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 on teaching and blindness. All information comes from observation and speculation. Please do not reference.

Enjoy!

Nihilism

"I've gotten really hot since you went blind."
—John Green

Arthur didn't know what compelled him to go to the art room at such an ungodly hour on Monday morning. But whatever the force was, it was strong, because he found himself standing in a dark room that smelled of water, graphite, and acrylic paint. Although he had worked in the room for years, and nothing changed, the ambience felt strange. It felt new, as if he was being introduced to the art room for the first time. He walked around, running his fingers against papers, posters, and unfinished works of art.

Everything was in a bigger mess than he had first predicted. During his second round around the room, he started pushing things to make more room. All these papers and wood made a terrible fire hazard. And the trash can wasn't anything better. The little basket between a table and Arthur's desk was overflowing with crumpled paper. He made a note to himself to ask either Francis or the janitor to keep track of the basket content, although Francis probably wouldn't notice until he knocked it down with his cane or his foot. He bent over and started stuffing the papers deep within the bag and collected the papers around the sides. How sloppy Francis and his students were. Arthur figured that one of the students made such a mess, trying again and again with rough drafts after rough drafts in search for a perfect copy of his or her creation.

Immediately, Arthur started imagining that girl Francis was talking to. She had been crying, frustrated that she couldn't ever seem to get something right. He could see her sitting on one of the stools, bent over a canvas, and face in her hands. Francis would probably be sitting beside her, leaning over, and whispering kind, encouraging words. She had potential. She could do it. And one day, her art could be hanging on walls of art museums—celebrated because of its beauty.

For a moment, Arthur's heart clenched. He sat on the ground, and unfolded one of the pieces of papers. The sketch was immediately familiar. It was a replica of a drawing in the Sistine Chapel, where God, carried by cherubs and angels, reached out to Adam to give him the breath of life. The technique was extraordinarily good. He was amazed that a student could even draw with such precision. But at the same time, he could guarantee that it was a student. The proportions were wrong. Adam and God's bodies were skewed into an unnatural position. The shading didn't correlate with the rest of the drawings; some of the shadows were lighter than the midtones, a terribly amateur mistake. And the sketcher must have misjudged the size of the paper too, since God's feet were cut off. Any normal person would have realised how devastating these mistakes would be, yet the person kept going until he or she was finished before realising and throwing the sketch away. What a pity.

Carefully, Arthur folded the sketch up and stuck it into his pocket. He could go around and ask who drew the sketch. Then he could give the poor student some advice that Francis wouldn't be able to. But first, he should probably brush up on his drawing skills, despite being a bit rough around the edges. He didn't want to end up being a hypocrite like Francis, but at the same time, his drawing skills had limits. Nevertheless, practicing a bit before teaching would be better than not teaching at all.

After getting up, Arthur gathered some graphite pencils and paper, sat down at one of the students' tables, and began to draw.

At first, he started trying to draw the image from the Sistine Chapel. Everything started off fine. The anatomy, proportions and few details accurately emulated Michelangelo's original. However, as he progressed, the lines became rough, almost scratched out, and none of the shading smoothed out. In the end, Arthur crumpled the page and started anew. He was proud of his accomplishment, but it was hardly a role model.

This time, he started emulating other Renaissance paintings, such as Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. That too started off fine, but Arthur simply couldn't get the face down. It appeared morphed, as if two boards crushed her face and rearranged her features. He threw that out as well. He started a few other sketches, but in the end, he threw them all out.

Eventually, he started drawing what he loved most—landscape. He gave up on people. Nature was far more fascinating anyway; and simpler, but if Arthur were to say that, then he would be admitting that he was a failure at drawing people. So Arthur began drawing mountains, plains, wheat fields, and forests. Each scene became a new picture, which were kept and put to the side. His pencils kept scratching away, and when the tip disappeared, Arthur tossed it to the side and picked up a new one. He was on a roll, and he didn't want to stop.

Then the door opened. Arthur froze, looking to the side. Francis entered, humming a little tune. He locked the door behind him, not noticing Arthur at all.

Arthur coughed.

Francis jerked up. His humming ceased. "Who's there?" Francis called. He almost appeared like a meerkat with the way he stood, except his hands were at his sides and meerkats didn't wear sunglasses and carry red tipped canes.

"Bonnefoy."

A curved eyebrow arched over the frames of the sunglasses, and Francis turned towards the voice. "Arthur? You're here?"

"Well yes, who else would be here?" Arthur scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I have the keys to the art room too."

Francis laughed. "I would have thought that after all this time, you forgot what that key is even for," he said as he bumped his way towards Arthur.

"Are you saying that I'm never in the art room anymore?" Arthur fumed.

"If that's how you want to interpret me, then sure."

Arthur's thick eyebrow twitched, and his fist curled. "Why you…—Hey, don't sit there!" Arthur shoved Francis away, scrambling to get his drawings from the stool.

Francis stumbled back. "What? Why? Don't you like my company?" He climbed onto the stool again, but Arthur didn't stop him.

"Absolutely not. I despise your company," Arthur sneered, clutching his sketches to his chest. Francis' stupid butt almost crushed his masterpieces. God, didn't Francis check before he sat down?

"Aww, I'm wounded." Francis placed his hand against his chest, feigning being shot in the heart. "Oh well. Your company is rather loathsome too. You're such a stickler."

Arthur sputtered. "I'm not a stickler!"

"Well, then, you're boring, mon ami. Only boring people come to school this early in the morning, when the school is empty and not even the janitors are here."

"That makes you boring too! You're here too!"

"Ah, but mon ami," Francis said, flipping his hair over his shoulder, "I'm here because I have something to do. At least I have a life outside of the classroom, rather than sitting around waiting for a student to enter."

Growling, Arthur slammed his drawings on the table, the paper ruffling. "I am here to do something!"

"Oh? Then what exactly are you doing?" Francis leant forward, resting his arms over each other on the table with his cane dangling at his side.

Immediately, a blush found its way on Arthur's face. He never really demonstrated his drawings before, but it wouldn't exactly be "demonstrating" when the "audience" couldn't see anything. "W-well, I'm drawing. Sketching, to be more accurate."

Francis' face lit up. "Oh, sketching? Of what?"

"Landscape."

"What sort of landscape?"

"Mountains. Trees. Stuff. The usual."

"Sounds beautiful."

Arthur faltered, scowling. Turning his head away, he said, "You don't know that. You can't even see any of my drawings. You even almost sat on them too!"

"Then let me watch you draw."

"You can't even see anything."

"Well, speak of the obvious. But I think you know what I had meant, unless your grip on the English language is rather shaky."

"Like the frog beside me has the right to say that."

Hesitantly, Arthur turned back towards the table, staring at the splay of papers in front of him. The drawings suddenly didn't look as nice as he had thought. None of the lines flowed, and the details were gaudy, hardly natural at all. Plants didn't look like plants, and the clouds looked more like blotches than anything else. But Francis was waiting, sitting there patiently. He might not see, but he was facing Arthur, as if he could. Gulping, Arthur picked up his pencil, shifted to the work he was finishing, and began to draw.

His hands became clammy. His lines became lighter; the scratching of the pencil became faint, as he hoped that Francis wouldn't hear and judge. Eyes shifted back and forth from the page to Francis and his unwavering face, almost soulless when covered by the large sunglasses. For brief moments, Arthur could see through the sunglasses, and saw the foggy, unseeing eyes, surrounded by numerous jagged scars.

Suddenly, Arthur threw down his pencil; Francis jolted up. "Your presence is ruining my sketches!" Arthur announced, glowering at Francis.

"But why? It's beautiful."

Arthur sneered. "You don't know that. You can't support your argument. You don't even know what beauty is when it's right in front of your face."

Francis sighed, bringing his arms closer to his chest. "Then, do you want to go to an art museum tomorrow? It's Saturday, and I heard there are new exhibits and pieces. Do you want to go look through them? It's beautiful."

Arthur hesitated. "Fine."

"Good." Francis slipped off the stool and pushed it under the table. "I'll see you in the front of the Visual Arts Studio tomorrow, at one. Is that fine with you?"

"Fine." Arthur nodded. He knew that Francis wouldn't know what to do tomorrow.