Hi again, guys... Typing this when exceedingly sleep deprived, cold and possibly sick 'cause I just got back from Belgium and holy penguins and cheese on a stick, it was bloody freezing. It poured with rain and I was utterly soaked three times. I'm still shuddering a bit and I can't feel my toes much so I thought, What better time to carry on with a fic?

I am a very logical and rational person.

O-o-O-o-O

Act two, scene one

Smoke whisps filled the condensed air, dominating his vision as swirls of the clouds of particles formed a thick layer of what seemed to him to be a carpet. It was odd how he could see it. It looked almost as if it could be touched. It smelt strange though. He didn't like the smell of it. He had been surrounded by pollution and excessive carbon dioxide for his entire life, and he had had enough of it. He stuck his tongue out, making a gagging noise as the calloid infiltrated the area. He could almost taste the by-product, and so he took a swig of the liquid contained in his glass, blinking in bewilderment when he tasted nothing.

"Looks like you drank it all, mate," someone said and, after a few moments of deliberation, Arthur placed the German accent.

He blinked sleepily at the man, staring up at him from where his head was leaning against the cool bar. "Your eyes remind me of sunsets... but your hair makes me think of snowstorms..."

The guy blinked. Twice. "Uh... Is that supposed to be a pick up line? 'Cause, I'm sorry, I ain't gay." He paused, and then leant on his elbows, staring down at Arthur. "But you are kinda pretty for a guy. I guess. I mean, aside from those huge ass eyebrows." He grinned, waiting for the Brit to respond to his comment, and laughed heartily when a weak punch was delivered to his nose. Grabbing the limp arm, he tugged Arthur up onto the bar. "Man, you're such a lightweight. You hardly drank anything, I swear, and you're already practically dead to the world!" he exclaimed, shaking the man and laughing, oblivious to the incredulous stares of customers.

"M'not..." the blond murmured, stopping himself to hiccup. Then, blinking away the haze in his eyes, he continued: "'M not... a... ligh'..." He trailed off, seemingly having forgotten what he was about to say, and just leaned against the German. "'S hot," he grumbled against the bar tender's shoulder, utterly unaware of the eyes watching them hungrily from the other side of the bar.

"Uhh..." the white-haired man murmured, befuddled by the man's behaviour. He seemed like an uptight prude or something, and yet here he was... falling all over him! Not that he could blame the guy really. He knew he was pretty attractive. So, ignoring the female voice in his head making a spiteful remark about how unattractive he was, he held the blond by the shoulders and pushed him back. He grinned at the bright red flush across the man's cheeks. He was kinda cute, yeah, but, unfortunately, he... he lo- sort of... kind of liked a woman who maybe detested him. Banishing those thoughts immediately, and hastily reassurring himself that she was just an insane banshee, he gawked at the Brit who appeared to be trying to remove his shirt. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?"

Clouded green eyes met his after a severe delay, and Arthur licked his lips. He shrugged, huffing in annoyance as he tried to remove his obstructive clothing. "'S hot," he explained again and, suddenly, the German bar tender noticed the ravenous eyes staring at the exchange between them.

"Aw, fuck," he whined, grabbing the blond man's arm and hauling him through the back door where no customers could witness his strip tease. "Oi, Bruder, get your ass back to the bar! I gotta take care of somethin'."

"You fed Gilbird only half an hour ago," a deeper voice grumbled from somewhere. Arthur glanced around, but everything was just a blur of colours... Somehow, it seemed kind of funny. "He will get fat if you..." He trailed off, pausing when he saw the man swaying in his brother's arms. "Gilbert."

"Ludwig."

"Why are you embracing a half naked man?"

"Ludwig, shut the fuck up, get out there, and serve the punters while I tend to this half naked man who I am not embracing. All right, Bruder?"

"It is your life, I suppose... Just do not get me involved when he sues you for sexual harrassment..."

"I'm not gonna have sex with him!"

Act two, scene two

Orange, yellow, brown, red...

Fire.

Those are the colours of fire...

Get it away... Away...

It burns... Too hot... Get it away...

Fire... It's everywhere...

Mummy... Mummy... where are you? It burns...

Mummy... Somebody... Anybody...

Help...

A gasp, a yelp, a groan. Red, silver, white. And then pain.

Arthur clutched his head tightly, eyes clamping together as he hissed, the agonising sensation in his skull all too familiar. He let out a whispered string of curses, and suddenly shuddered violently as a cold shiver ran up his spine. He tensed when he felt something cold brush against his shoulder, and found himself staring into pained crimson eyes. Moments later, a smirk appeared on the other man's pale face.

"You were pretty good last night, baby. Not as much as me, obviously, 'cause I'm awesome, but you sure do know how to suck—" Before he could finish his sentence, a hand was slapped over his mouth, and he gazed in confusion and amusement into a flustered, panicked Brit's face.

"Y-you're taking the piss, right?" Arthur demanded, glowering furiously and trying to mask his nervousness. His anger rushed right up to the surface soon, however, when the German man just laughed at him. Obnoxious wanker...!

"Calm down, man. Chill!" the albino ordered, waving his arms in a surrendering motion as he snickered. "'Course I'm just messing with you. Jeez, you look so young and yet you're acting like a fifty year old."

Venomous green eyes glinted, and the German was vaguely reminded of a bitter wet cat. "Fuck off," Arthur snapped, and then glanced around desperately. He folded his arms protectively across his chest and glared at the other man, attempting to assume a haughty posture and an aloof tone as he said: "I want my shirt."

Entertained by the neurotic man's behaviour, the other just grinned. "You threw up on it," he offered, basking in the momentary paling of the blond man's face, before he turned crimson again. He was so easily embarrassed! How fun!

"Th-then..." Arthur mumbled, eyes darting around the room.

Revelling in the situation, the bar tender feigned a long suffering sigh. He wasn't sure if he had succeeded, because the blond guy just looked exasperated and wary of him. Nonetheless... "Hey, man, it's cool. I'll lend you one of my awesome shirts," he offered. He wished the green eyes would light up hopefully, but the man just seemed even more suspicious. "On one condition."

Arthur didn't look surprised. "Go on," he muttered impatiently, much to the irritation of the sadistic German.

Clearing his throat and pushing Arthur slightly to the side, the red eyed man dashed forwards and jumped on the battered sofa that the Brit had recently woken up on. Puffing his chest out and sticking his arm in the air, he declared: "I want you to work here!"

A pregnant silence ensued as green eyes stared blankly into slits of triumphant crimson. With his arms still protectively covering his chest, Arthur muttered at length, "No."

Gilbert blinked, surprised, before assuming a better-than-thou posture and obtrusively pointing a finger in Arthur's face. "And why the hell not?" he demanded imperiously.

Batting the hand out of his face, the Brit scowled. "I've already got a job," he explained and, adding as a mental note, almost...

"You can have another," the albino retorted with a nonchalant shrug.

"I'd rather not work in a... What is this place anyway?" Arthur paused to glance around the room, but had no inclanation of where he was. He couldn't remember much... He recalled the interview vaguely, and Alfons had let him know that they would be in contact within the next couple of days. He was quite sure he had landed the job. There weren't that many who had made it through to the interviews, and, according to Alfons, they hadn't been very good. But perhaps he was just being nice... so maybe it would be worth having another job, just in case. Arthur knew he wasn't much good at anything really, and so it might prove beneficial...

The German raised a brow at the man's thoughtful gaze. "It's a bar," he replied, pleased to grasp the other man's attention again. He hated being ignored. "Me and my bruder run it together. A couple of others help us out when we're short-handed, but they have other jobs too. We could use another one on the team." He offered a cocksure grin, slid his hand under his nose and sniffed, and then spat into his palm. He held out his hand, smirking challengingly. "What do you say, pretty boy? Or are you too scared I'll out-awesome you?" He tilted his head and blew some of his snowy hair out of his face. "Here's the deal - you work here for more than a month, you get free drinks here every fortnight. Work here for more than three, you get free drinks once a week. More than six, and..."

"Free drinks every day?"

"You kiddin'? I ain't giving anyone a deal like that!" He stroked his chin thoughtfully as Arthur watched, exasperated. "Well, we'll cross that bridge if we come to it. So, what's it gonna be?"

Arthur grimaced before glancing a doleful look at the albino's face. He let out a frustrated sigh and slowly untangled one arm from his chest, hesitantly spitting into it. Reluctantly, he held out his hand and reproachfully touched it to the other man's, pulling a face as their saliva touched. He could practically feel the bacteria... "Deal," he forced himself to snap, eyes clenched shut as he imagined all of those particles on their skin and—

"Great! Awesome!" Gilbert cheered, flashing a toothy grin along with a cheesy thumbs up. At the awkward silence that once more ensued, he blinked at the scowling Englishman and rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine, you prude," he said, unbuttoning his shirt and holding it over Arthur's head teasingly, lifting it back up when the Brit moved to grab it. "Say, 'Please, Master Gilbert, you most benevolent, awesome'—"

"No." Arthur grabbed the shirt and pulled it on, swiftly doing it up in a flash and crossing his arms protectively once again. Glowering at the sulking German, he let out a long suffering sigh and ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at the feeling of it. He would definitely wash it later... Shaking off his thoughts and filing them for later, he glanced back at the albino, rolling his eyes at the petulant look on his face. "What do you want me to start?"

Almost instantaneously, the pout was wiped off of Gilbert's face, only to be replaced by another smug smile. Arthur couldn't decide which he found more annoying, but he supposed that a cocky wanker was better than a sulking one... He didn't want to befriend anybody too similar to himself. And so, he managed to make it through Gilbert's presumptuous speeches and repetitious nature in regards to his vocabulary with only a few sarcastic remarks.

Act two, scene three

The shape of a crescent moon smiled sadly at him from the sky, and Arthur found himself returning the melancholy expression. He had always been well acquainted with the moon, being somewhat of a nocturnal person by nature. He felt he worked better during the night, and generally felt... Well, he didn't feel happy at night, but he felt more alive. During the day, it was as if he was simply a ghost, drifting through the routine set out by time and not taking anything in. The sights, the sounds, all of the senses were just the same. He slipped through life as if it was a maze of silk curtains. It was so easy to rip everything apart, to tear it all to shreds of useless material. Ugly fragments of what once was a beautiful thing.

But the sun... He found it difficult to smile at the sun. The sun was always smiling, and it could convince everybody that it was jubilant due to its radiant light and the rays that extended to various people, hoping to share its happiness. With the moon, it was so obviously poignant, but it was just that nobody really cared. But as for the sun, it could feign joy. Arthur found it too hypocritical to bring himself to smile back at the sun when he criticised it, and yet he too did the same, only without sharing the fake happiness.

And so, he staggered along down the street, his vision distorted and the holes in the road seemed to slither from one side to the other. Stumbling slightly, he held his arms out and found a wall to lean against. It felt solid and therefore safe, so he leaned against it, mumbling drunken slurs and garbled nonsense of tales of old against what he assumed to be bricks and cement.

Unknown names fell from his tongue as he rambled about things that might have or might not have occurred in the past, and the wall, stoic and non-judgemental, listened in silence to his empty words that spilt from intoxicated lips. And the wall didn't judge him, didn't reprimand him for his sorry state, didn't laugh at him or provoke him into doing stupid things that landed him in trouble. The wall simply did not perform actions aside from standing lifelessly, forced to oversee all of the events in the city, lest they were blocked by other walls.

Walls were everywhere: physical and invisible. They hid things. They concealed bitter families' squabbles and unwarranted business deals and just hid the lies everybody told or didn't reveal. Arthur had his own walls, built firmly around his entire being. He refused to allow anyone past the shields - refused to allow anyone to see him in a vulnerable state.

Besides, everyone was a part of the masquerade. The masks were their smiles, but all masks had holes: the eyes. Everyone wanted to see, but it also meant being seen. Nobody was completely steeled off from the rest of humanity. Nobody was safe.

"Mon cher," a voice suddenly said, interrupting his musings and just barging in like an uncheduled boat to a harbour. They sounded vaguely irritated, as if they had been attempting to garner his attention for a while now. But, movements sluggish, he barely had time to turn before someone grabbed his shoulders and spun him around. The momentum was almost enough to knock him off his feet, but he managed to stumble into a position one could pass off as standing, were it not for the swaying. "Mon ami, are you drunk...?"

Arthur tilted his head, raising his green eyes to meet the blurred outline of cobalt blue ones. Why the hell did some stranger care if he was slightly inebriated? The people back home would have revelled in it - tempted him into walking into traffic or luring him into a dark alley way. Thus, as was custom, he lurched forward as if he was about to be sick, and sharply raised his head to headbutt the guy in the chin. He heard cursing, and the grip on his shoulders was removed, and so he spun around to make his way down the street.

Every footstep that collided with the road beneath his feet sent a thump of agonising pain pulsing in his head. It was cold, and he was clad only in a shirt and trousers, and so his bare arms were tingling due to the lack of warmth. Thoughts jumped around in his head, catching together, and lyrics to modern and old songs snagged on each other and made his mind go into a sort of haze. All the colour was draining and only grey was left, along with a strange ringing in his ears.

Act two, scene four

The sound of fairies whizzing around him alerted him to his growing consciousness. Gentle but ticklish pokes at his exposed flesh caused him to squirm, curling in on himself as the fairies let out little huffs and sighs that altogether sounded more like a private symphony than an annoying wake up call. He was prepared for the soft sounds to lure him back to sleep, back into the world of dreams where the shadowed hands grabbed at his naked flesh and pulled him beneath the black water into sinister oblivion and words, words, painful words...

Then, unexpectedly, he heard a small chuckle. His brows furrowed in bewilderment at the foreign sound. Laughter was a strange thing to him, since this sound was more amused than taunting. He grumbled into his pillow and creased into himself more, burrowing beneath the lovely comforting warmth that was covering him.

But, alas, the snickering continued, pestering him a lot more than the delicate faries' sighs. And so, with much annoyance, he allowed angelic consciousness to probe open his eyes, and he was met by familiar blue...

Blink, blink.

He shot up, gawking and sputtering and flailing as the man at the end of his bed continued smirking, obviously entertained by the show. "Y-you!" Arthur screeched, voice shrill even to his own ears. He flushed deeply at he unmanly squeal, but couldn't help but fold his arms across his chest defensively. He refused to lower his gaze in fear of being seen as submissive, but instead glared defiantly at the man across from him. "Why the bloody hell are you in my flat?"

"Monsieur Kirkland, perhaps I should remind you that a 'flat' in America is more commonly referred to as an 'apartment'," the man offered, dancing around the main topic just to annoy the befuddled man further. His lips twitched as the thick eyebrows lowered over the wide, puzzled emerald eyes, and his thin, pale shoulders tensed in apprehension. "Relax, mon cher," he soothed, standing and approaching the bed, revelling in the way the fiery Brit plastered himself against the headboard behind him. "Nothing 'appened. I found you last night, wandering around and spurting nonsense." His eyes sparkled, and Arthur frowned, not liking the glint hidden within them. "You should be thanking me really."

Arthur scowled back darkly, scrutinising the enigmatic weirdo standing before him, looking all presumptuous and annoyingly French with his blond hair tied in a ponytail and the stubble on his chin and his bloody fucking chest hair and why the hell doesn't he shave? It's not the bloody sixties. "Merci fucking beaucoup," Arthur mumbled sullenly, unused to saying appreciative words.

But the stupid man just smiled, eyes shimmering with something hidden behind them. Arthur knew that everyone wore masks, but he could usually figure out what kind of masks, and sometimes what lurked behind them. But this guy...

"Your pronunciation is terrible," he said, chuckling and taking a seat on the bed, smirk widening when Arthur drew his knees up to his chest. "Do you remember me?" he asked, "Or were you mildly intoxicated upon our meeting also?"

"I'm not always drunk, you twat," Arthur snapped irritably, and glanced up from under his fringe to examine the bloody wanker sitting beside him. French, bad hair cut (although he wasn't one to talk), blue eyes... "Bonnefoy," he said, hoping he sounded more certain than he thought. "Francis... Bonnefoy?"

The man beamed. "I am glad you remembered, mon petit," he said, tone engraciating and, bloody hell, Arthur would like to respond that he was sure that the fucking French twat's manhood was "petit"—

"Why are you in my house?" Arthur demanded suddenly, trying to clear his foggy mind. He lifted his arms to rub at his forehead, attempting to make the aching pain in his head ebb away. Honestly, was it not common courtesy to just... well, not freeload off of someone and spend the night in their house when you hardly know the person? Then again, various occupants of this blasted location seemed far more sociable than citizens back in London - make eye contact with someone for over two seconds there, and you're pegged as a mugger, a rapist, or a murderer. Or a combination of all three. Here, however, you stopped for half hour chats with strangers and shared taxis with them too. It was utterly unthinkable! But staying at someone's place without permission? That was just completely—

"This is my apartment actually," the French man replied easily, rubbing his hands on his legs to generate some warmth.

Come to think of it, it was rather chilly. Arthur glanced around the room and dully noted that the radiator - a small shabby cheap little thing - looked broken and slightly blackened. Perhaps it had burnt out... But that wasn't something he should be focusing on at the moment! Strengthening his resolve and forcing a deep scowl onto his features, he settled his stern gaze upon his abductor. "Your apartment?" he repeated incredulously, suddenly feeling even more exposed, but perhaps slightly safer since the strange man was clueless of his living arrangements. "What the bloody hell am I doing in your apartment?"

Velvet blue eyes rolled slowly, accentuating his exasperation. Arthur bristled irritably, imagining beating the French bastard up. With a cricket bat. And a rifle. "I already told you," he murmured demurely, slinking over the sheets and trapping the Brit with his unshaven arms and a sultry, provocative smirk that Arthur found to be slightly threatening somehow. He dared not glance away, ensuring he wouldn't be seen as weak. "You were drunk and, being the chivalrous gentleman that I am, I decided to 'elp you."

The smaller man squirmed slightly, uncomfortable with the close proximity but unwilling to unfurl and push the other man away. He didn't want to touch the wanker. The very thought of it was utterly preposterous - he wasn't one for contact of any sort, and he was... well, he was English. What Brit in the right mind (provided it could be justified any of them were in their right minds, although that is debatable no matter what your background) would ever think of voluntarily coming into contact with such an organism? Truly, people were like viruses - always reproducing and bringing deathly consequences...

However, he was swiftly drawn out of his pessimistic musings when something brushed his jaw, weaving beneath his chin to tilt it up just slightly. And he noted, with great revulsion, that he had been touched. He wasn't racist - he could just be considered a bit of a sociopath, as he disliked everyone equally and hated being touched. All physical contact he had ever received or given had been that of violence and had always resulted in someone getting hurt. And so, with a steely gaze, he glared defiantly up at the French man, repeating die, die, die like a mantra in his head, hoping it reflected through his smouldering eyes.

But alas, the bloody idiot obviously didn't receive his obvious disdain, and instead returned his grimace with an amorous quirk of his lips. "I am sure," he whispered hotly against his lips, and Arthur pursed his own, wondering just how many germs were transferred in people's breaths. Oblivious, or perhaps choosing to ignore him, Francis continued: "that I can 'elp you further... if you will let me..." His voice sounded almost akin to a perverse purr, which Arthur just found downright bizarre. He had read romantic scenes in which the verb "purred" was utilised, and he just winced at imagining it. Purring reminded him of cats, and he thought they were too adorable, skillful and respectable for their reputation to be tarnished by trashy lustful words. He just couldn't comprehend why anyone would choose to speak in a purring way. It didn't make any sense at all, and Arthur had never felt any inclanation to be turned on by an animalistic noise.

With those bewildered and determined thoughts highlighted in his mind, the young blond shoved the other man away, lips twisting into a grimace at the feeling of chest hair beneath his fingers and the feeling of another person's skin. He hated the closeness. It was hard to breathe when you were so trapped. "Move away," he barked snappishly, clenching his eyes shut so that the blackness would make the small space evaporate and enlarge into a wide expanse of nothing. "Move..." he hissed again when he only felt a small shift and, with his whispered order, Francis let out a frustrated sigh and slid away from Arthur. He could finally breathe again, and greeted the oxygen supply fervently, zeal for air extremely evident as he gripped the satin sheets and gasped for it needily.

After a moment, the black finally dissolved and colour returned to his vision. I must stop blacking out, Arthur mused, dry and sceptical of his own admission. Honestly, his brothers would give him hell for being such a pansy. He hadn't been in the United States for a week and he'd already almost passed out because of the heat, got drunk and had to be hauled to some random guy's apartment (and a French guy's apartment at that), and then he had panicked because he had gotten too close. Fuck, he'd been in some fights in his time and been in strangle holds and pinned underneath a few thugs and he'd just cursed up a storm, used some underhanded trickery, and gave as good as he got. He didn't really know why he had panicked... Perhaps it was because he was here on business, trying to make a new life and wanting to give a good impression.

He almost snorted audibly at that. New life? Everybody only got one life to waste - as was his belief, cynical and hopeless as it was. He didn't believe in reincarnation or life after death or even ressurection in spite of his occult obsession. He once had believed in it, but... it just didn't work that way. Once someone died, that was it - they were gone and they weren't coming back. They weren't unhappy in death because they just ceased to exist and rotted away. You can't have a new life. You can only move on to a different part of the play and go along with it. Act your part, recite your lines, and hide everything real.

Thankfully, his contemplating was cut short when he noticed cobalt eyes boring into his own. Blinking in surprise, he hastily glared at the man and, as belated as it was, snapped, "What?" only to receive of a roll of eyes and a tut of disappointment.

"I shall not bother enquiring why you suddenly stopped responding altogether as I will be late if I give any more of my time to you," Francis responded, tone casual and glance at the clock uncaring in spite of his holier-than-thou words and haughty stance that made Arthur stiffen, offended and annoyed.

"I never asked for you to impart any of your time on me, Frog." He pushed the sheets away and stood swiftly, shaking off the pain pulsating in his head and thinking Oh thank god when he noticed he had trousers on. At least the git had the decency to leave him clothed... He spun around, glowering ferociously at the blasé-looking blond, and folded his arms again. "Nonetheless, I shall feed your ego by offering a deeply resentful word of thanks for your assistance when I was..."

"Intoxicated. Inebriated. Drunk. Or pissed, in English slang," Frenchie offered helpfully, biting a fingernail as he one-handedly buttoned up a shirt, not even sparing Arthur a glance.

Embittered and exasperated, Arthur threw his hands up, saying in a high tone, "Fine, fine. Well, I tried. I tried to be appreciative in regards to the abduction, and you make fun of me. Fine, sir," he quipped sarcastically, glaring poisonously and gingerly sticking his hand out. "Once again, it was absolutely fan-fucking-tastic meeting you, and I hope I never have to lay eyes on your bloody blue eyes or stubble ever again."

Francis only appeared mildly shocked by his words, and soon recovered from that. An amused smirk lingering on his lips, he thread his fingers through Arthur's and pulled the Brit flush against his own body, slinking his free arm around the man's waist. Ignoring the sputtered and fiery protests, he responded in a whispery voice: "You already know my eye colour... Mon cher, that is rather gay." He chuckled, the heat of his breath hitting Arthur's exposed neck mercilessly and tickling his sensitive ears. "Then, for now, I shall bid you adieu. I am going to work and I assume you need to be somewhere also, so I shall get you a taxi. Come, cher. Let us leave," he said, pulling away from the Englishman, whose temper was bordering on murderous and urge to punch steadily rising.

Positively seething, Arthur just clenched and unclenched his fists sporadically, before screeching: "Someone as flamboyant and fucking French as yourself has no right to call me gay!"

Act two, scene five

Really, Arthur didn't understand America. However, in spite of that, he had to begrudgingly admit that he rather liked it. Quite a bit, actually. Whilst he disliked how the British Empire had fallen and it had lost virtually all of its colonies (Really, 'overseas territories'? Was that supposed to be the politically correct term for colonies nowadays?), he appreciated that everyone wanted freedom and progress had to be made, even if it meant separating from mother countries.(1) As well as that, although he found most American cuisine... repulsive, he did like a lot of the sights. The hustle and bustle of popular cities reminded him of London, but somehow more lively. It seemed as if it was a living place, not just existing in some sort of paradoxical death trap. Here, people bounded and dashed and shoved to get through crowds, bumping shoulders, shouting and reminding everyone that they were alive.

Arthur wasn't sure how it felt to live.

In London, you just... flowed. An elegant verb to depict movement, but no; London seemed like a ghost town. Yes, it was so goddamn full you can see blurs of feet all over the floor and traffic jams and congestion everywhere, but it was so dead. There were no smiles exchanged, a lack of communication, and just an eerie silence and absence of life above the calamity of engines and footsteps colliding urgently with the ground as people hurried to nowhere, anywhere, who knows where. Somewhere. They wanted destination so they would have a motive - a purpose for living.

Arthur... He sort of wanted a purpose. He sort of had one. He wanted to learn and teach and read. He craved both knowledge and wisdom, but also imagination and insight. He longed for factual, logical information along with poetic, philosophical speculations. He achieved all of that from reading. Reading was basically his life. That and writing, at least. He enjoyed the articulate flow of words in a novel; establishing character and then building on them and making them grow; forming a plot and progressing with subtle hints and action; making history with invigorating stories.

But... without incentive or motivation, what was the point in having a purpose? He had plenty of ideas and imagination, but he lacked... he lacked stimulation. He had nobody to enthuse over his dreams, and he knew he would never have anybody. He wasn't exactly the most attractive or amiable of people, he knew that. Besides, relationships... they were too complicated. He didn't want to be in a relationship. It would just be too troublesome, too irritating, and... too painful.

As his taxi pulled up to a grey building comparable to the rest of the city, he allowed his thoughts to drift into soft white noise, only grumbling a few complaints when the driver informed him of the price of the ride. He stepped out of the vehicle and, as soon as he did, the car sped off, almost knocking him off of his feet and sending him slamming into the blasted pavement. Too tired and lost in his thoughts to shout curse words at the bastard, Arthur simply straightened his shirt and hoped he looked confident as he stumbled into the building.

He allowed himself to depart into the confinement of his mind, drifting through the log in process as if on auto-pilot, and eventually found himself being guided to his room by the landlord. He hummed and nodded as the unnamed man attempted to lighten up the dull atmosphere with phatic talk. Finally, the man, with his thick, stubby fingers, pressed the card key into Arthur's hand and said something about contacting the reception if he needed anything, and then scuttled away to a lift(2), red faced and sweaty after having taken the stairs with Arthur.

As the strange haze over his mind lifted, the Brit carefully slid the card through the odd device on the door, blinking curiously when the door unlocked. Curiouser and curiouser, he mused, pushing the door open lightly and pocketing the card key. Really, technology nowadays.

He drifted through unpacking and then repacking, deciding he didn't want his things openly displayed in such an untrustworthy place. Rather, he kicked the suitcase under his bed, briefly disconcerted by the lack of space between the thin mattress and the floor. He knew he didn't have enough money for a wonderful place, but really, these temporary apartments were dreadful.

Nonetheless, they had hot water, heating and electricity. And so, shedding his clothes, he decided to mull over everything and nothing beneath a flow of scalding hot water.(3)

O-o-O-o-O

Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

So, this chapter is exceedingly uneventful and rather dull, but also rather necessary. XD; It introduces Francis a bit more and perhaps provides more insight to his character, although he's very pragmatic in this story... Let me say this - he isn't two-dimensional.

But yes, this chapter primarily focuses upon Arthur's pessimistic thought process. Sorry if it's very boring. I'm pretty sure a lot of people will skim read this one. XD; It's mainly setting his character and sort of addressing his opinions and quirks... I don't know if anyone will get the hints yet, but that's all right.

But I promise, the next chapter has AWESOMENESS INCARNATE! :DD

Sorry, America stole my laptop. As I was saying, the next chapter introduces the one and only annoying(ly adorable) Alfred F. Jones. There shall be some terrible attempts at humour, hints of pasts (and subsequently angst. I'm good with angst), mucho UST and lots of other awesome stuff.

Fuck, now I'm saying the word awesome. Screw you guys, I'm going home.

1) I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. I've seen a map of how the US sees the world, and the UK was titled "Mummy". Not even "Mommy", but "Mummy". It was so adorable and amusing. Plus, England's really a mothering type, with all the nagging and controlling. My mum's not like that, but eh. I'd be like that. ...I hope that's not an omen...

2) An elevator. Why did you feel the need to change 'lift' to 'elevator'? They mean the same thing... Oh, forget it.

3) He's burning himself intentionally. That is all I'll say. :I Thought I'd make the hint a little more obvious.

So other than that... WHO'S SEEN HARRY POTTER? I shall refrain from commenting 'cause I'd go on for hours. My America and I are already doing so anyway. (But bloody hell, Ron, graaawr! Y U SO OBLIVIOUS?)

By the way... although we don't celebrate it here, Happy Thanksgiving to everyone. I hope you all had a lovely day. c: See, for us Brits, November is mostly a cockblock for December. Or, at least, that's how my friend put it. I like November though... My friend only said that because she loves Christmas. Ahh, the most stressful bloody thing ever. Other than school. And people. And generally being alive.

WHOOPEE.

I'll try to hurry up with the next installment, especially as I'm excited to introduce America. :3 I've planned this story quite a bit, so all I've got to do is write everything! Ahaha... haha... ha. Yeah. It'll take some time. -expertly dodges spears, torches, bullets, bombs and spells!- Like all my other stories~

Thank you for reading!

It's levi-O-sa, not levio-SAR.