Special thanks to marinoa for reviewing the story; marinoa, LawlietLight7, Cami Boricua and Kignon for subscribing; and LawlietLight7 and Cami Boricua for favouriting! You guys are why I'm still writing and updating!

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, and all information comes from observation and speculation. Please do not reference.

Enjoy!

Nihilism

"To crooked eyes truth may wear a wry face"
―J.R.R. Tolkien

Arthur met Francis in the front of the art museum. While Arthur had arrived at one sharp, having eaten his lunch while he walked, Francis came later, about 15 minutes to be exact. He kept turning his head, sliding his pale hand against the railing looking out at the river and gripping his cane so tightly that it trembled along the ground. Arthur scowled, watching Francis approach from the left. He paused until he called out to Francis.

"Bonnefoy, you're late."

Francis turned his head directly towards Arthur. A grin split his face, and he parted from the railing. "Arthur! You're here!"

"And you're bloody late. You told me one o'clock, but here you are, 15 minutes late," Arthur leered.

"Oh, but mon ami, I'm only fashionably late," Francis said with a chuckle.

"I had to wait for you!"

"Why, thank you. I knew you liked me enough to wait for me."

"I didn't wait for you because of how much I liked you—which, by the way, I can't like you any less than I already do—but because we had agreed at a time and place for this appointment."

"Oh, is this a date I'm hearing?" Francis asked, cupping his hand near his ear. "Why, Arthur, I didn't know you were the indirect romantic."

"Not date. An appointment. Like going to the dentist for a root canal. Or going to take my wisdom teeth out."

"Why, Arthur, I didn't know you were into roleplaying either. How dirty."

Arthur was tempted to kick Francis in the shin and watch him fall to the ground, but he was afraid of getting sued, so he imagined throwing Francis into the river. In the end, he turned around and resorted to muttering under his breath, "Not only ignorant, cocky and shameless, but flamboyantly queer too. Inappropriate in all situations possible."

Francis pouted. "That's mean to say."

"I'll say what I wish around you. You deserve it," Arthur snapped. "Let's just go. It's about time I prove my point." Then he turned and entered the museum, which was open to the public. Francis followed closely behind with one hand outstretched towards Arthur.

White greeted them. The whole museum was white; the podiums, ceiling tiles, walls, lights, floor, they were an immaculate white. It was like walking into a dying hospital. The few people and children who wandered in appeared like splashes of colours, wandering and moving across a still canvas. The paintings stood starkly against its surroundings. There was nothing except the paintings and the people. Arthur could hear the few bits of words exchanged between the viewers, but besides that, all he could hear were the shoes scrapping and clicking against the tiled floor.

Arthur felt Francis' hand going around his wrist. He slapped it away. "So where do you want to go?" Arthur whispered, afraid to cut through the silence with his voice.

"Somewhere. Surprise me," Francis replied. His voice carried through building and rooms. Heads turned towards him and stared. They didn't look away, and Arthur could feel his heart clench.

"Quiet down," Arthur murmured.

"Why? This isn't a library."

"Just shut up, will you?"

Francis sighed, his fingers curling into his palms. "Fine…"

"Good." Arthur straightened, waving the stares around them away. "Let's… Let's go…" He paused, glancing around. It seemed like this was where the surreal paintings were. "Let's go look at the surreal paintings."

"Oh, I love surrealism."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Figured you would."

Then he blazed down the exhibit. Francis followed close behind, stuttering in his steps and tapping the Arthur's heels with his cane. He called for Arthur to slow down, but Arthur didn't want to. In his mind, the paintings weren't all that unique, and he only gave them cursory glances. They each followed a particular "formula" for the given "genre," like a copy of Salvador Dali.

Suddenly, Arthur stopped. Francis bumped into Arthur's back, sending both of them stumbling forward. Arthur luckily caught them both and gave Francis a glare before returning to the painting, his face twisting with disgust.

"You finally stopped," Francis said, his breath short and relieved. "Did something catch your eye?"

"Something grotesque," Arthur replied, scowling as he looked over the painting. It was of a toilet covered with eyeballs. The style was horrific, with sketchy strokes and dark colours. There was no background, only a reddish black. The eyeballs peered up at the viewer, and Arthur could see yellow water in the bowl. The object and eyes were twisted and human-like; if Arthur were to tilt his head to the side, the toilet didn't look like a toilet at all with it's almost indiscernible shape. "Who in their bloody mind would think of something like this, much less paint it?"

"Well, it's still art. Grotesque is art too, you know."

"But it's a… toilet… with stuff on it. Eyeballs, and they're peering right at you. Who drew this? A pervert?"

"Oh, Arthur, you simply don't understand it. There is a lot of meaning in a toilet with stuff in it. Look at the colouring of the dirtied white. It could convey…"

Francis trailed off, talking with large gestures and describing what he couldn't see. Speculation flowed from his mouth, as if he were some intelligent art critic, pointing out colours, technique, placement and symbols. All of them seemed made up. He talked about the faecal matter depicted in the toilet bowl and around it; there was no faecal matter anywhere, unless Francis was talking about the dark background surrounding the misshapen toilet, which Francis was describing as something clear and distinct. And Francis was talking about the eyeballs peering from the toilet as if they were those peering from a face, and that the toilet was a metaphor for humans and faces, begging for empathy. The speculation couldn't have been anymore incorrect; there were multiple eyeballs, and not a face could be seen in the painting. The toilet was nothing more than a grotesque a nightmare.

Eventually, Arthur didn't hear Francis' words. He just let Francis trail off, keeping silent as if he were listening to the bullshit comments. He wanted to find something else—anything to distract him. He glanced to the left. Then he glanced to the right. He even looked behind him. Nothing particularly attracted him, and nothing he could deem as something worthy for his attention.

That was until he peered around the column holding the toilet painting. He saw a beautiful, romantic Renaissance painting in the exhibit past surrealism. It grabbed his attention like a claw. He needed to look at it closely. So silently, he walked away from Francis—he could deal with himself; after all, he walked from his home to the art museum by himself—and into the room over. Slowly, he approached the painting in all of its framed glory, examining it as he walked until he stopped only a mere foot away. And there he stood, staring. He didn't want to leave. The sounds of outside and the mutters and footsteps from other people drowned away. There was nothing except Arthur and that painting. Not even time touched him.

"Arthur? Where are you?"

The panicked voice jolted Arthur from his reverie. He turned and saw Francis walking through the rooms, tapping his cane but not registering what was in front of him. Francis bumped into somebody, quickly excused himself, and continued moving. He threaded back into the surrealist room, nearly stubbing his toe into a podium. He called again and again, his voice getting louder and starting to shake. People around him peered at him curiously, but nobody spoke up. Finally, with a sigh, Arthur walked over to Francis.

"I'm here, Bonnefoy."

Francis snapped around. His face had paled and sweat trickled from his forehead. His fingers had kept running through his blond locks to the point that his hair looked unkempt, and more strands hung loose from his ponytail in the back.

"Arthur?"

"I'm right here, Bonnefoy," Arthur repeated, reaching over and tugging on Francis' sleeve. "What has gotten you all worked up?"

"Oh… You just left me suddenly and didn't tell me," Francis replied. His other hand groped around, looking for Arthur's hand.

Arthur scoffed. "What? I need to get permission to walk around on my own now? I'm not two, Bonnefoy."

"I know… But it would have been nice if you told me beforehand." He laughed. "You know, it's just uh… teacher's instincts. You sort of freak out when you don't know where people are, since you work with children all the time. And… and…"

Arthur sighed. "I get it; I get it. It happens to all the teachers eventually, in a way, I guess." He pulled Francis' hand away from him and put some distance between himself and Francis.

"So, did you find anything that caught your attention?"

"Well, yes, actually. It's a Renaissance painting, of sorts."

Francis' face lit up. "I figured you'd like the more romantic, classical works. So what is it?"

A smile crept across Arthur's face and he sighed. The mere memory of the painting created a duplicate image of it in front of him. He could stare at it all day.

"It's beautiful."