The large pile of papers were thumped in front of him, and over the top, the narrowed, speculative green eyes of Arthur Kirkland, school council president in the making, regarded him with an air of utter despair.
"Haven't you got better things to be doing with your time than vandalising school property?"
He rifled through the bundle of leaflets, thrusting one at him with desperation.
"What's the point of school for, if not to vandalise?" the occupant of the chair opposite him peered at the paper suspiciously, before he exclaimed with a cry of dismay, "I don't need counselling."
"It's not me," his companion was quick to assert, "It's from Principal Vargas," he cast a watchful look over his shoulder at the unassuming wall, before tagging on in a conspiratorial whisper, "I swear he knows everything." Gilbert Beilschmidt snorted, shoving it into the wastepaper bin which had materialised suddenly by his feet. To be honest, Arthur was impressed that he even bothered to put it in.
"He knows damn well too much for my liking," he folded his arms, looking out of the window with an obstinate set to his jaw. It was damp outside, as it nearly always seemed to be in Britain, and he could feel his mood getting darker than the passing clouds, which gave an ominous roll of thunder as they amalgamated above the heads of the all too aware pupils, who, having run around the track innumerable times, were now looking hopefully to the teacher in the unsympathetic form of Mr Germania.
He blew sharply on the whistle twice, and as the rain started to drizzle down, he merely inclined his head, urging them to run faster. The only one who seemed to take it in their stride was Gilbert's little brother, who, in true Ludwig fashion, not only fairly leapt ahead of the shivering mass, but managed to finish half a lap in front. "How he manages to, I have no idea. I heard he has cameras in all the dormitories of the students." The student in front of him gave a dismissive snort, before waving the information away.
"Nonsense – I heard he was hiding in the lavato – nice try, Gilbert, but you're not getting away that quickly." The other German's only reply was to slide further down his chair, shoulders slumped, body limp like a ragdoll.
"Good effort, though."
"Can't you join a club?" His eyes, which had gradually been succumbing to the soporific nature of the room, lifted open for one moment, before quickly shutting again, as if the thought wasn't worth his time.
"What is there to join?" he retorted, and was only stopped from kicking his legs onto the table by the frosty glare that Arthur fixed on him, bushy eyebrows drawing together in a deep frown.
"Well if you hadn't got kicked out of - "
"Well if I was actually given a second to say I wasn't going to create any havoc there - "
"I wanted to say - "
"Well, I'm not going to - "
"Shut up!" The younger of the two students rose from his chair, kicking it back from the desk. He started to pace instead, running his hands distractedly through his hair as he held forth a fast paced ramble that seemed to alternate between insults directed at his unwanted guest, and a dialogue with the far corner, who he had called, "Flying Mint Bunny." Gilbert thought it was an odd name to call a piece of wallpaper, but he was in no position to judge; after all, he was the owner of a chick. "Can you even hear yourself? You can't make excuses for your behaviour!"
"I do not make excuses!"
"You do, too! What about music club?"
"I - "
"Uncontrolled playing of music speakers at full volume. Art?"
"You - "
"Spray-painting a canvas with the phrase, you're not misunderstood, you're just strange. Drama?"
"They - "
"For upstaging and often undermining the production. I could go on about this all day, that's how many clubs you've been ejected from! The only thing left is the magic club, and I'll be damned before I let you set one foot in there." The miscreant snorted, although an unreadable expression flitted across his face at the remark.
"As if I'd want to join your pansy club, population of three." Arthur sighed, inhaling deeply, before he spun around, the tails of his blazer flapping as he did so. He was probably the only one, Gilbert mused as he let it wash over him, who could pull off a school look as well as he did; the only other person was Francis, although how long he spent pulling it off literally, was a matter which he didn't want to go into – at least, not until he was at least five beers in.
The room itself practically summed up Arthur's life in a nutshell, with the wooden floorboards and plain, whitewashed walls – there was something mild about it, all of the furniture and tastes blending together in some harmony, and, as a close acquaintance had once described him, Gilbert Beilschmidt, with his mop of uncombed white hair, rumpled shirt, askew tie and trousers that showed a distinct lack of ironing, was placed in the middle like a large, clashing chord. The only other thing which seemed a discrepancy was the smooth black guitar that rested against one of the walls, gleaming in the low light, and if his fingers were as quick as his tongue at talking his way in and out of trouble, he would have played it instantly.
"Principal Vargas also threatened to take me off as School Council Secretary if I didn't try and persuade you not to do something." The words echoed in the lull at followed, and any form of comfort in the room was dispelled.
"What? He can't!"
"Why do you care," Arthur's voice was heavy with scorn, "You're doing an awfully good job of doing it for him."
"You're my…friend? I suppose?"
"You don't have friends, Gilbert, it's the great incapability of yours that you flaunt everywhere," he gave a weak smile, collapsing into the sofa that lay beside the door. "Thanks for the effort, though."
In a way, as caustic as the statement was, it was true; there was a popular saying around school, after all, that the ego the elder of the two maintained was big enough for a whole group of them. It wasn't to say that Arthur did have the latter either – everyone avoided him, or specifically his cooking like the plague.
The notion of him being made to step down as a member of the school council though, was unthinkable; it had been his lifelong ambition to become the student head of the school, ever since the beginning of secondary school, and it had become so integral to his life that his constant work (nowhere near Ludwig's, but still copious), had managed to isolate him from even the friendliest of the year. The idea of Arthur Kirkland never reaching his aim was as bizarre as the thought of Heracles Karpusi ever getting on with his roommate, or well, Ludwig not owning that particular stash of DVDs which he thought he had cleverly stowed from the prying eyes and wandering fingers of his family.
He didn't know quite what to comment on after that revelation; a large ego may have been all the support he needed, but he doubted that any words that would come out pertaining to his awesomeness would help.
"I'll do something," he promised fervently, his tongue working before his mind. "I swear."
"What matter is it? You'll just keep on being a vandal, and to be honest, I pity the poor kid who has to cope with you next."
"You're talking as if you don't have a chance."
"Nobody has the faintest chance against you, Gilbert, not when you're still thinking about I -"
"I'm not talking about that," the latter replied, voice uncharacteristically sombre. "You aren't a qualified psychiatrist, so thanks, but no thanks, I don't want to talk about it. The ship has sailed, the bird has flown, the awesome has left that particular part of my life, and to quote you, you'd only be bolting the stable after the horse has gone. Comprende?" he kicked the chair backwards, and slung his backpack over his shoulder as he prepared to go. "Session finished, president?"
"I told you, I'm not president!" he heard him yell in exasperation as he left the room, and he couldn't help but release a burst of cackling, attracting numerous stares of incredulity.
He didn't even let his mood falter when Lovino Vargas attempted to punch him in the stomach.