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

Enjoy!

Nihilism

"A child on a farm sees a plane fly overhead and dreams of a faraway place.
A traveller on the plane sees the farmhouse below and dreams of home."
—Robert Brault

One day, Arthur felt compelled to stay afterschool a little late. The end of the year was coming close, and the students and teachers were winding down, including Arthur, who had never relaxed until the end of the school year before. In the years past, he would always follow a strict schedule: wake up at five, arrive to school at six, follow the class rotation, wait after school, when he would either be practicing with the band or monitoring the art students and the after school clubs that were staying late, until around four or half past three if nobody was around, then go back home, finish grading music theory work for about an hour or two, watch his favourite shows at their designated times (he always made room for Doctor Who), at dinner at exactly half past six, and compose or practice some music until he stumbled to bed at eleven. The only times when that schedule would change were during holidays or events, or when he needed to clear his mind. He always had a reason. Never did he break that schedule simply because he was "compelled to."

Staying until six in the evening felt strange to Arthur. Nobody was around. Even the sporting teams had left a while ago. For a brief moment, Arthur felt like he was all alone with the janitors, who would periodically cross him in the hallways and nod towards him politely.

This loneliness was different from his other moments of loneliness after school at home or in the early, early morning hours at school. During those times, he felt satisfied. Refreshed. People were going to arrive soon, or he would be going back to work soon enough. But this loneliness felt stale. The school seemed darker; the lights were on and the sun was still peeping from the horizon, but Arthur felt like the place was dark, as if he were walking through the forest during the dead of night with will-o-wisps bobbing beside him. The place was silent, almost dead. The doors were locked. The janitors had left, for the soft scuffing of their brooms and such disappeared, replaced with silence. All he could hear was the light taps of his shoes against the tiled floor. Something had left the school, and for a brief moment, Arthur thought that it was never going to come back.

He was proven wrong when he passed the art room. Suddenly, there was a crack—a distinct sound of a pen being thrown to the ground. Arthur jerked up. He looked at the doors, but he saw only darkness filter through the cracks and the windows. The art room appeared so distinctly empty that he wondered if he were hallucinating the sound, or there was a ghost floating about. Heart pounding in his chest, he peered in.

On the other side of the art room was a faint, coloured glow he wouldn't have noticed through the window. One of the computers was turned on, and a figure was hunched over the desk, hands holding his head up and fingers going through the locks of blond hair.

"Bonnefoy?" Arthur called.

Francis flinched slightly, but he didn't move. His sunglasses were off, set aside next to the keyboard. Arthur could clearly see the scarred eyes, which were screwed shut.

"Bonnefoy, what are you doing at this late of an hour? Shouldn't you be home?"

Slowly, Francis unfolded himself, rubbing his face with his hands. "Usually I leave at seven, but I'm thinking of going early."

"You better. Even the janitors left a while ago."

"I know." Francis groped around the desk until his hand landed on his sunglasses. Then he put it back where it belonged and reached for the mouse. "Why are you here so late?"

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know. I… guess I just lost track of time."

"Ah. That usually happens."

"Internet Explorer," the computer said. Francis shuffled his hand a bit. "Exit."

"I can turn off the computer. You better get back home. You look tired."

Francis sighed. "Really? Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Go. I don't want to see your ugly face any longer than I have to."

Francis chuckled, shaking his head. Then he thanked Arthur, gathered all his things, and shuffled out of the door without saying another word.

Arthur watched him go. That was strange. He had expected Francis to say something else, or do something—maybe a little hand gesture to the side. But no, he jostled Arthur over, and simply left. Shrugging, Arthur walked over to the computer and took up the mouse. However, something was in the way, and he looked at the desk. A desktop tablet was attached, sitting innocently without a pen. But what was strange about it was that the school didn't have drawing tablets, and Arthur didn't dabble in electronic art. So how did it get there? Again, he shrugged, and pushed the tablet aside so he could move the mouse more freely. He moved the over the many images of the Sistine Chapel on Google, listening to the little blurbs the computer crackled out.

"Adobe Photoshop."

Arthur froze. Photoshop. Why was Photoshop open? He took a seat and searched the little bar on the bottom to find that, indeed, the program was open. Hesitantly, he clicked the icon, expecting to find the program unused, or with a blank canvas.

But instead, he saw thick dark lines all over, strewn haphazardly without any real image. But each stroke seemed to have a purpose, except they had no connection to each other.

Squinting slightly, Arthur tried to make out an image, connecting the lines nearby in order to form a mental image. He had played this sorts of games before; as a child, he would sit at a desk with his friends and they would grab crayons and attempt to draw pictures with their eyes closed, and then guess what they were trying to draw.

A pang shot through his heart. He looked down at the desktop tablet again, eyes wide as his mind recognised what was going on. His hand ran over the top, feeling the deep scratches over the surface. In a fit, he slammed the mouse down, and hit the power button. The computer stopped running. The art room returned into complete darkness. Arthur couldn't see a thing, but when he moved his head to the right, he could see the moon. The beautiful moon that he could draw.

What a fool Francis was; Arthur thought. Only fools would try to draw the Sistine Chapel.