Hiya, Hikou no Kokoro back again! You have no idea how long this theory chapter took to write, but I finally got it done! Hooray! But anyway, with the posting of this chapter, the poll has been closed. Unfortunately, only one person voted, so out of the three characters chosen, I will be putting Alistair and Roderick as the next characters on this fanfic label, since I feel like they would be the most fitting.

Now special thanks to my reviewers: firelight3, Fei, and ForestFireSong! You guys are what keeps me going! I always look forward to seeing what you people say.

Now, enjoy!

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

To Create Perfection

"If you're going through hell,
Keep Going."
—Winston Churchill

"Law 9: No More"

Everything I had said was all I had needed to tell. Or all I could tell, for a time before I knew how everything turned out. In truth, there was nothing more to say about the day. That was, until I had gathered enough information years after the end. Out of courtesy, I was going to only say what I had known back then, but as time passed, I decided to add what I had to find out—to give a complete picture, of course.

Francis and Alistair finished their stroll through the greener area of Central. Francis told the story of how he had met Jeanne, smile appearing on his face with the rise and fall of his enthusiastic voice and his sparkling eyes. Alistair didn't say much during the time. He only listened, as a polite man should. But he was always a silent one. Francis would often ask him questions to initiate a back-and-forth conversation, but Alistair replied with only a grunt and a nod, beckoning Francis to continue the story. Whatever Francis could tell was much more interesting than what Alistair could. In the end, Francis gave up, finishing the rest of his story on the way back.

When the two reached the doorstep of the house again, Francis ended with his proposal to Jeanne. He had intended to go no further, but Alistair wasn't done. Alistair asked how Francis' marriage went. Unfortunately, Francis only told about the wedding, walking through the house with Alistair following close behind. The wedding was a wonderful little event, going along with the traditional Catholic ideals. The couple hadn't gone all out; a unique, flashy ceremony wasn't their aim. They didn't need to have the "best day of their lives"—material-wise—as they put the bare minimalist finances into it. They held it in a small church at the edge of the city. A senile priest witnessed the marriage, stuttering and pausing much too often. Not many people had attended the ceremony either; the majority of people whom they knew lived in the World Domain, and it wasn't like the busy, busy scientists and achievers could leave their work for a frivolous rite. As a result, only a handful of Francis' and Jeanne's colleagues were there to congratulate them. But I suspected that didn't matter to the couple. The two weren't the type to be brought down by unhappy details. Francis spoke about the rite with as much enthusiasm as he had when talking about his childhood with Jeanne, so I supposed that he enjoyed everything and nothing had changed even with their new marital status. But looking back, I always wondered what Jeanne felt a about that day, or about anything at all.

Francis stopped after the end of the rite of matrimony, telling nothing of his married life with Jeanne the reason why she signed up to the military. Those were facts to be told to Arthur, not Alistair. Even though Alistair had asked to go further, Francis didn't. Thus the story ended, and the two had a one-sided banter as they waited for Arthur to come back. As always, Francis did all the talking. Alistair had responses, but he never said them aloud; he simply grunted and gave Francis cursory glances. Thinking back on it, I supposed Alistair should have said something. He was going to die silent. He should have spoken when he had the chance rather than be filled with untold stories and opinions. That became his second biggest regret. He had plenty of chances, but he never exploited them.

Arthur didn't come back until midnight—much later than expected. He got back to a dark house, lights all off except a small light coming from the side window. He had expected as such, and he was too tired to think much about it. After all, he supposed Francis and Alistair weren't ones to wait for people's arrivals and were probably already asleep in their beds. But no, he found the two in the living room, where the single lamp shone through the window. Alistair was lying on the couch, snoring with his head angled dangerously over the edge. Francis lay on the one-seat sofa, curled up like a cat with his chin resting on folded arms on top of the armrest. Alistair's smelly foot was shoved right next to Francis' face. Periodically, Alistair shifted and his foot twitched, cause Francis' head to tilt and bob. But neither seemed to notice, staying comfortably in their respective positions. I never understood why Francis was waiting with Alistair on the sofa. He once told me that it was painful to wait alone for somebody who might never come back. The statement never made sense to me, but it was logical, at least.

Arthur only gave the two a cursory glance, raising one of his eyebrows. Then, he merely sighed and turned off the lamp and walked to his own bed. He must have been tired by then, because he left them there, doing nothing to bring them into a more natural position of sleep.

I wouldn't have blamed him. At first, I didn't know why he had come back late, or why he hadn't gone back to Francis' home for a break before going to work. He never told what he was doing, or when he was going to be back. Even after getting to some place or back home, he wouldn't have told anybody of his arrival either. I had only gotten this part of the story when Arthur told me, years later, looking down at his hands and muttering words he thought I couldn't hear. If he hadn't told me then, I would have never known enough.

After Arthur had left Ivan's room, he didn't go straight home, as he had been ordered. No, he told me that he was afraid—of what, I didn't know. A sinking feeling fell into his stomach, weighing down his legs and even his thinking process; he knew something was wrong. Maybe Ivan's words told too much, and suddenly he didn't know what Francis was. But why he went to Alfred's room and not confront Francis, as logic would dictate, even he didn't know, or at least he never explained that. He just went.

Arthur found both Alfred and Matthew in the room. The two boys were on one bed; Alfred was sitting the closest to the edge, knees tucked close to his chest, hiding his chin under one hand as his bespectacled eyes stared out the window. The other hand petted the curly hair of Matthew. The quiet boy was lodged between Alfred and the wall. His head was close to Alfred's feet, but facing away. A metallic bowl was clutched to his chest and tucked into his foetal position. His eyes were clenched tight, twisting his face as if he had eaten something bitter.

Alfred was the only one of the two who looked at Arthur. Matthew only cringed when he heard the door slide open and closed. Other than that, Matthew made no move at all.

"You're back," Alfred said. "Please stay with us."

Arthur hesitated, but shook his head. He needed to leave.

"Why not?"

Arthur shook his head again; he told the two that he needed to finish things. He was just there to check on them, as per "orders." At least he was glad that Matthew was getting better. But what a fool he was; if I were he, then I would have said that I was glad to see Matthew back, or say nothing at all. Arthur's words only made Matthew whimper even more, but Arthur didn't mean anything bad by saying what he said. Everybody should know that.

"Please stay," Alfred asked again. "We can talk about a bunch of things! Like hamburgers, comics, and heroes! Please! I don't like it here, all alone."

Again, Arthur shook his head. He needed to get things done; besides, Alfred wasn't all alone. He told Alfred that Matthew was still there. The boy could keep company, albeit a bit silent company.

But Alfred slumped back, lips puckered in a pout. Matthew didn't count, he said. Matthew wasn't able to go outside the white walls of the BCWD medical facilities. He wouldn't be able to tell what was happening with the war, or talk about the scenery upon a mountain, or describe all the strangers who passed by. There was nothing new to talk about with Matthew; all they knew was the present, which they could share without words. It was always the same: the same walls, the same clothes, the same doctors, the same nurses, the same comrade patients—the same bed, the same tubes, the same scans, the same metres, the same diagnosis—knives, flashing lights, bounds, rattling, clattering, shouts, orders, screams—stomach-aches, vomit, migraines, diarrhoea, wounds, incisions—blood—pain—so much pain—why?—and end.

Tears welled up in Alfred's eyes; his lips trembled. He was so afraid, as if a monster was in his closet, but there was no closet in the room. Finally, he said that he missed the world outside of BCWD.

He could remember a little cottage sitting on a plain filled with golden wheat and long, yellow grass. Every morning the sun would peer over the horizon, a million miles away, but seeming only inches from small, outstretched hands. The rays would glimmer, speckling the ground with faint shadows, and the wheat would appear to be fine silk, swaying like seaweed on the ocean floor. Then a door would creak. An aroma of rustic bread would be lifted into the breeze. Pans and knives clattered against another, creating a screeching yet familiar rhythm. A soft voice, tinkling like stained glass wind-chimes, would speak about breakfast, lunch, and dinner and ask where the two pairs of pattering feet had carried off in the early morning. There was no answer. But that would not matter; squeals and shouts bounced off the walls. Then, they would be carried outside again. The sun would hang overhead as six hands reached for what they needed. Hours passed; tasks were completed. By then the sun would be just above the heads of wheat. Nobody would be outside then, and legs would clamber back through the door. Dinner would be a warm stew, brown filled with carrots, potatoes and beef that floated across the surface. One tongue would be burnt; food was shovelled into a waiting mouth much too quickly. But the stew would taste nice, like salty snow and sweet rubber. A thawing feeling would seep through veins, shivering with content. Then the dishes would be put away. Again, there would be the clattering of pans and knives. Soft hands would cover yawns, and little legs dragged feet across the dirt floor to bed. The sky would be a beautiful splatter of watercolour paint, a gradient from the velvet purple to the metallic white. The lights were off, and books with faint, fingered pages and cartoons would be set on laps, read aloud in the faint light until the stars blinked their bleary eyes. Darkness would drape over, like fleece blankets, waiting until the sun rose over golden trees to the sounds of rushing water droplets.

Suddenly, Alfred stopped; he looked up at Arthur, waiting for a response. Then Alfred pleaded, "Please save us. Take us back home."

Arthur looked back; his throat seemed to tighten up. Twice that day he wondered where the energetic child had gone. Had a hero abandoned that day?

"Please. I don't want to be here anymore."

Arthur's gaze went to Matthew. The boy's face was no longer contorted. His mouth was puckered into an open-mouthed pout. The bowl didn't press to his chest anymore, but his toes were curled inwards, tightening his legs up from the knees down. He gazed up at Arthur like an awed child, eyes wide as if stars would flash through the purplish irises. Yet, Matthew seemed to be silently telling Arthur something, that Matthew knew what Alfred didn't know, that there was some sick irony with what had happened on that hour and day.

Please—

Arthur excused himself. He looked at the ground and shuffled quickly out the door. No response came from either of the boys, and nobody said anything else. And even if someone did, he wouldn't be heard after the door noisily closed behind Arthur. Then Arthur stayed there, fists clenched and eyes aimed downwards. He shouldn't have decided to visit Alfred right after seeing Ivan, and especially not after Matthew had been placed back into the room. Arthur would have been much happier if he had went back to Francis before going to work, because he wouldn't have noticed any patterns until much later when he would have grown up enough to realise what he was doing wrong. Nevertheless, he had, and I wouldn't condemn him for things he couldn't predict.

I didn't know what state of mind he was in when he went to Yao's restaurant. It must have been no different from what I had seen only weeks later, when he saw the first blood splattered upon the ground. And I didn't know what Yao had told Arthur on that day. It must have been unimportant, or the words had only wiped away Arthur's doubts and bolstered his resolve a little bit more, although I would doubt that speculation true given what I knew about Yao. That man was known to break a few resolves.

Whatever happened, Arthur came back home unchanged.