Yesterday I died; tomorrow's bleeding.
Fall into your sunlight.- Trading YesterdayO-o-O-o-O
No sunlight could infiltrate the room, all sources of light being blocked off by blinds and cardboard stuck against the dirty windows. The room was dark with a rather gloomy atmosphere. The slight red hue emitted from the lava lamp seemed to heat the place up a bit, in spite of the broken radiator. There was a plastic bowl in the middle of the floor on a very old and very worn umber carpet with five inches of water piling up as a constant drip, drip, drip fell from the damp ceiling. Curled up like a chilly kitten, a boy lied not-so-snugly on top of a stained mattress with only a blanket full of holes to ward off the cold. Beside him, an innocent scratched Nokia began blasting out his ring tone.
"Everything about you is how I wanna be. Your freedom comes naturally."
The boy entangled in his thin sheets only shifted at firsts, his eyelids flickering spasmodically, before he just moaned feebly and rolled over. If anything, with his returning consciousness came his heightened sense of hearing. He groaned loudly and raised his blanket over his face as a pathetic attempt to block the noise. Why did he set his ring tone on the loudest volume? He still wondered how he had such impeccable hearing after all of the defeaning music he submitted his poor ears to.
"Everything about you resonates happiness. Now I won't settle for less."
"Fuck," he hissed irritably, shoving his itchy covers off angrily and grabbing his flimsy phone. He clicked a button and held it up to his assaulted ear. "This is Arthur Kirkland. If you're a French wino wanker, please hang the phone and yourself. If you're a certain German albino, then no, I do not wish to go drinking with you at present as I am already suffering the after effects of a mother fucking hangover. If your two friends have given you my number, Antonio, don't think of trying to extract revenge on me right now or your intestines will be splattered over the floor along with your precious tomatoes. Anyone else, how may I help you?" he ranted furiously, whilst still somehow managing to maintain a fairly calm tone. He rubbed his forehead idly as he scanned his pathetic excuse for a room for any pain killers.
"Hi, Arthur," a bubbly but mildly annoyed voice replied, accustomed to his not-quite-friendly greeting.
"Oh, Michelle," he murmured sleepily in response as he heaved himself up and stretched, wincing when his sore shoulder sent a flash of pain up his arm. I knew I shouldn't have played rugby last week, he thought irritably, sighing in aggravation. Oh well, he thought idly as he rifled through his messy pile of clothes, What's done is done. "What do you want?" he asked, manoeuvring himself into one of his oversized blouses and buttoning it up with one hand.
"Oh, what a lovely way to speak to a girl," Michelle drawled.
Arthur rolled his eyes as he pulled on a new pair of boxers. "Whatever," he grumbled, now scouring the room for his trousers. "Spit it out, or I'll just hang up on you."
"Don't you always?" she replied huffily. "Anyway," she said, voice becoming jubilant again. Arthur was always perplexed over her behaviour. She easily brushed off any irritation and was often acting giddy even around people she disliked. Or hated. Like me. "I was out last night..."
"This isn't a girly rant regarding frivolous escapades in shopping for new attire and shoes, or something about eloping with a new tall, dark and handsome prat you spotted hanging outside of a train station, is it?" the blond piped up, not wanting to hear about the things his classmate got up to when he wasn't around.
"Oh, hush," she admonished, but she was giggling to herself. "Not this time. Sweetheart," she said in amusement, and Arthur felt himself blush at that. After their twelve years of friendship, he still wasn't used to her pet names. "If I wanted to talk about that kind of thing, I'd force you to come out with me. You're like the gay best friend every girl wants!" she declared brightly.
The Brit scoffed, yanking his black trousers over his plain boxers and zipping them up. He glanced in his dirty, half broken mirror and glared at his reflection. Why the fuck do I always look like crap? "I'm not gay, Michelle," he said with a huffy sigh. "I'm--"
"Bi, yeah, I know," she interrupted. Rather rudely, Arthur thought in annoyance. "Whatever. Anyway," she repeated, "I was out last night, yeah, and when I passed by this little club or something, I saw a poster..."
"Oh, cor blimey," Arthur gasped, feigning astonishment. "That's bloody amazing! I've never seen one of those before! Thank you oh so very much, Captain Obvious!"
"You're most welcome, Leiutenant Sarcastic," Michelle chirped, unperturbed by her unruly friend's cynical words. "As I was saying," she stressed, emphasising every word unnecessarily, "The poster's about a competition - and before you interrupt me with one of your disbelieving, anal, gay arse speeches," she continued, and Arthur's brow twitched as he ran a hand through his newly dyed black hair. "It's totally your thing--"
"Please don't say totally. It hurts my soul."
"You don't have a soul," she replied with a long-suffering sigh. "You sold it to me when we were ten. I still have the paper to proved it. It's so cute, by the way," she said, getting off topic. "You signed it with a scribble and drew a puppy. How adorable! Why did you have to change?"
"You're driving a dagger through my black heart," the English boy retorted monotonously, shoving his black fringe to one side of his face. Maybe I could buy dark brown contact lenses. My green eyes don't suit black hair, he pondered, turning his head to flick some stray hair out of his face. He shrugged nonchalantly and grabbed his black satchel bag, decorated in badges of different sizes with many different logos and phrases on. Some only for eighteen plus rated audiences, such as a few revolving around sex, drugs, rock and roll and COD.
"Oh, cheer up, emo kid." Arthur rolled his eyes at her overused retort. She always called him that. He wasn't emo. He just liked the style.
"Labels are for soup cans, Miss Liberal," he murmured in response, examining his bitten fingernails. He slipped his bag over his unharmed shoulder, the right one, and stuck his cold feet into his black Converse sneakers. He jiggled the door knob, scowling and twitching in irritation when it wouldn't open. "Aw, fuck," he cursed.
"What?" Michelle asked, pausing in her retort for Arthur's previous comment.
"My door's stuck again. I think maybe Lizzy tries to board up my door from the other side," he murmured thoughtfully, giving the dirty door a sharp kick, only to cringe and curse like a sailor. "Oh, bloody fucking hell," he hissed, lifting his stinging foot off of the floor and hopping around. "That fucking hurts."
"Don't kick your door then, ya eejit. Climb out your window like you always do. I'm waiting outside to escort you to school," she replied, tone carefree and upbeat in spite of her friend's agonising pain.
"Oh, how fucking thoughtful. I'm not a bleeding chick, Michelle," he grumbled sulkily, and then hung up on her. He stuffed his old phone into his trouser pocket and then glanced around to look for the key to the window. "Where the fuck could it've gone?" he murmured, falling to his knees to examine the floor, tossing his dirty clothes everywhere and kicking away mix tapes and CDs. "Shit," he muttered. He stood on his knees and yanked open one of his beside drawers, shoving his random pokémon merchandise out of the way and pausing briefly when he saw a Tamagotchi. "Man, that's so old," he mused out loud, but didn't toss it aside carelessly. Instead, after glancing around embarrassedly as if he were being watched, he slipped it into his bag, face heating up. Clearing his throat, he shoved the drawer closed and pulled another one open, now digging through the contents more carefully. "Aha!" he declared triumphantly, smirking as he grabbed a tiny silver key. "Thought you could get away did you, you little blighter?"
Standing, he jogged over to the window and shoved the miniscule key into the rusty old lock. It took a few good tries for it to twist properly, but eventually Arthur heard the lock click. He pocketed the key and pushed the window. Aw, come on, he thought irritably, Don't tell me this is stuck too! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck... he inwardly ranted as he shoved the window harshly. He growled angrily before stepping back a few paces in his small room, and charging at the window. It didn't shatter, luckily, and just flew open, sending the disorientated Brit into a pile of aching limbs on the scaffolding. He groaned weakly, blinking his eyes open and moaning again when the sun blinded him. Well, that hurt like fuck.
"Aaaarthuuuur!" a voice screeched impatiently, and the currently-dark-haired Brit rolled onto his stomach to see a frowning Michelle scowling up at him, her tanned arms folded over her jumper, her blazer hung over her shoulders. "What's the hold up? Take your fucking time, why don't you?" she shouted.
"I shall," he called back, rolling onto his back again. "I think I'll sunbathe. I want a tan," he decided, stretching out like a pleased cat.
"Don't take the piss!" she screamed angrily, briefly pausing in her furious tirade to shove a pigtail out of her way. "Come on, you plonker," she shouted, "It's windy as hell and, knowing England, it'll probably piss it down any minute now. So, get your pale white gay arse down here so we can get to school before we get drenched." She paused, and a sly, feline-like smirk coming to her face as he turned away, her nose in the air imperiously, a habit she'd got off of Arthur. "At least I have a jumper and blazer," she murmured complacently, "You're dressed in nothing but a thin white blouse. Rape material, me thinks."
Soon enough, she heard cursing and dings of Converse sneakers hitting metal poles and scaffolding and her friend zipped down speedily. She turned around to grin innocently at her flushed friend. "Only you would think that," Arthur hissed quietly, blush deepening as he subtly folded his arms across his chest. Michelle had to repress a giggle at his feminine habit. "No one is going to jump my bloody pale white gay arse."
"You are such a girl," she declared, jumping onto a small wall and walking along it as her friend scuffled along beside her. She stuck her arms out for balance and concentrated on where her feet were, although she didn't need to. She was a rather good gymnast, especially with her frequent ice skating lessons.
"No, I'm not. Shut up," Arthur mumbled sulkily, arms still folded tightly across his chest.
"Great comeback, Artie."
"Don't call me Artie."
"But it's so cute!"
"I'm not cute."
"Well, your personality sure ain't."
"It's isn't, not 'ain't'. 'Ain't' isn't a word."
"As if you're so proper," Michelle returned, sticking her tongue out childishly as she jumped off of the small wall, landing in her dolly shoes in front of an irritated-looking English boy. "Mr. I-Still-Have-A-Hangover." Arthur opened his mouth to defend himself, but the foreign girl had already become distracted courtesy of her attention deficit disorder that Arthur was sure she had. "Come on," she said, grabbing his hand and dragging him across the road, "I want to buy a Yorkie."
"Oh, you're such a rebel. No women allowed, remember?" the Brit drawled uncaringly, letting the stupid girl lead him into a secluded sole trader shop. He nodded at the man on the till, and then stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed his friend to the chocolate and sweets section.
"Fuck off," she replied happily, grabbing a Yorkie bar and a can of coke. She tossed a bag of Skittles and another can of coke to the Brit, who caught them easily. They approached the till and slammed their usual choices on the counter.
"You know they probably did that just so loads of women would go out and buy it as a form of protest? It was most likely just a marketing strategy to make more money," he informed her, grabbing his wallet covered in Pon and Zi stickers to slam a fiver in the Indian man's hand. Michelle handed him the correct amount of change exactly and grabbed her items, grinning greedily as Arthur received his change. He thanked the man as they departed from the small shop, immediately cracking open their treats and drowning in the unhealthy sugar.
"Artie, you're no fun," she said with a dramatic sigh, taking a big bite of her Yorkie bar as she put her coke can in her bag. Arthur did the opposite, sticking his skittles in his bag and cracking open his can of coke.
"I do try," he replied as they crossed the road again, Arthur flashing a v sign at a driver who almost ploughed into them. "We're so suicidal."
"Awesome." Michelle grinned impishly, taking another bite as he strode along the pavement, taking their walk as slowly as usual. They were always late, but they just couldn't bring themselves to care. Even though they got lovely rants and lectures from teachers, as well as those lovely papers known as detention slips and sanctions. (1)
Arthur jumped in shock when he heard defeaning sirens screeching, and then a police car whizzed past at a blinding speed. He scowled and blushed when he heard Michelle laughing at him, doubling over and nearly dropping her Yorkie bar in the process. "What's so funny?" he grumbled moodily.
"You!" she squealed, laughing harder and closing her eyes as she gasped for oxygen in between her large emissions of carbon dioxide. (2)
Arthur glared at his friend before smirking. He lunged forward and grabbed her Yorkie bar. Stuffing it in his mouth, he began rushing ahead. His smirk widened into a grin when he heard her screech of fury. "That's what you get, you bleeding bint!" he cried back as his legs carried him forwards speedily.
"No fair!" she whined from behind him, running behind him, but not fast enough to catch up to the runner. "You run track! Not faiiir! Arthuuur!"
The English boy just laughed out loud at her predicament, speeding up even more just to piss her off. His trainers screeched against the pavement as he glided along, legs pumping furiously and heart beating happily in his chest--
"Fuck!" two voices chorused at once when Arthur collided painfully with a brick wall of some sort and fell backwards for the second time that day. He cursed up a storm, grabbing the back of his head and cringing. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! My head!
"Shit, dude, are you okay?"
"Do I look fucking okay to you, you bleeding wanker?" he screamed in response, and instantly regretted it when waves of agony resonated through his skull and worsened his previous hangover.
"Damn, I'm sorry! I didn't expect someone to run into me like that. I mean, I know I'm hot 'n' all, but..."
"Fuck off!" Arthur replied eloquently, words slurring a bit as his mind was focusing primarily upon the seering pain shooting through his head.
"Ah! Artie, are you okay?" Michelle's breathless voice asked worriedly, slicing through his painful head.
Wincing, the Brit glanced up at her, blinking repeatedly when he saw two of her. "Uh," he replied, suddenly feeling a bit nauseous. "I'm not sure."
Michelle looked a bit worried. "You've turned pale... Paler than before," she murmured, concern seeping into her voice. "Come on, I'll drag your sorry arse to the medical room, okay?" she offered kindly, offering her friend a hand.
Arthur slapped it away and pulled himself up, swaying slightly. The prick he ran into held out his arms and grasped his shoulders - ow! Fuck, not the fucking left one! - to steady him. "Hey, lemme go with ya. I mean, I feel kinda responsible..."
"So you should," Arthur snapped with a weak, but still as poisonous as ever glare.
"To be fair, Artie, you ran into him," his friend supplied helpfully, and he shot her his dark glower, but it looked like more of a grimace. "Come on, you moron, let's go to see the nurse..."
"I'll go with ya," the git said again, and Arthur finally looked up at him when he heard the American accent. He blinked, green eyes suddenly wide as he took in the messy honey blond hair and bright azure eyes... No way, he thought waveringly, trying desperately to look away from the familiar blue eyes but finding himself stuck. That's just... not possible, he told himself, suddenly feeling weak as Michelle and Mr. Blue Eyes began steering him towards the school gates after a brief introduction. It's impossible... isn't it...?
The blond boy blinked at him, realising he'd been staring, and shot him a reassurring grin and a few words that went in one ear and out the other.
He can't be him...
O-o-O-o-O
Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Since I seem to be a suicidal prat, I've decided to start yet another chapter story for APH. I know, it's insane... but I resisted for as long as I could. It's weird how I get the ideas. I was just looking at photography, and it started a long thought path that somehow eventually spurred me onto write this. But hey, no worries. It isn't your typical high school AU. It's going to face some key issues and stuff, such as cliques, labels, sexualities, pasts, class (i.e. wealth and income), bullying, neglect, and things such as that~
It's set in England, just because I myself reside in England and it'll just be easier and more accurate that way. So, a lot of things in here will be set in England, mostly London, and as such all insults are English as well. By the way, here's news for you: We don't say "bloody" and/or "git" in every bloody sentence, you gits. No, but seriously, we have a handful of various other insults and curse words. A lot of us do say "fuck" an awful lot, hence Arthur's lovely continuous cursing all throughout.
Why is Seychelles Iggy's best friend? No idea, it just ended up that way. I know she kind of dislikes him due to his bad personality, but I figured that she'd grow used to his tsuntsun and eventually grow to like the bad tempered little twat. Besides, kids tease the one they like~! But yeah, they're just BFFs in this. Even though Arthur acts like he doesn't like anyone. You know how he is though.
(1) I'm not sure if this is used in other countries, so I'll educate you guys just in case you've not heard of it. If you do get these, my bad. Anyway, sanctions are slips of paper that are kind of like warnings. You get these if you don't do homework, classwork, or for bad punctuality or behaviour. In my school - and this doesn't cover all schools in the UK - if you receive three or more sanctions, you get a detention and go on report. But I'm a good boy and never got one. -Beams angelically- -smirks-
(2) Little science lesson for you. We breathe in oxygen (well, mostly...) and breathe out carbon dioxide. If we didn't have trees to breathe in our CO2 (carbon dioxide) and emit O2 (oxygen), we'd be dead. Go hug a tree now. Be grateful. Punks.
Questions I may be subjected to in reviews (or... cursed at for...):
Why is Arthur emo?
He isn't. Like he said, he just likes the style. XD Nah, but... most guys I see (this is just me personally) in London, at least teenage ones, seem to often have "emo" hair, skinny jeans, Converse trainers and cardigans. Maybe I have selective vision. XD; But yeah, I just thought temporary "emo" hair for Iggy would be kind of cool. Besides, I want to make 'Merika do something when his black hair turns blond again. -fluff sucker-
What's a Tamagotchi?
It's a little circular device in which there's a robotic little animal-type thing. You feed it, clean it, and help it grow by playing games to earn money and buy it food. There was a huuuge craze over these things when I was in primary school. Following that was Crazy Bones and gooey aliens that supposedly gave birth. It was a lie, a lie I tell you! Also, Pokémon, Yu-Gi-Oh and footie ("soccer") were always popular.
Why does Arthur's place suck?
He's a lower-class teen in this fic. He works on weekends to rent a room in some tiny apartment in front of a road. Most houses here in London are in front of roads, trains or just somewhere noisy. Don't like city areas? Go to Somerset or Wales, it's pretty quiet and kind of rural there. But anyway, yeah, Artie lives in a pathetic, damp, dull apartment with an old woman I so creatively named Lizzy. She's not his grandmother though. She's just the woman who owns the place and lets him rent a room. She owns a cat called Biscuit, but he's pretty much Arthur's cat too. Sorry, I just adore cats. XD;
I think that's all I need to cover, but if you have any other enquiries, feel free to ask. I do try to reply to reviews, but I'm having trouble with it. I'm really sorry. However, you can rest assured that I do read all of them over and over again because I'm a very sad person.
Thank you for reading!