Yo! Hikou no Kokoro back for another Reason chapter. This one's a little longer than the last one. I have a feeling that you might not completely relate to what's going on here, but it's all right. If you have questions, stick it in the reviews and I'll make sure to respond; I respond to every review I get. So well, that's about all I have to say. The next chapter is still in the works, so I hope to see you soon afterwards!

Anyway, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers: Hetalia. It belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I only own the AU plot.

To Create Perfection

"War does not determine who is right—only who is left."
—Bertrand Russel

"Reason 1: Tower of Babel, Part 2"

Gilbert had hated Frederick Hohenzollern with all of his being. His eyes were cold; his wrinkles only showed age but no kindness; his posture was stiff—almost inhuman. And in every way, Frederick was the epitome of every cause of Beilschmidt suffering, from accidents to punishment. Gilbert had firmly believed that Frederick was sadistic enough to put Gilbert and Ludwig every psychological torture imaginable: from the crash of six years ago to the agony of attending the funeral Gilbert hoped to never see.

The first thing Frederick did when they returned was split the brothers apart. Ludwig was sent to the science department, going under the instruction of Roderick Edelstein, who had been the SEP assimilation officer until Francis Bonnefoy replaced him four years later. On the other hand, Gilbert was sent to the military department in Frederick's jurisdiction. Gilbert didn't react kindly the assignments. He kicked and screamed curses through the air as Ludwig was led down the hallways while Frederick dragged him in the other direction. He was terrified that Ludwig would be pushed into the experimentations themselves, and that he would never see his younger brother again. The ideas and possibilities sent bitter tastes through his mouth and jaded him.

Since then, Frederick pushed Gilbert through various training. The boy was sent off to run around the campus, to hop over obstacle courses, to "parkour" from point A to point B, and to use the various types of guns developed since the eighteenth century. However, things didn't stop there. Gilbert was forced to sit around and read military books ranging from Julius Caesar to Napoleon Bonaparte, taught to play chess against Frederick himself, lectured until his ears bled over every theory and law, and quizzed on every little detail he had failed to learn. Failure was common; complaints became second-nature.

To make matters worse, Frederick seemed to think that it was a brilliant idea for Gilbert to compete. The only times when the two brothers were reunited—except for during the night time when they were fast asleep, of course—were when Gilbert and Ludwig were competing against each other on the matters of math and science. Of course, Ludwig had the clear advantage, and he would always win. Gilbert struggled along, only once or twice coming close to victory, and he would always turn around to Frederick for any assistance at all whereas his little brother worked alone. Each defeat was humiliating. Ludwig would always try to play easy, purposefully answering a good handful of questions wrong, but Frederick would demand that he should not do that. And then there was chess. The two males would spend hours on end on opposing sides of the tables playing chess. Gilbert was a slow learner, and for almost a month Gilbert needed Frederick to explain the rules. And then they would play, Frederick always glowering down upon his intern with his cold, cold gaze. Gilbert never seemed to win one chess match, and blunder after blunder littered their games. For many games, Gilbert couldn't even seem to take Frederick's queen and bishops, much less the king. Nobody could understand what exactly the old man was planning.

Then the failures began to fade. People would say that Gilbert had practiced enough. Others would say it was a miracle. But whatever the reason was, Gilbert was finally able to accomplish something.

First came with the guns. Of course it would be from the guns. Months had passed, and Gilbert knew the basics of each firearm given to him. Then one day, Frederick patted Gilbert's shoulder and told him to shoot three shots at the little dot in the centre of a white board. He said that he wanted to see Gilbert to hit the same exact spot in succession. With a slight huff and an eye for failure, Gilbert turned and fired three times. There were two distinct clinks. The three bullets were in a neat line embedded into the board.

The second success was with Ludwig. The victory was from a little "bee" on the subject of basic physics. Somehow, Ludwig had spaced out, and Gilbert remembered his mistakes of weeks before. Frederick had even sat on the side-lines, not saying one hint to Gilbert. Yes, Gilbert had barely gotten a point above his brother, but it was still a win.

And the third one was at chess. The match stretched for over an hour, and Gilbert, true to habit, gnawed down Frederick's number of pawns. Frederick played the same way that would often lead to his own success, but suddenly, Gilbert had gotten to the queen before Frederick could even realise what was going on. From there, the match turned against Frederick, and Gilbert decimated the rest of the pieces before taking victory.

Yes, the rush of accomplishment washed over Gilbert in a brief moment of ecstasy. However, the success on its own didn't make Gilbert addicted to it. Instead the look of sheer pride that came with it was what got Gilbert intoxicated. Frederick would always have a brief moment of shock for the first moment, and suddenly his face would soften. The wrinkles around his eyes and cheeks would curl inwards. A croaked smile would travel across his face. And his blue eyes would warm up like the ocean underneath the sunrise. Frederick didn't need to say a word of praise—Gilbert wouldn't listen to anything anyway—and Gilbert could feel his heart swell. It was what he had yearned for throughout his life, and suddenly, Gilbert thought that he could finally do something—make a name for himself. And that was more than Gilbert could ever ask for.

Frederick Hohenzollern didn't seem like such a bad man anymore. Gilbert noticed that Frederick would smile more, and his tone would seem gentler, even while he was giving an order. But Gilbert was still bitter. After all, Frederick was still the man who had almost sent the Beilschmidt brothers to their deaths, and was the one who separated Gilbert and Ludwig to different departments. Frederick remained as the enemy, but was no longer the Devil.

However, that too didn't last long.

"Hey, Gilbert," Frederick said, watching Gilbert stick out his tongue as he pondered what he should do next in this game of Risk.

"What?" Gilbert snapped back. He was losing miserably, stranded in the middle of Europe by enemy troops, but that didn't stop him from trying. So he fortified and refrained from attacking.

"We're going to Canada next week. Pack your bags."

That got Gilbert's attention; he shot up, prying his eyes from the game board. "What? Really? What for?" He didn't notice his mentor sweeping the little figurines off the board. There was no way poor Gilbert would win with only five pieces in Germany while Frederick himself had the whole world in his palm.

"For enjoyment." Frederick placed the pieces in their rightful bags and then folded the board up. "Besides, it's hunting season now." He looked at his intern, a smirk growing over his chapped lips. "I want to see you actually bring a trophy home."

Gilbert grinned back. "You won't be disappointed."

"I know I won't."

Gilbert loved those words. Warmth flowed into the pit of his stomach, and he felt an exhilaration he would forever cherish. Maybe that was when he began to truly like Frederick, but the line from hate to adoration was foggy.

Nevertheless, that was when Gilbert began to call Frederick "Fritz." It was one of those cute endearments to show his adoration, and it stuck. Even little Ludwig would smile and say, "Good morning, Alte Fritz." Some brave souls would also call the leader the nickname, but Gilbert would often chase them off it. After all, Gilbert wanted to be the only one. "Hey, Fritz!" he would call. "Oy, Fritzy," he would sometimes greet Frederick, running up to the old man and leaping into a giant hug, or as Frederick would say, a "killer tackle." "You watching, Old Fritz?" Gilbert would often ask when the man didn't seem to be listening because he was busy with his own work or was beginning to doze off. Despite its common usage, Frederick didn't respond when Gilbert first called him "Fritz" on the plane to Canada. "Hey, Fritz, Fritz, Fritz, Fritz," Gilbert had chanted, bouncing in his seat. Frederick gave the boy a cursory glance and disregarded the strange antic until Gilbert stole the hat on Frederick's head and shouted, "Earth to Old Fritz!" And from then on, Frederick would always respond to the eccentric pet name in fear that Gilbert would again be obnoxious while trying to get his attention. After all, that plane ride to Canada was unbearably annoying.

Canada was nothing like Gilbert had seen. Patches and patches of large, deep green forests scattered over the location, each tree growing naturally in the dirt that would crumble within the fingers. There weren't many cities around, but Fritz did warn Gilbert that it was because they were in the least populated area of the country, and the houses were small, rustic, and made of brick and wood rather than metal and concrete. And there was no scent of the ocean either; instead, the air smelled more like snow and evergreens. The living beings that wandered over the land weren't simply birds that flew over the sea or dead marine creatures sold on the seafood market either. More than once Gilbert saw bunnies, badgers, beavers and deer scampering away, and one time was fortunate enough to watch a small brown bear clamber up a tree. Everything in Canada seemed awfully primitive and simple, in a strange, complex way as people did extra work to achieve what Gilbert could simply press a few buttons to do. However, the atmosphere seemed nicer. The clouds were lazy; the people sat quietly beside each other, enjoying the company without needing a conversation to lead them; time seemed to be a path to enjoy rather than an antagonist to race against. Gilbert quite liked the place, enjoying the completely different pace from his stressful days in a perfectionist society, and Fritz relaxed more as he pushed aside his paperwork and simply wrote what he wanted. Canada's ambience had helped both of them.

But the two males didn't go there to get away from the stresses and work of the World Domain expectations. The retreat was part of the package. Instead, they intended to go there to hunt ducks and deer, and that was what they did. Every day for a span of a little less than a week, the two would slink out of their boarding and skitter into the forests with guns in hand and hunting permits stuffed in their back pockets. The first day seemed like a lesson; Fritz held the guns and taught Gilbert what to do with himself when he found game in his line of sight. During that first day, Fritz shot down a deer, and the animal fell to the ground before it could dash out and bleed from the bullet wound. Gilbert had the most comical expression of admiration; Fritz almost regretted not bringing a camera to take a picture. Then they moved the deer and sold the carcass whole for a cheap price. After that, Gilbert was given a chance to shoot for himself with Fritz following close behind and handing him useful pointers. Gilbert had a clear knack for shooting ducks, easily aiming into the sky and hitting the birds. They lost a few birds when they couldn't find where the avian creatures hit the ground, but Gilbert managed to bring home five ducks in total to sell. Of course, Fritz only shot down three, one of the birds they ended up losing, and left the hunting to Gilbert.

Despite Gilbert's success in ducks, he was still not satisfied. He wanted to get a deer. Just one deer—that would be his trophy. Yes, he knew he wasn't going to be as amazing or skilled as Fritz, but he wanted to be close enough. Fritz completely supported Gilbert's goals, and whenever they spotted a member of the quadrupedal specie, Fritz would crouch down and mutter quiet instructions to his protégé. However, although Gilbert would take every word to heart, he would only be close to succeeding, but never quite getting there. Why? Because Fritz wouldn't let him.

One time, Gilbert had seen the flash of a white tail, the rustle of leaves, and the beady eyes of a head. He could see the animal clearly and crouched down to take aim at the black eye. The deer was still, staring at something else, and Gilbert knew that success was almost guaranteed, only if his aim remained true. After running all of Fritz's advice through his head, Gilbert fired.

Two shots echoed through the trees.

And the deer ran off, unharmed.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Gilbert shouted, swivelling and glaring at Fritz and his smoking rifle.

Fritz laughed. "You're too good at this. There is no way I'm going to keep this easy for you," he replied.

The pair spent their days doing that. Whenever Gilbert would take aim at a deer in hopes of success, Fritz would fire a warning blank before Gilbert could shoot, and the target animal would dash away unscathed. Gilbert got frustrated easily, and Fritz would always offer a kind smile and snicker. Nevertheless, the boy felt honoured that Fritz thought that he could handle an extra challenge. But it still irked him, and the countless times he could taste victory would always run out of his hands.

However, one day Gilbert spotted a deer peeking through the bushes. It was grazing on a small patch of grass. Beside him, Fritz seemed to be busy with something else, sidling against a tree and looking in the opposite direction. Gilbert smirked and quickly took his chance, kneeling down so he could remain unseen. He took aim and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Gilbert stared and his jaw dropped. He swore he had loaded the rifle only moments before. Quickly he pulled his rifle back, glancing at Fritz. The old man seemed to be still unaware. That meant Gilbert needed to work as quickly as possible. He moved the mechanisms in the back, swinging out the little knife-like part. The gun was loaded. Then that meant it must be jammed. He swung the gun so the barrel was aimed downwards and, just as how he had been taught, he tried to pull the gun apart from the underbelly of the trigger.

The gun fired.

Pain coursed up from Gilbert's foot, but his mind couldn't register it. All he knew was that the deer ran off and blood was staining the dirt underneath him. Fritz had run up to his side and was saying something. The old man was talking in a mixture of calm orders and shouts. Gilbert could see Fritz's blue eyes widening. The next thing he knew, Fritz dropped their equipment and picked Gilbert up.

Then Fritz had brought Gilbert to a hospital nearby. Luckily, the wound had not been serious and the bullet was lodged between two bones, so there was no long-term damage done, although the surgeons removing the ammunition had a tough time. And Gilbert didn't need to stay in the hospital for long either.

However, when he would finally be withdrawn, he and Fritz would have to return to BCWD. Gilbert had burst into tears upon the realisation. It was a stupid thing to cry about. But the week of hunting was important to both Fritz and himself, more so for Fritz, in Gilbert's opinion. And Gilbert had ruined it. He had failed simply because he was too stupid and too careless with his gun. He should have known to stick the safety on and unload the gun before he tried to fix any of the mechanisms, but he had forgotten. Because of his mistake, Fritz had to return to his desk earlier than planned. Fritz must have been so disappointed in Gilbert that day. And that was Gilbert's biggest fear.

When Fritz first visited Gilbert, the boy had been moody. He slumped against the bed pillows, arms crossed over his chest. He didn't dare look at his mentor when the man entered, opting to glare out the window. His bandaged foot was propped up and covered by his blanket. He didn't want Fritz to see his bleeding foot. Fritz had offered Gilbert a small smile. But Gilbert huffed, scowling.

"Are you okay, Gilbert?" Fritz asked. There was a plastic chair set next to the bed, but Fritz sat on the edge of the mattress instead.

"Yeah…" Gilbert replied. His voice shook.

Fritz sighed. The smile disappeared. "Gilbert, you should have been careful. Didn't I tell you that misfiring is the most common hunting mistake? You could have seriously hurt yourself, or somebody else."

"I know…" Gilbert's tone was low. "I should have turned on the safety and unloaded the gun or something… But I didn't, so I got hurt."

"Exactly. It could have been worse." Fritz paused for a moment, looking at his folded hands on his lap. Then he continued, "You're getting out of the hospital tomorrow. I'll pick you up and we're going straight to the plane. Don't worry about the bags; I'll pack everything."

Gilbert sucked in a sharp breath. "Can't we stay one more day? Just one?"

"Why?" Fritz looked back at Gilbert. The poor boy was shaking and tears were running down his face.

"Just one more day of hunting. I won't make any mistakes anymore. I promise," Gilbert sputtered out. "I'll do everything right and get things done. I'll make sure to be careful with the gun. You won't have to help me all the time!"

"Don't worry about it, Gilbert."

Gilbert sniffled, looking up at Fritz with reddening eyes. With a kind smile, Fritz patted the boy's head.

"I'm proud of you."