1.

Poetry and Prejudice

Matthew scribbled notes down on his notepad, resting his chin on his palm. He was not aware of the sudden silence poked with the scraping of his pencil at first. Slowly, as he the silence grew thicker and thicker, he raised his head, frowning. Why had all the students in the hall collectively stopped? He surveyed the huge hall, where the seats descended, like a curved staircase. At the front the lecturer, Miss Bell, had her lips pursed tightly. Her large, fishlike eyes swept the classroom, dripping with distaste. The folds of her skirt brushed against the floor.

Behind her, a student teacher stared in horror. Matthew frowned. What the hell was this about? The young man began shaking his head, leaning back in the wooden chair. Miss Bell folded her hands on her lap. "Well, class, is there something you want to say?" She piped up, her voice so high it could break.

Matthew felt dazed. What had she said that he missed? He was tired, extremely so. He lacked sleep as most college students do, and possibly was malnourished. He scratched at the side of his nose. He leaned over to the student next to him. She chewed one of her thick blonde curls.

"Hey, what did she just say?" He asked gently.

The student raised her eyebrows. "Didn't you hear? She said some people are meant to be locked away."

Matthew licked his lips thoughtfully and nodded once. "Thanks." He leaned back to his notes. They were studying poetry about oppression. Why had she decided to voice an opinion as big as that in the middle of a class like this? Matthew sat hunched over in his desk. He already was a big guy, tall, and lanky. His shoulders were broad and his hair was mousy and curly with the texture of cotton. He resembled a lumberjack and not a math major that had no choice but to take an English credit.

The student next to him continued to chew her hair nervously. She stared at the center of the room. Miss Bell seemed to be exuding an air of disgust and excessive self-esteem. She stood slowly. "Class?" She asked again. "Why ever do you stare at me like I just offended you? I only voiced an opinion. Poetry is all about opinions, isn't it?"

Matthew was about to stand and object, but his docile nature snatched away an inclination he had. He sighed heavily.

A high, raspy voice burst in his left ear. Matthew jumped, getting a huge whiff of mint flavored gum. He looked over and found one of the other third years right next him, too close. Matthew winced and scooted away, listening to the constantly hiss in his ear.

"Can you believe that dusty bitch? She's so uptight I bet you could condense a gas in her into solid."

Matthew took another look at the young man before responding. It struck him, like a sledgehammer to the knee, that he knew this kid. He had a paper-white face and blood-red irises. His hair was a shock of snowy white, even paler than his skin, and his lips were cracked in a wild grin. This was Gilbert B., known for his insane behavior and lack of pigment in his skin.

"Well, I don't agree with what she's saying." Matthew said tensely.

"Then why don't you object? It's not hard. See, I'll do it."

Gilbert stood up without being asked and spoke in a loud voice. Matthew was tempted to cover his ears and groan. His head thundered with pain and embarrassment. He couldn't have been seen talking to someone like Gilbert. Nothing personal against Gilbert, but he wasn't exactly what a straight-A student like Matthew should be seen affiliating with, Matthew thought. He felt sick.

"Sorry, Miss Bell, but I'm pretty sure that poetry is not about forcing your opinion on others. I think it's about sharing an experience or an idea, but not saying your prejudiced bullshit that I'm fairly certain was directed against a certain group of people." Gilbert said, his palms flat against his desk.

Miss Bell looked at him as though he was a fly she thought she had killed. She pretended not to have noticed him and continued her lecture. A student at the front stood up violently, her chair jerking behind her. "Excuse me, he brought up a good point, Miss Bell."

"The opinions of juvenile delinquents don't hold much water here, dear." Miss Bell responded without breaking the lecture. Then she spilled into the rest. Her bony, manicured fingers spread against her knees again.

The student teacher shook his head and sighed loudly. Miss Bell paid him no heed. He coughed into his fist. Still, no response. He tried once again and finally Miss Bell turned coolly to him. "Yes?"

"Debate is part of language, Miss Bell, why don't you allow your students to flex those muscles?"

Miss Bell clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "There is a rhetoric class available. We are here to learn poetry and not to argue over it."

It was obvious that no one would get any further with the argument. They fell silent until the end of class. Matthew stood and shoved his notebook in his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder. He hastily tried to get out before Gilbert could get to him. He had no such luck.

Gilbert stopped just outside of the door, still grinning. "Can I talk to you for a second, Matthew?"

Matthew smiled politely. "Sure."

"Let's go somewhere a little more private."

Gilbert led him to a corner at the end of the hall, where no one could hear them. Matthew leaned against the wall. His next class wasn't for three hours. He had planned to take a nap and eat something when he got home, which was presently in his brother, Alfred's, apartment. Now it seems his plans would be changed. He offered Matthew another polite smile. "What did you want to talk about?" He said, breaking into a yawn and covering his mouth. He tugged at the red sleeves of his sweatshirt. Outside a winter rain began to spatter against the windows, turning the hall a cool gray color.

"Are you gay?"

"I beg your pardon?" Matthew asked, his cheeks flushing. The blood seemed to have drained from his knees. He felt he would fall over. He focused somewhere else, which happened to be the plaque to one of the classrooms. The numbers and letters floated. His heart thundered. Why was this strange, dangerous kid asking him this?

"I asked if you were homosexual, gay, you know?" Gilbert said, his eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

"Why do you want to know? What makes you think I am?" Matthew said in just above a whisper.

"I have nothing against it. Hell, I am gay. And word is you are too. I was just confirming a suspicion."

Matthew made a decision, unknowingly altering his life's course, and nodded.

"You are?"

Matthew nodded again, still red and trembling with anxiety. Gilbert patted his shoulder. On his arm were a number of bracelets that jingled softly. "Hey, don't freak out. I didn't mean to scare you."

Gilbert's voice had changed. It had melted and softened, turning from a hard metal to a mushy and warm liquid. Matthew couldn't help but feel relaxed. His heart slowed back to normal. Gilbert's hand slid off his shoulder, returning back to his side. The bracelets were mostly of string, although a few were metal and decorated with icons. He wore a black t-shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans. Matthew had pictured when word spread of how he caused mayhem in every school he went to a dirty, vulgar man who hadn't learned to grow up. Instead he was facing a well-groomed, even pleasant fellow.

And that's why when Matthew woke up in prison, the first thing that surprised him was Gilbert sitting just across from him with a smile.

I do not own Hetalia.

Hey, look! I decided to do another PruCan story after Bone Dry. Hopefully it'll be just as good, if not better.