catch him again. A guitar in one hand and a shoe in the other, he turned towards Francis, glaring and pointing at the offensive man still on the floor.
"I'm going to lock myself up in a janitor's closet, where nobody, especially the likes of you, can find me!"
"Oh, no, the king is going to lock the bard away! Worry not—the fool will—"
Arthur cut Francis off there, scrambling out of the room and slamming the door behind him. With a long sigh through his nose, he threw his shoe on the ground and put it back on. Francis was such a drama queen, alluding strange fantasy stories and flirting like a desperate, lovesick moron. Such blubbering and silly comments were absolutely repulsive, hardly appropriate in a work place. No normal person would act like how Francis, and if Arthur had been anybody else, Francis would have been kicked out of the school within a moment.
As Arthur placed the strap of the guitar back over his shoulder and he walked away, strumming a few notes, Francis' words echoed in the back of his brain. The more they repeated the more irritated Arthur became. As he passed the art room, Arthur was tempted to smash his guitar against the door. He would give a mess Francis would have to clean up, if Francis could in the first place. That would teach Francis to be unprofessional and foolish again.
At the same time, he wished he could believe Francis' compliments.