Yo, Hikou no Kokoro here, bringing you another Law chapter. This time around, we're focusing a bit on Alistair. We have finally passed through my first developmental checkpoint, so here on out, you'll be seeing things slowly spiral down and answers coming up. But anyway, I probably won't be able to update as often as I do now, unfortunately, but I will try.

Anyway, special thanks to my wonderful reviewers: firelight3, Crazy Green Earphones, and Fei. You guys are the reason why I keep writing! Thank you!

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers: Hetalia. It rightfully belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I merely own the AU plot.

To Create Perfection

"While there is perhaps a province in which the photograph can tell us nothing more than what we see with our own eyes,
There is another in which it proves to us how little our eyes permit us to see."
—Dorothea Lange

"Law 6: One Moment, Please"

Alistair had never thought that he would be riding in Francis' car. It wasn't that he didn't like the vehicle—oh, no, it was a nice thing with its clean and slick design and motor, and the ride wasn't sickening either, although the sun repeatedly shone at his eyes as it began to set towards the west, and that was annoying. It was simply that he never thought he was going to be seeing Francis again. When he was brought all the way to SS-24 and back in order to eat at some strange French restaurant, he had thought that it would be a "one time" thing. There would be no more "Francis." Alistair had wanted things that way.

And then Arthur finally told Alistair that Francis was Arthur's mentor.

Well, that had explained a lot. Actually, it explained only a few things, but they were the more important ones, like how Arthur would always complain about stupid Frenchmen, or how Francis seemed to have gotten into his head that living with an irritating Brit and a jaded brother would be a great idea—it was not, but Francis never seemed mind—or how Alistair suddenly found himself in Francis' car and on his way, with his brother, to move into Francis' residence. Alistair never quite understood how exactly that happened, since the details had alluded him at the time and Arthur wasn't the go-to person when it came to explaining complicated situations, but at least he had gotten the summary of the reason, and that was more than he could ever hope for, even during the times in the future when he would never seem to be listening to what was going on around him.

So Alistair had been pretty confused on the ride towards Francis' house, which wasn't actually that far from either BCWD campus or Arthur's flat but it seemed like it was, whether because Francis' was taking an outrageous amount of detours, or because Alistair hated the ride over. Alistair had originally wanted to sit in the passenger's seat, like had done only two days before, but after Francis helped Arthur stuff a surprising amount of possessions into Francis' vehicle, the two blonds both agreed that somebody with only one leg would be more comfortable sitting in the back with all of the stuff at his feet than somebody with both legs. So almost like a piece of baggage, Alistair had been thrown behind the two, where the bags of clothes, rations, dismantled chairs, and pair of crutches were sitting on two other seats and the ground. Sure, his lack of one leg gave him more room in his seat, but his one good leg was twisted on top of a sack of clothes. So like the ride before, Alistair sat, uncomfortable, not knowing what exactly was going on.

But unlike before, the time didn't pass by quietly. In fact, it was far from silent; the radio wasn't even on and Alistair didn't say a word at all. Yet, the car was filled with what Francis called a "conversation," what Arthur called "argument," and what Alistair called "absolute hell." And it indeed was "absolute hell."

"This is going to be great!" Francis sang, his blue eyes not quite intent on the road as they should have been. "Now I can drive you to BCWD—you don't need to walk to and from anymore. And then we can work together better, since we will see each other every day!"

"That's the worst part!" Arthur was screeching. "I don't want to see you more than I have to!"

"Well, I would make it a rule that you'd have to pluck your eyebrows every day, but I'm such a great person by letting you stay without any conditions."

"You're a terrible person!"

"That's because you're jealous that I have a heart of gold."

"Heart of gold? Black ink runs through your veins!"

"Mon chéri, it's not possible to have black ink as blood."

"Neither is a heart of gold!"

"I had meant that as a metaphor."

"I was too!"

"No, you weren't."

"Yes, I was! Now shut your mouth!"

"Now, somebody is moody today."

"I am not moody!"

"Don't worry, mon chéri. My beautiful, French charm will make you feel better." Francis looked away from the road, winked, and used both of his hands to blow Arthur a kiss. Immediately, Arthur freaked.

"Keep your hands on the wheel!"

Arthur lunged. The car jerked to the left, and behind, Alistair blanched. The three men could see the path of the road disappear and turn into a wall of buildings. Luckily, Francis picked things up before damage could be done, brushing Arthur's hands off the steering wheel and taking back control.

"Arthur, what was that for?" Francis asked, eyes widening and glancing back and forth to check for any damages.

"Trying to save us! You were the one who took your hands off the wheel!" Arthur shrank into his seat. "We could've gotten killed, you know!"

"We wouldn't have gotten killed." Francis exhaled and pushed a lock of blond hair behind his ear. Evidently, he had calmed back down and deemed the situation all right. "With your stunt, we would have then. You nearly ran us into a building. You're lucky that I saved us." His blue eyes peered towards Arthur, but continued to focus on what was ahead.

"No, I wouldn't have," Arthur denied. His arms were crossed over his chest, and Alistair knew that the silly blond knew that he had overreacted.

"Just trust my judgement on this one, mon chéri."

Then the rest of the ride continued like that, Arthur denying his mistake and Francis trying to get the younger Kirkland to trust that Francis knew what he was doing. Of course, neither side was doing well. The conversation became merely a drone through the car until Francis turned on the radio to a classical station to fill in the gaps that permeated between each exchange. That didn't last long though, for Francis pulled into a driveway before the first song finished playing.

The house was rather small and almost archaic looking, reaching only two stories high, and probably having a little basement in a desperate attempt to add more space. Unlike all the other buildings in Central, the architecture was made entirely out of bricks except for the roof, which was made of tin folded up to let rain drain out. The method of construction was one of the past, when advanced designs weren't around to allow homes to last through the centuries. Cracks and holes littered the sides of the walls where erosion and weeds gnawed away the man-made home. And in the light of the disappearing sun, the walls appeared dark and deteriorating. Despite its less durable and comfortable appearance, it occupied a hefty amount of land. A lawn was big enough to have five rows of dirt mounds where flowers could have been grown. Francis must have paid a lot in order to own that much in the tiny island of the World Domain, but he appeared entirely satisfied about his home.

Arthur didn't say a word as he got out of the car. He wasn't pleased with how the home appeared to be something from a museum; however, he couldn't complain about Francis' choice of home. So he simply moved around the motor vehicle to help his brother out of the car. But by then, the older Kirkland not only had slipped himself under the door and retrieved his crutches, but also was leaning into the car to drag out some of the lighter bags.

"What? You think I'm a weak invalid?" Alistair snapped, tucking the walking aids underneath his arms and hooking the baggage handles onto the crutch handles. "I can still carry my own."

In response, Arthur rolled his eyes. "Of course." Then, shoving his brother to the side, he reached into the car to gather the rest of the items stuck in between and on the seats.

Francis joined them outside afterwards, a smile crossing over his face as he gestured to the front door with his thumb. "The door's unlocked," he told the Kirkland brothers. And then he moved to the back to open up the trunk and plug in a wire into an outlet on the edge of driveway.

Then they began to move everything. Luckily, there wasn't much in the first place. In fact, it appeared like the Kirkland brothers were a pair of extravagant vacationers rather than two people moving into a new home. The financial tightness left little to no room for anything other than the bare necessities, and the furniture was sold off to rack in some extra money. So in reality, they lugged around only clothes, blankets, toiletries, two laptops, leftover food, and tiny, personal trinkets into the home.

The interior of the house was much nicer than the exterior. The walls and ceiling were of a white plaster covered with simple, swirling designs, and the floor was wood with a veneer of wax to give the orange-red a light sheen. The small area made integrating Kirkland possessions with Francis' much easier, as they didn't need to wander through many rooms. In fact, the first floor only consisted of a kitchen, a dining room, and a bathroom. And because of the small space, Francis had only the simplest décor, despite his extravagant tendencies, for the dining room only had small television and table with chairs, and the kitchen was left clean with only cooking utensils and ingredients as the only "embellishments." The only things that stuck out with the home were the dog bowl and chew toys, which Alistair tripped over two times, but there was no dog in sight. When Arthur asked about them, Francis shrugged and told them that he had been planning of getting a dog, but he had changed his mind. In the end, Arthur and Alistair were quite happy with the home, although it was rather eccentric despite its friendly ambience.

After about half an hour or so, Arthur tossed the final bag on wooden floor at the front door and then bent down to remove his shoes, like a proper gentleman. Alistair was standing beside him and when he realised that he was hopping dirt all over clean, shining floorboards, he fell onto his butt and pulled off his one shoe. Only Francis chuckled at that, and Arthur, instead of Alistair, glared up.

"All right, I'll just move everything up to your room, and you two can unpack later," Francis said with a kind smile. He offered Alistair some help up, but the redhead swatted the hand away and pushed himself off the floor. "Put your leftover food in the refrigerator over there, and I can use it to make breakfast for tomorrow. But by all means, microwave the stuff if you're hungry. I'll be in the shower if any of you need me."

"Right. Thanks, Bonnefoy," Arthur said. He took his shoes and Alistair's one and pushed them to the side so they lined up against wall. Francis had carelessly kicked off his own and they were in two different places, but Arthur made no move to put them together with the other three. "Where would the bedrooms be?"

The elder blond pointed up the carpeted stairway on the left. From where the three stood, they could see a bit of a hallway that went right and a door left slightly ajar revealing a sliver of the bathroom. "Up there. First one on the right. That's the guests' room, so you can do whatever you want there."

Then there was silence. Arthur and Francis stared at each other, both of their expressions slowly turning confused as if they were waiting for the other to say something.

"And…?" Arthur finally said.

"And what?"

"The other bedroom?"

Francis' blond eyebrows inched together, one on the right slowly approaching his hairline. "Other bedroom? What do you mean by that? You two will be in the same room. It's big enough for both of you."

The edges of Arthur's mouth turned downwards. "I'm not sleeping with my brother."

"Nobody says that you'll be sleeping with him." Francis picked up some of the baggage. "I have two beds there, separated by a nightstand."

Arthur's scowl deepened and he folded his arms over his chest. "No. I meant that I wasn't going to be sleeping in the same room as he is."

"Oh, I get it." Francis nodded as the smile returned on his face. "If one of you wants, you can come over to my room. My bed is big enough for two." He winked.

Arthur's face turned a dark red and his teeth grinded against each other. He was livid—appalled by such a suggestion. "Not like that, stupid pervert. Don't you have any other bedrooms?" Alistair knew his brother well enough that Arthur would demand sleeping on the couch if there were indeed no rooms left. Of course, sleeping on couches everyday wouldn't be the best of ideas, but Arthur's pride normally got the best of him anyway.

Francis sucked a deep breath through his nose. Then he paused before exhaling through his mouth. "I do. It's my… my wife's old room." His blue eyes turned upwards for a moment before returning to hold Arthur's gaze. "One of you can go sleep there until she comes back. Just don't move anything in there, please."

The younger blond pulled back and chewed his lip. His green eyes shot towards his brother, who leant against the wall with both crutches tucked on one side. There was another moment of silence.

This time Alistair cut it off, grumbling, "I'll take that."

Both blond men looked at the redhead with mild surprise. Then, catching on, Francis pointed back up the stairway again. "All right. It's all the way on the end to the left, but not at the very end. The one there is mine."

Alistair nodded and peeled himself away from the wall, tucking his crutches under his arms. "Thanks." Then he turned and started up the stairs.

"Wait, where are you going?" Francis called.

"To sleep."

"Really? Are you that tired?"

"Exhausted."

"How about your bags? Should I bring those up?"

"I'll get them tomorrow."

Alistair continued up the stairs, not sparing anybody another glance even when he managed to get to the top. He could almost hear Francis and Arthur glance at each other and shrug. The two blonds talked about the boarding arrangements, but Alistair didn't listen to anything. As long as they left him alone, he was happy with whatever came his way. Without another thought, he hobbled down the hallway and turned into the door on the far left. Then he turned the doorknob and entered.

For some odd reason, the room seemed familiar, but Alistair didn't know how. The place looked like something from a monastery. Only a bed, a desk, a lampstand and a bookshelf stood as the décor. The walls were painted a tinted pink that almost looked blank if it weren't for the white ceiling and the brown flooring. The only source of lighting would have been from the large window on the far wall beside the bookcase, and the single lamp on the desk beside the bed. Nevertheless, there was light ambience permeating through—maybe it had been from the bright colours and the wooden furniture. Or maybe it was the light but strange scent of flowers.

But when Alistair closed the door behind him, he suddenly realised how lonely the room seemed. Dust covered the floor just beyond the entrance and then disappeared to reveal the glossy wood flooring. The bed was perfectly made: sheets were tucked under the mattress and appeared as if they were ironed there. An empty glass was beside the lamp. A waterline ran through the middle of the cup; whatever had been there must have evaporated long ago. A book was left open on the desk, as if it were petrified there. Carefully, Alistair hobbled over and closed it. A pen was holding a page somewhere else, so he pulled that out as well. It was a Holy Bible. Actually, it was an awfully strange Bible; notes were written all over the margins and post-its marked a few pages, but Alistair didn't bother to read any of that. He found it strange that somebody would write over such a sacred book, but it wasn't like he knew any better. The spine was creased, and the book appeared almost permanently open for the soft cover curled upwards. Deciding to fix this, Alistair picked the tome up and went towards the bookshelf. Unfortunately, there weren't many books lining the shelves, and vases of wilting lilies and framed pictures seemed to dominate the "library."

As Alistair slipped the Bible between two hardcover books titled Les Misérables and Inferno, something caught his eye. It was a marriage photo: Francis was standing on the right with a pure white tuxedo on; his wife stood on the right. The two appeared absolutely ecstatic. Francis was winking at the camera and blowing a kiss, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of his bride, who in turn cuddled next to him with mouth open with laughter. Both of their wedding bands could be seen on their fingers: Francis' on the hand held out towards the camera, and the bride's on the hand squished between the groom and her.

The woman was absolutely stunning. Her cut hair, cut even shorter than Francis', appeared to reflect the light of the sun, and she had the biggest, blue eyes that brimmed with utter happiness and optimism. Her teeth peeking under her lips were a bit crooked and small in her mouth, but they seemed to add a certain rustic charm to her smile tracing over her round face. And her dress seemed to only accentuate those qualities, being of a simple, silky material that tumbled down her body in light waves. The veil, which fell to her feet, flowed with her hair, keeping the feminine appearance over her boyish hairstyle. She did not appear to be wearing any earrings, but it seemed like they were unneeded. Instead, the only piece of jewellery she had on her was a simple cross necklace made of shining steel and a handful little, red beads.

Suddenly, a dark feeling fell into the pit of Alistair's stomach. It wormed, thrashed and screamed. He felt sick, but he didn't want to put the picture away, still staring at it with a heavy, guilty gaze. He didn't know how long he was standing there, but when he heard footsteps crossing past the door, he finally placed the photograph upside-down, its stand resting flat against the covering of the back. There was no more need to look at such grotesque memories, and Alistair knew enough already.

So placing his crutches against the wall beside the bed, he crawled under the covers. Silently, Alistair apologised and tucked himself into bed. Then he fell asleep.

But Alistair could still smell the flowers—musty and filled with honey and dirt. It reminded him of many things. Like gunpowder and explosions. Dust flying all over the place with fire bursting from the ground. Oil seeping through metallic parts and legs. Sparks and smoke flying off of weapons and people. And blood. Flowers smelt like blood; lilies like tears. And somebody clinging to his shoulders and crying words of heavy confessions. And screams in agony and despair. And orders shouted by officers. No, those were sounds, like the deafening silence that came with popped eardrums. Or like when two people, a man and then a woman, told him, "Fire." Wait, had it been like when two people told him to fire? Or had it just been one person—a woman with a tinkling voice? Yes, flowers smelt like a tinkling voice telling him, "Fire," and like the heaviness as he suddenly realised that when he had thought he killed two people, he had actually killed three.

What a terrible smell.