Hetalia Drabbles

I love you,J'taime (FRUK)

Disclaimer: I do not own the following work of fiction;angst

"Shadows all around you as you surface from the dark

Emerging from the gentle grip of night's unfolding arms

Darkness, darkness everywhere, do you feel all alone?

The subtle grace of gravity, the heavy weight of stone

You don't see what you possess, a beauty calm and clear

It floods the sky and blurs the darkness like a chandelier

All the light that you possess is skewed by lakes and seas

The shattered surface, so imperfect, is all that you believe

I will bring a mirror, so silver, so exact

So precise and so pristine, a perfect pane of glass

I will set the mirror up to face the blackened sky

You will see your beauty every moment that you rise"

The telegram had arrived at Arthur's house on November 1st. The man had given him a tip of his hat and eyes full of sympathy which the Brit didn't need. No, he was perfectly fine and this telegram was just going to tell him about the date the soldiers would start arriving. It had been in the newspapers, the Great War had ended finally and he didn't need those bloody newspapers telling him that.

Arthur Kirkland had woken up constantly every night since that day in July, covered in bruises and wounds. The searing pain was almost unbearable as the blood he always ended up coughing up into a tissue before reading the French lullabies on his night stand that his solider had left for him before going into war. His solider; the man whom live across the channel and had often visit him. Despite Arthur's protests, the Frenchman had stayed every weekend before returning to his country and managed to work his way into his awry heart.

After four years of tormented sleep and heartbreaking nights, November 1st he slept a night without his terrors. No blood, no bruises, no scars. But instead the telegram reached his finger tips as he closed the door silently. The teacup felt too heavy and he needed to let it go, crashing to the ground.Reality pounding against Arthur's head. The porcelain shattered like glass, sliding underneath the small wardrobe and table holding the vase with the red rose. The dust kicked up and gathered in the tangling mess of gasses known as air. The sunlight from the side windows that held the door in the middle caught every single particle.

But instead of seeing every detail, his eyes had betrayed him with blurs that warped the light into stretched beams of light with a lens flare. The wet had stained his cheeks, Arthur's emerald eyes became glazed with a film of shininess. He never loved the man. Never. He hated that Frenchman who came to his house with that dumb grin and his pulled back hair that made him look like a women. His body that he endlessly threw around just to get a rise out of Arthur. Hated the likes of him. His legs were far too heavy and the ground was suddenly a comfy place to curl around the telegram and cry.

Today was November 3rd. The telegram lain under the vase with the rose, a thin dust covering it and had not been opened. Arthur pulled the tote bag draped on his shoulder, closer to his body to keep it from slipping off. It continued to anyways but he simply ignored it as he rounded the corner in London to get to King's Cross Station which loomed overhead, casting a shadow on the blonde as the clock hit 7 o'clock, on the dot.

The darkness and sorrow of the night poured into the heavily lit station as Arthur slid open the door. It was crowded. That was good for his people. He ignored the thoughts emerging into his head at the heartbreak he knew that was about to come. His feet where light, he didn't even realize he was floating to the terminals.