Yo, Hikou no Kokoro here again! This is the last archived chapter, and the next one is still being written. It's taking a while, unfortunately, but I'll get it done eventually!

Okay, before we go into the chapter, I have a special message. Now that Fanfiction has a special little character/pairing filter thing going on, I realised that what I have now doesn't necessarily fit the story. So now, I'm asking you, the readers, to tell me what you think this story is focused on. I know England and France will stay where they are, but I'm not too sure about the other two characters, especially since I have such a big cast here. So, I would like you guys to vote on who should take the two other character spots; the poll will be up on my profile, my tumblr, and of course, the review page (just tell me what you think in a review), and I'll look at all the results. If there are any additional things you think should be brought up, feel free to tell me as well! Thank you very much!

Note that the poll will close once the next chapter is up.

Finally, special thanks to my reviewer, crazeENnes, for the wonderful review! Wow, just one review this time? I hope I'm not going unpopular, hah... But anyway, you guys supportin' my fic are the reason why I keep writing! Thank you!

Now, hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers: Hetalia. It rightfully belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz.

To Create Perfection

"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one."
—Albert Einstein

"Reason 2: Missing Miracles, Part 3"

Time inched before Francis' eyes. He had made a quick recovery since Jeanne's departure, but he continued to miss the additional voice telling him what he could do. He had enough relations and charisma to gain company from his peers. His work didn't bog him down for long either. It was usually completed in a timely manner anyway; Francis wasn't one to procrastinate when he was a college student.

After a year had passed, when Jeanne's emails only came once a month, Francis began to wonder. Was he good enough? Did any of his work define him correctly? Were his grades enough? Could he get onto his feet and make a legacy out of himself sometime in the future? If Jeanne had been next to him, she would vehemently reply, "Yes, of course!" But whenever he looked at the mirror, he answered, "No."

Everything about him was unnatural. His work was never consistent. His grades would fluctuate between brilliant to completely dumb. He walked and talked funny. He had a strange spring in his step that made him bounce. His speech pattern was strange too, combining a formal yet slangy appeal. He had a French accent too, despite having never been to France in his life. Nothing seemed to make sense to him. People would look at him strangely, tilting their heads in attempts to make heads and tails out of him. His peers would stare at him briefly then give up. Even Francis himself, peering at his reflection, would wonder why he seemed so illogical.

Eventually, he realised a part of the reason. Puberty was finished with him; he no longer had androgynous features. His shoulders were broader, face more defined, voice deeper, hands and wrists bigger, and a stature more V-shaped than hourglass-shaped. He could no longer pass as a little girl anymore, and his transsexual behaviours seemed only accentuated, like a bruise or a stain. It was no wonder why he appeared unnatural. He was a phony, a fake, being something that he could not be. Yes, he enjoyed walking around in girl's garb and being treated as a girl, but he didn't want to be unnatural anymore. He didn't want to be nature's disorder or mistake.

Reluctantly, he gave away all his feminine things. He sold his skirts and blouses as scrap cloth; he replaced his high heels with flats; he put away his bracelets, necklaces, earrings and accessories and hid them in a closet; he let his facial hair grow out; he even cut away his hair so then it only danced around his neck rather than drape down. He stopped his feminine habits and looked at subjects that the majority of men seemed to be interested in, like women. Soon, his eyes turned to more women than men, and he dated plenty who weren't only charmed for a one-night stand.

The change didn't take long to be put in full effect. Francis adapted quite easily, and everything came naturally. The strange looks on people's faces faded and so did Francis' desire to become a girl. Everything was consistent for once. All was well with Francis Bonnefoy.

The next two years passed smoothly. Nothing interesting happened, and he was consistently passing. His potential was undeniable, making certain people's heads swivel towards him. By the end of his third year in Eastern branch BCWD University, Francis got his degree in science. In only a week, directors in 50 lab sectors implored him to join them and their sub-departments. Francis took about half a week to filter the invitations out, picking anything that interested him. He applied to about five jobs; in the end, though, he only got one. Nevertheless, that made him happy. He was set for life—as long as he kept the job, of course.

When he was packing up to move to his job, his computer chimed. Thinking it was a message from his future employer, Francis scrambled to the laptop. Unfortunately, he was wrong; it was from Jeanne. Unfortunately, he wasn't as excited as he should have been. For the past few years, the exchanges between Jeanne and Francis dwindled considerably, and the messages had become nothing more than small-talk. The statistics had been right when they said that high school friends would only become acquaintances as time passed. At first, Francis considered pushing the message aside and read it later. Jeanne probably wasn't going to say anything earth-shatteringly important anyway—the message was probably just to congratulate Francis on his degree, apologise that she couldn't visit him for the graduation ceremony, and wish him luck in finding a career. As a result, Francis closed his laptop and began packing up again.

Curiosity got the better of him. Within only three minutes, Francis stumbled back to the laptop and opened the message as if it were words from a saviour. A grin split his face. The previous decision of reading the message later felt like a kick in the head; he couldn't believe that he had almost chosen going to his job over reading what Jeanne had to say. Ironically, his lack of discipline had saved him from almost doing something he could have regretted.

Jeanne did indeed congratulate Francis about his graduation, and she regretted of not telling that in person. But Jeanne was one step ahead of him. With a paragraph filled with informal emoticons, she announced that, as a graduation gift, she pulled enough strings to find a lab job in France so then they could finally get back together. In fact, the position was in NELBA, one of the most prestigious French research facilities rivalling BCWD's sector branches facilities. Jeanne never told him how she did it, but Francis found that unimportant. Attached to the email was the letter from the NELBA director along with an application.

Immediately, Francis attached himself to the computer, filling out the application and sending it to Jeanne. The packing was left unfinished for the rest of the day as Francis responded to email conversations, specifically from either Jeanne or the NELBA director, planning and discussing subjects in order for the offer to go as smoothly as possible. A video chat and an interview later, Francis obtained the job, filing out the paperwork to be mailed. Jeanne took care of everything else, like flight and boarding while Francis applied, so Francis only needed to cancel his previous plans, apologising incessantly to the previous employer. Luckily, no complications arose from that either. Finding replacements was an easy job, especially for expendable employees like Francis.

Soon, the packing was for France, and not for some run-of-the-mill World Domain laboratory. Excitement coursed through his veins. At the airport, Francis wondered why the aeroplanes weren't going faster, and why the scheduling was strangely haphazard for professional flight planning. He couldn't wait to see Jeanne again; how sorely he missed her. They could again make face-to-face personal conversation—the best way to communicate—and touch each other. Yet, despite all the ecstasy, Francis began to have second thoughts during the two hour flight to France. Doubts flew through his head. How much had Jeanne changed? Would she be estranged by the "alterations" Francis made upon himself? Would they still get along? Did she truly miss her as much as she seemed? Did he actually miss her, or did he just miss the interactions he had with her during the high school years? And, most of all, would Francis regret his haphazard decision? After all Jeanne didn't know that Francis had already made his own plans before she created her own. She probably wanted to help Francis get a job. After all, with the amount of students flowing from Universities with science degrees, finding a position in one of the World Domain labs was difficult. She must have speculated that, so she used Francis' World Domain degree as an advantage of finding a spot in a French research facility, where World Domain graduates were few and far between.

Nevertheless, the questions were washed away immediately. Francis, rolling his carry-on bag behind him, searched through the crowd for Jeanne. But after he only took four steps from the terminal, a body clad in an immaculate white dress tackled him, wrapping lanky yet muscled arms around his neck. Neither of them made a coherent greeting for the reunion. Instead, they simply broke down in tears as if they were separated family members longing to see the other. They were blocking the terminal though, and the attendants had to usher them away to let the other passengers go.

When the two could finally make their tearful greetings, they went out to settle Francis in, picking up Francis' baggage and carrying it to his new home in France. They talked about everything, sharing stories they didn't get the chance to over email. Jeanne hadn't changed much. She was the same confident, energetic girl she was in high school. She mellowed out a bit though, and was no longer ruthlessly opinionated. Yet despite Francis' obvious changes, she didn't treat him any differently from before, and seemed to almost adapt to Francis' new persona, or she didn't notice at all. Not once did she ask why he had changed so much. In a strange way, that made Francis happy. He knew he could always rely on Jeanne. All the worries he had before disappeared, crumbling away like powdered sugar.

Francis' next challenge was the culture shock. No, it wasn't the language barrier that stopped him; Francis was quite proficient in French from practicing it with Jeanne, and he spoke fluently by the end of the month. Instead, the ambiance was what threw him off. Everything about France was different from the World Domain. The environment was retro—the buildings were of later twentieth century, free from the glowing white, smooth architecture and technology seen from the World Domain. Sure, he spotted a few instances that reminded him of his childhood in the technologically advanced island, but they were only a handful of instances used only to make life a tad bit easier. The people didn't need all the really cool gadgets and gizmos and designs, so they didn't use anything because they didn't need to employ it. It was as if France itself had frozen itself in time, self-satisfied in the way it was, settling into a state of an unchanging culture. It didn't need to change; not because it was perfect—mistakes were made frequently, and failure became an option—but because it didn't see the practicality to.

Maybe that was why Jeanne loved France. The stable culture was beautiful. Movements were consistent. Thus, Francis adapted quickly. He slipped into the native population until only his science degree stood him out from the general crowd.

One year ticked by like that. Francis researched pharmaceuticals in NELBA, writing paper after paper and book after book. After finishing the last year of college, Jeanne fought to gain a position as a priest, and for a month, the two travelled to Rome to ask the Pope. She, unfortunately, got rejected, but vowed to come back later until she could become a priest in a place such as the World Domain, specifically in the cathedral in SS-24. Due to their work, or specifically Francis', their lives were stable, both inhabiting a small home like roommates, but not quite. Colleagues would threaten each other if one disliked a habit of the other, but Francis and Jeanne didn't want to work like that. Instead, each and every domestic problem was solved with only short-lived debates rather than arguments. If they didn't agree with something, they tried to persuade the other, pointing out follies in calculated, calm ways. And if they didn't see eye-to-eye in the end, then a compromise would be reached. Either one would relent graciously; not one insult would be thrown at the other, although Francis and Jeanne had a terrible habit of pushing each other's buttons with teasing, occasionally "below the belt," words after an agreement was reached.

As the days flitted away, Francis once again began to wonder. How was Jeanne feeling about everything? Francis knew that he was content, but he wasn't so sure about Jeanne. She didn't really speak out about her thoughts as often as he did; she acted more than she spoke. As a result, Francis' eyes would always trail after her, analysing for any hint of motives or intentions in how she made decisions.

One day, a few months before the end of their two years together in France, Jeanne looked up from her food, tapping her fork against the ceramic bowl. She stared for a moment. Francis shifted, wondering what was going through her head. She spoke when he met her eyes.

"Why don't you grow out your hair anymore? I remember I used to style it for you."

Francis shrugged. "Nah, I got over that sort of thing."

"And what about wearing dresses? I remember lending some of my clothes to you."

"I outgrew all of them, and just never got around to getting any more."

"I can lend you some."

Francis chuckled and told her that he was bigger than she was, and there would be no way he would fit in her little clothes.

"Want to go shopping then?"

"There wouldn't be anything nice that would fit me."

"Oh. Okay."

Jeanne smiled. It was a bitter smile. Her blue eyes glimmered in the light. Then without another word, she went back to eating and dropped the subject entirely, instead leading the conversation on Francis' day at work, and how his colleagues were.

On that day, Francis realised he had dropped his drama hobby. He realised that, as if the concept was a discovery rather than his own doing. It was like an epiphany, slamming him across the face and leaving an angry mark. During his time in college, he must have let the hobby slip from his mind, forgotten, and he didn't notice. He had loved drama; he was such a great actor, dynamic enough to take on a variety of roles. But then, once paperwork piled on his desk, he was too busy to make rehearsals. Immediately, he regretted everything he was, and everything he had unknowingly changed.

Consequently, he moved in his last attempt to show that Jeanne wasn't talking to a different Francis.

France's culture was fond of dramas. Everywhere Francis looked there was a little play about to hit the stage. The problem was finding an amateur group willing to consider him in their cast. Francis took a week to find one such a group, and they were playing some obscure "school" setting play with a large cast of characters. Because of the large casting, the group was desperate for actors, so when Francis signed up, the group guaranteed a role for him.

Jeanne heard about Francis' plans and she was ecstatic, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. She spoke a mile a minute, asked about his plans, and promised to help in any way. She was even willing to practice with him, despite her own inability to be as histrionic as Francis. After all, Francis needed to get back his skills after the years of disuse.

Despite all of their hard work, Francis was casted as a minor supporting character named Mathieu. This character was a quiet one, speaking only fifty lines in total despite appearing in the majority of the scenes while wearing a bright red hoodie to stand out. Mathieu was always just there, doing nothing except observing. At the end of the play, Mathieu was to ask a girl whom he admired out on a date, yet none of the readers understood the purpose of the event. In a way, Francis was playing something similar to a tree—important, but only useful in a backdrop. Nevertheless, Francis didn't complain. He was happy that he was casted the character. Mathieu reflected what Francis once was: a small, delicate child whose presence wasn't worth much. Playing the character would be easy. He could easily practice the part on his own and only go to the rehearsals when he was needed.

But this play, "The First Steps," was important for Francis. It was to be his last play, and he wanted to make it a big splash in his life. He wasn't going to be satisfied with the bare minimum; he was going to play the character into utter perfection. Jeanne, enthusiastic as always, helped him. Together, they practiced Francis' part into perfection. Francis memorised every line he had by the end of the week, and he could sprinkle every emotion he needed for each scene. They practiced so frequently that Jeanne memorised half of play before the lead players memorised their own lines. By the time the play was set on stage, Jeanne and Francis practiced without paper, correcting each other by collaborating with the other's memories.

In every instance when they practiced, they smiled more and touched each other more. They enjoyed practicing Francis' lines, interacting with each other through personas that weren't theirs. They treated each other differently during the sessions, doing things they would never dream of doing, but things felt real, as if each decision they made was theirs and theirs alone.

Francis' favourite scene out of the whole play was a section marking the beginning of the dénouement. Mathieu was sitting next to an unnamed girl, both staring at the night sky from their window and eating some fast food dinner. The whole scene spanned possibly two minutes before switching out, and it was more or less silent except for Mathieu speaking only two simple sentences. Nevertheless, Francis loved it: those two sentences were the most important things Mathieu would ever say in the play. The image of two people staring out together was absolutely perfect. He would always ask Jeanne if they could do that scene, and she would always agree. One night, as they enacted the scene behind their living room window while eating some burritos for dinner, Francis looked over at Jeanne. He said his two lines; Jeanne smiled at him. Then they looked back out the window again. Nobody was there to usher them off the "set"; nothing told them that they had to stop. So there they sat, saying nothing.

That night, Francis made his haphazard decision. He had a botched plan in mind, and the next morning, he went to his crewmembers before rehearsal to tell them. The other actors and actresses approved of the decision, agreeing to help him. A handful of the staging crew even gave Francis a few suggestions. After all, they were the ones who could alter the script. Francis' initial plan was rather difficult to pull off, so they made something simple yet meaningful due to the constraints by time.

Eventually, the play was on stage. The group had three showings—one on Saturday, another on Sunday, and the last one on Wednesday—so the stresses weren't too bad, and Francis found no conflict with the showings and his work times. Jeanne had been waiting for months to watch the final product, reserving a seat for each show. Not many people would be watching, since the group was small and amateur when there were plenty of professional groups showing nearby, so Jeanne didn't need to reserve anything. She stayed through each show, rushing through the doors first and dawdling at the end of the show to congratulate every actor, especially Francis. She even brought a camera to film—although many plays would prohibit filming, the group didn't mind, allowing Jeanne to record every scene Francis was in, even if he didn't say anything. Each scene would be filmed three times; Francis told her that they were all the same and that she did not need to waste all the effort, but she argued that they were different every time, and she wanted to record all of the variations no matter how small. Francis tried to persuade Jeanne to only watch the last showing, but Jeanne heard none of it. In the end, Francis gave up and let the woman entertain herself.

Finally, Wednesday rolled in. Francis' heart clenched, nervous and jittering. He was having second thoughts, even though he knew he shouldn't. For an actor, he was having a terrible case of stage-fright; his legs shook and his hands trembled. The other actors and actresses reassured him, but he was afraid. The audience may have been small, but judgment and rejection were terrible things. Only when Francis looked at Jeanne in front of the audience with a large, toothy smile on her face and a little camera in front of her eyes did Francis realise that there was nothing to worry about. The event was planned well with the help of the rest of the group. A problem arising was unheard of.

But one did. During the middle of the intermission, the woman playing Mathieu's love interest tore through the bathroom. She vomited all of the dinner she had eaten an hour ago. Her fellow actresses rushed to her aid while an actor announced an extension of the intermission. Upon hearing the extension, Jeanne rushed backstage, her camera hanging around her neck, and asked what had happened. The poor actress was recovering, but it was clear that she wasn't going to be playing her part for the rest of the play. Eyebrows furrowed, everybody turned to look at Jeanne. The little, blond woman blinked, pointing at herself.

"What are you all looking at me for?"

One of the actresses spoke up. "Well, we were thinking of letting you play her part. It's rather simple—just a few movements. No lines."

"Uh, but why?"

The sickly actress looked up at Jeanne. Her face was pale and all of her make-up was wiped away. "Oh, please, sweetie? For me?"

"Um… all right… But what part is it?"

Another actor replied, "Mathieu's love interest."

Immediately, Jeanne's eyes snapped towards Francis.

The man tilted his head to the side and pleaded, "Would you? I've practiced this part with you before. Please?"

Jeanne paused, looking down at her camera. She fiddled with the buttons until, finally, she stomped her foot against the ground. "Oh, all right. Just wait until I get somebody else to record for me."

With that, she dashed to the audience and asked the woman sitting beside her to film for her. The woman graciously complied, so Jeanne had nothing to worry about as she dashed backstage.

Intermission ended promptly after Jeanne slipped into the sick actress' costume. The actors and actresses helped her when they can, directing her into spots on the stage by whispered words and pointing fingers. She had long memorised the parts, so she didn't need much guidance, much to the crew's relief. Her movements were still obviously fake and a little robotic, but she played a small role an amateur group, so the viewers seemed to let them side. What really stopped her was her stage-fright. Her legs shook, fingers trembled, eyes shifted—she looked like she was going to run away. Too many times did she have to sigh and gulp to calm her nerves. But each time, Francis placed a hand upon her shoulder, smiling down at her. He couldn't say that the gesture helped in any way, but at least Jeanne smiled back at him.

Slowly, the play was coming to a closed. Only three short scenes were to be displayed, and the dinner-window scene with Mathieu and his love interest was one of them.

There they sat while eating cold burritos, back facing the audience and eyes looking at a window drawn on cloth. The ambiance was silent and the lights were dimmed. It was a familiar setting; for a moment, Francis forgot about the handful of eyes staring at the back of his head. Jeanne visibly relaxed. She sunk into the moth-eaten couch, slumping and nibbling on the edge of the food. One second, two seconds, three seconds passed, and not a sound was made. Francis ventured a glance at Jeanne. Subconsciously, his hand reached into his pocket, feeling a little item there. It wasn't how he had hoped things would end. Nothing would change, even though that one actress had to go back home, yet Francis decided to do something different from what had been planned.

"Jeanne?" Francis said.

Jeanne turned her head, eyebrows furrowed. What Francis had said wasn't part of the script. Mathieu's love interest was unnamed. Jeanne knew too well that Francis had made a mistake.

"Jeanne, I love you. Would you marry me?"

"What? That's not in the script!" Jeanne immediately blurted. Behind her, a pair of viewers chortled, and she blushed, realising that she too had made a mistake.

Nevertheless, Francis smiled. "I know. But I couldn't help myself." He slowly slipped off the couch, getting down on one knee. He positioned himself to be angled towards Jeanne, and he took out a little, crude cardboard box lined and opened it, revealing sides lined with white gauze. An emerald ring lay in the middle.

"Would you marry me?"

Jeanne stared, wide-eyed. She peered over the couch, turning a bright red along her ears. The audience hushed.

"This is a play. You're crazy. This isn't a part of the script."

"I know."

"You're breaking the fourth wall."

"I know."

"We've never dated. That's weird for somebody proposing."

"I know."

Jeanne looked back at the audience. Her nose started to have the same hue as her ears.

"Are you being serious?"

"I am."

"Are you sure you want to marry me?"

"I am."

She paused, lip trembling.

"Do you really love me?"

"I do."

Jeanne smiled.

"Yes."

She leapt into Francis' arms, practically tackling him to the ground. A thunder of clapping and cheering followed, but neither of them heard. Francis lifted Jeanne off the ground and spun, dropping the ring to the ground. His arms were positioned underneath her so she was sitting, leaning against his shoulders. Tears rushed down his face; Jeanne was just laughing. Francis felt like a complete wimp as his vision blurred, but he was happy. It was the happiest day of his life, for he had never thought that Jeanne would say yes. He didn't know whether or not Jeanne liked him as a friend or a significant other. He didn't know how she felt or what she was thinking. In all possibility, Francis' feelings would never be reciprocated. But suddenly, he felt like they were.

Jeanne chose that time to give Francis a kiss. She leant her hands against his shoulders and smashed her face against Francis'. She was a terrible kisser. She didn't bend her head to angle herself for Francis; her nose smashed into his nose, squishing both of their cartilages, and their foreheads hit each other. Their teeth clacked painfully against each other. She never puckered her lips either, only squishing her grin into his smile. Francis had kissed many people before, and each person had better technique than Jeanne could ever dream of.

But Jeanne's kiss was the most meaningful.