Hiya, Hikou no Kokoro back again! Somehow managed to get this chapter finished relatively on time. Granted, this chapter is a chunk shorter than normal. Nevertheless, it's up! Woot! Hopefully I'll get the next chapter up soon as well. That thing will be longer.

Special thanks to my reviewers: crazeENnes and Rufescent. You guys are the reason why I keep writing!

Unfortunately, I have also neglected those who alert and favourite this story. So thank you to CrazyGirl19, Froggiecool, Imaginary-Dreams-Writer, The Hero15, crazeENnes and firelight3 for favouriting! And Amy Kitty Katz, Awesome11, BrOwNiEfOx, CharlRhodes, CrazyGirl19, Dysle xic Badger, FlyingLikeAButterfly, ForestFireSong, Fourth in Command Cixalea Jwan, Froggiecool, Fruitjuice100, HeroicVal-Rye, Jillo96, Ma liceArchangela, Rufescent, Smileypants, Super Serious Gal 3, The Hero15, amazon9398, amichalap, cheshiresapprentice, crazeENnes, crazychick6692, crystal5207, firelight3, greekkittyartemis and unblemishedworld! I'm sorry I forgot you for the past 13 chapters. Thank you all for your support and I hope to keep up or exceed your expectations! You guys are also the reason why I keep writing!

Well, I hope you all enjoy!

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

To Create Perfection

"Try not to become a man of success, but rather try to become a man of value."
—Albert Einstein

"Law 8: Watching Miracles"

Alistair had gotten up really late that day. He woke up at the usual time—he had heard the clatter from the kitchen, slam of the door, and the voices and footsteps of Francis and Arthur—but he spent two hours lying in bed and staring at the ceiling rather than just one. He did nothing except tense his hands, curl his toes, and glance at the bumpy patterns above him. After that, even Alistair had no idea what he was doing of what he was thinking about. His mind was blank, and he was bored but he didn't get up to find anything to do—not like he had any work to do except some simple housecleaning. Alistair just didn't feel physically able to pull himself out of bed, so he didn't stress himself to do so. After all, nobody was there to tell him what to do; it was like that every day, and he was used to staying home alone with not one soul to keep him company.

Well, that wasn't true. Francis' wife kept him company, standing behind a glass pane with a permanent smile on her face. Every day, after getting up, Alistair would hobble to the bookshelf, pick up the picture frame and stare. He wouldn't do anything for a few minutes except stare, incoherent and uninterpretable thoughts running through his mind too quickly for his memory bank to store. It wasn't that he was obsessive, per say, nor was he jealous of Francis' happy marriage. He was afraid of forgetting everything he had done, and everything he hadn't done. They became his defining characteristics. Every failure, every success, and every gut-wrenching motive and haunting inspiration—they were all Alistair had, and without them, then he was worse off than he already was. Jeanne just so happened to exemplify everything Alistair was, or wasn't. She was a constant reminder of everything he had to do behind people's backs. Alistair didn't have the heart to add more onto his hands.

The front door opened and closed. Alistair's hands clenched, fingernails digging into his palm. The thick, red eyebrows inched together, making a mountain in the middle of his forehead. Only one pair of footsteps clicked against the ground. The "intruder" was obviously Francis. He was the only who walked with a bouncy gait with a strange heaviness on one foot, whereas Arthur's steps were quicker, lighter and more even albeit messier because the young Kirkland had a terrible habit of going in circles to second-guess and double-check on things. Then when Alistair could hear high-pitched whistling to some piece by Tchaikovsky, the inference was further validated.

For the next few minutes, Alistair listened to Francis' movements downstairs. All he could hear, unfortunately, was Francis' footsteps, some clanking, and more whistling. At random points, Alistair couldn't hear anything at all, unable to discern what Francis was doing.

Then there was a clunk. Alistair could easily recognise that sound as Francis tossing his shoes in a corner near the front door; Alistair himself had done that several times, so he knew. Immediately afterwards, Francis' footsteps came closer. They were lighter since he had taken off his shoes, and the padding of his socks muffled most of the sound, but that didn't make Francis' gait any less noticeable especially since the blond man liked to place his heel first when walking up stairs instead of his toes first like everybody else. Only a minute passed and then the steps stopped. Well, they sounded like they had stopped, but Alistair knew better. Francis must have been shuffling his socks across the wooden floor. For some odd reason, Francis was extraordinarily quiet when he wanted to, even though his regular walking patterns were anything but. But maybe it was because of how the floor's veneer was, or how soft his socks were; somehow, the two would create minimal friction, so minimal noise. Alistair couldn't count how many times Francis would use that technique to sneak up on either Kirklands, but mainly Arthur since Alistair had hit Francis across the head with a crutch.

Finally, Francis knocked on the door. "Alistair, are you up yet?"

Alistair didn't reply.

"Hey, are you there?"

Alistair waited for another moment again; eventually he replied, "Yeah."

"Are you going to get out of bed soon? I made you breakfast hours ago, and it's cold now."

"Don't worry about it. I'm not hungry."

Francis fell silent. Alistair didn't know whether the blond man had shuffled away to take care of the leftover food or not; for a moment, Alistair had thought Francis simply left after that, since Francis wasn't replying when he normally would. But apparently not. The door opened slightly and Francis poked his head into the room. He hadn't even asked permission, but Alistair wasn't the one to complain about Francis' behaviour. After peering in to see if everything was fine, Francis shuffled up to Alistair's bed, closing the door behind him.

"What are you doing here?" Alistair asked once Francis stood at the bedside.

"I have a day off today."

"Oh." Alistair's lips pressed into a stern, pale line. "Why doesn't anyone tell me these things?"

Francis' shoulders shrugged up his neck and a corner of his mouth curled up. His hands were stuck into his pockets with only his thumbs on top of the fabric. "Sorry. I guess I just forgot to tell you."

"It's always like that."

Blond eyebrows tipped downward on the outer edges. "Yeah, I'm sorry."

Francis sat on the edge of the bed. The bedframe creaked a bit with the extra weight, and the mattress dipped slightly. The slow, deliberate mannerisms seemed reminiscent of a mother sitting beside her sick child. Francis' hand was much too close to where Alistair's own lay underneath the blankets, and Francis kept looking down on Alistair with the most irritating smile. Alistair couldn't help himself from staring up at Francis' long, blond hair, frowning. The supine man felt a stiff churn in his chest and stomach. He suddenly wanted to toss Francis out the window. A bush would catch Francis' fall, possibly.

"Your wife is a beautiful woman."

At first, Francis gave Alistair a strange look, pulling his head back and furrowing his brow. His blue eyes glanced around, shifty. Then they landed on the bookshelf. Everything had been cleared except the books, which were no longer propped up but instead were lying on their sides with spines facing away. The vases of wilted flowers were long gone; Alistair must have moved them away in the past few months. So the only thing left was a picture of a bride and a groom. The picture frame was easy to notice, even though the whitish picture was surrounded by even whiter pages. It wasn't even in the centre either; instead, it was placed off to the near edges of the bookshelf, shrouded by the shady corner. Eventually, Francis' expression softened.

"Jeanne? Yeah, she is."

"Where did she go?"

Francis bit his lip, but he replied almost immediately. "I don't know. Last time I heard from her, she was done with all of her training and was going to be deployed with the military."

"The military?"

"Yeah…"

"Do you know which division? Serial? Area?"

Francis shook his head. "She never told me." One of his hands rubbed against the palm of the other. "One day, she just got up and left." Francis took a deep breath in, pausing. Finally, he continued, "She said that she needed to do something. I don't know what she was thinking either."

Alistair's green eyes looked up at the ceiling again. Then with a grunt, he sat up, scooting himself so he sat on the pillow. The blanket fell of his shoulders; instead of pyjamas, Alistair wore the T-shirt and jeans he had on the day before. In fact, Alistair had been wearing that outfit for the past three days. Francis frowned.

"You haven't changed at all?"

Alistair didn't answer, scowling.

"Did you shower?"

Still Alistair didn't answer.

"So all this time while you are home alone, you haven't been taking care of yourself at all?" Francis was becoming snappish. "I can't let you do that to yourself!" A frown almost matching Arthur's crossed his face. Without asking permission, Francis grabbed Alistair by his shirt and tried to drag the redhead out of bed. That didn't work, so Francis turned, kneeling on the bed, and hooked his arms under Alistair's armpits to lift the man up. Francis struggled a bit; Alistair was a bit heavier than he had suspected. Nevertheless, he managed to prop Alistair up on the floor and handed the crutches, which leant against the wall by the bed, over. Although the crutches supported Alistair, Francis kept a hand on Alistair's back, as if he were afraid that Alistair would suddenly tip over.

"Okay, you're definitely taking a shower. And then I'll give you new clothes to change into, so then we'll go take a walk together. It's depressing getting holed up in here all day every day." Francis pushed Alistair forward a bit, but Alistair didn't move.

"Did you love her?"

"Jeanne? Of course, I did. What sort of question is that?"

"Then why did you let her join the military? It's dangerous, the military. You should know this better than anybody."

Francis smiled a bit, looking at Alistair's feet. "If you love somebody enough, you'll learn to let her go. If she loves you back, then she'll come back to you."

"Oh."

"Don't 'Oh' me. Now start moving. We don't have time to just stand around here for questions. We have a whole day to fill!"

Francis gave another push on Alistair's back. This time, Alistair moved forward, hobbling out of the room. Francis followed closely behind, hand dropped to the side, and the two approached the bathroom. When Alistair then entered the facility, Francis said that he was going to go through the drawers and hand over the new clothes. Then he left.

Alistair lingered for a moment before shutting the door. After setting his crutches to the side, he hopped around, taking off his clothes and climbing into the shower. A waterproof seat was built into the stall for people like him, but Alistair didn't want to use it. As a result, he balanced on his one foot with the help of the railing. Fortunately, he only used the railing once when he leant over to pull on the shower knob to turn the water on. Cold water hit him at first, but the water warmed up quickly enough. For a few moments, Alistair simply let the water soak him. Rushes of droplets streamed down from the tips of his hair. They were the only things he looked at. Then he slowly reached for the bar of soap and washed himself, cleaning off his torso, arms, face and even hair. But when he reached down to clean off his legs, he stopped and stared. Only one of his legs was present; his right side was still no more than a useless stub. He moved the stub, swinging it back and forth. The thing only reached just above his left knee, yet it was still a significant difference. His scowl only deepened. He gritted his teeth and slammed his fist on the shower knob. The water stopped.

He threw open the shower curtains. The rings jingled along the metal bars. Then he jumped out of the shower, landing on his heel with a loud thud. Off to the side, on the sink counter, were a red towel and a stack of new clothes. Francis must have placed those there when Alistair wasn't paying attention. Alistair snatched the towel and dried himself. When he was done, he tossed it on the toilet and grabbed the clothes. He easily slipped those on, took his crutches, and then hopped out of the bathroom.

Francis was waiting, leaning against the wall. A platter of food was in his hand, and Francis was picking things out to eat while still leaving the majority for Alistair. When the door opened, Francis held out the plate. Fortunately, Alistair took it.

A grin appeared across Francis' face and he whistled. "I always knew showers make people sexy."

Alistair glared, his pointer finger in his mouth. "What the hell are you talking about?" Then he picked off another piece of the crepe to eat.

"Cleaner means hotter." Francis leant towards Alistair, face close to the red hair, and sniffed. Then the blond man pulled away, pouting and folding his arms over his chest. "You used soap for your hair. Soap! I have top-notch shampoo, but you don't use any of it? You know how bad soap is for your hair. You'll go bald before 40—I guarantee it!"

Rolling his eyes, Alistair asked, "How do you know?"

"Because I can smell it." Francis tapped his nose. "Only my shampoo smells like flowers. Everything else smells like fruit."

Alistair scoffed. "What are you, a dog?"

"Why, yes, I am!" Francis clung onto Alistair's arm. "Now this dog wants to go for a walk!"

"What the hell? You're like a woman! Get off of me!" Alistair wrenched his arm away.

The response only helped Francis' grin to widen. "Well, you were so moody earlier, and you were talking about my wife so I thought you were just yearning for some female company. Now, I know that my wife is the most beautiful creature you'd ever meet, but she's my wife and she's not here right now, so you'll have to settle for the next best thing." Francis winked.

If Alistair could hit Francis with his crutch, he would. "You're disgusting." Then he started down the stairs.

"Now, I don't hear a denial," Francis sang, trotting after Alistair.

"That's because it would be a waste of time if I did. Besides, I don't hear you denying that you're disgusting either."

"That's because it would be a waste of time if I did."

Alistair scoffed. He went into the kitchen and put the plate in the sink. Francis didn't follow him there, hanging around at the front door. "Or because you know you're disgusting."

"No, you're just denying my charm."

"Charm my ass."

"That sounds like an order to me."

"Are you trying to flirt? Because you're terrible at it."

"At least I pick up girls better than you can pick up flowers."

"Now that's a low blow."

"I know."

Alistair had walked out of the kitchen and the pair of men exited the small home. The day was relatively nice, albeit cloudy with a humid and dewy feel and an inconsistent breeze; nevertheless, it was perfect for any activity people would have thought up for the day. Things appeared a bit grey, but Alistair didn't particularly care. As long as the day wasn't too hot or too cold, or the sky wasn't throwing watery substances at him, or the wind wasn't picking things away from him, then he was satisfied, gladly settling himself in a back corner of his mind.

Francis hopped down the front porch stairs, brushing his hair behind his ears. The movements were so strikingly feminine that, for a split moment, Alistair himself thought Francis was a girl, and he was instantly reminded of somebody else. A scowl tugged on his mouth again. Francis somehow looked just like somebody whom Alistair met but wished to forget. The two people had shared the same hairstyle, eyes, mouth, hands, build, and demeanour. The similarities were uncanny; Alistair thought he was seeing the person from years ago. But he remembered the present and promptly tried to forget, bumbling down the stairs with his crutches. When he got to the ground, he tucked the crutches under his arms again and followed Francis to wherever the blond man was leading him.

"How did you meet your wife?"

Francis glanced back at Alistair, raising his perfect eyebrows. He hesitated. The question must have surprised him; after all, the previous dialogue had demonstrated that Alistair was finally off Jeanne's subject, yet that no longer seemed the case. Nevertheless, Francis answered, continuing down the path. Not once did his smile falter. What he was going to tell Alistair was made up of happy words, easy for light conversation.

"Let me tell you a story."