Disclaimer: Simply put... All the characters and ideas canon to MAR: Marchen Awakens Romance belong to Nobuyuki Anzai, and I make no money off this. The OCs, however, belong to me, as does whatever plot that shines through.

Warnings: Crack, AU and swearing (from me). Warnings will change every chapter. Other than that, all spelling/grammatical errors are my own. If you spot any, mention them and I will fix them. I also have no sense of English living, all of it is from my brain.

Seems everyone's got one of these going, da?

In an attempt to get myself to write more, I'm starting up a couple of free for all fics that are based on prompts I've seen around the place. I see Peta, Ash, Galian and Nanashi popping up a bit in this collection, though I'll attempt to have a go at other characters. Expect drabbles, one-shots, two-shots, yaoi, het, yuri, angst, humour, crossovers, crack (a lot of crack). If you have a prompt or a suggestion, please feel free to leave a review, but don't expect it to be completed. It all depends on how inspired I am.

Music: Kumikyoku Nico Nico Douga (Final Mix ver.) - and it's addicting, especially at about 7 minutes, 40 seconds onward.

Chapter Summary: There's a war going on and Peta's set on fighting.

They call it a World

Anal

It was normal for the weather to be at least somewhat grey in London. Even the summer's air was moist with the promise of rain, whilst the sky was always dabbed with messy splatters, like a monotonous sky in an old black and white photograph.

But that was outside. Inside, Peta and himself had set up a comfortable arrangement. They had their umbrella stand practically glued to the floor just inside the front door, whilst a step further down the hall was their coat rack (Tom couldn't remember the last time it was bare). Their stained carpet was covered with a scratchy mat that said, "HELLO, NOW GET OUT" and was smudged with black and brown from use. Their trek throughout the house varied then, depending on the day.

It was a Monday, and the buses had proved once again that they didn't follow any sort of timetable. Tom was lucky enough to have the woman with a grin like a manic cat driving, otherwise he would have been strolling in at midnight. He shook his umbrella, splattering droplets all over his already muddy shoes and the drenched bottoms of his slacks.

Tom knew there was something wrong the moment he walked through the door. Usually the house was pleasantly warm, especially since autumn had just started. And whilst it was warm, there was an oppressive feeling of absolute hatred and simmering anger lingering around the house.

He hung up his thick, midnight blue coat, stuffed his keys back into his bag with a sharp clatter, before he threw the bag over his head and hung it off one shoulder. He edged towards the main room quietly, his steps barely audible as he crept.

Had they been robbed again? Was Peta okay? Was Rolan attempting to make them a 'surprise' dinner again? The boy should know better; he'd nearly burnt the house down during his last attempt!

The living room was the largest room in their small house. It was double the size of either one of the bedrooms. It doubled as a living room and a dining room. Spartan in decoration, it held few personal items: Tom had a photo of his parents and younger brother, whilst Peta had a few of his mother (she was a beautiful woman, and more than slightly nosey, unfortunately for them both). They also owned a holey sofa, an armchair, a little lamp that sat beside the sofa, on top of an expensive, stained oak table behind the sofa. On the dining room side of the room, there was a large, rectangular dining table. It was a present from Tom's parents, second hand, but it did its job even if there were large grooves in the top. It was to the left of the door leading into the kitchen. The room was spotless, just like he'd left it. The small television they'd managed to find was still in its proper place on the strong cabinet Tom's grandfather had made him, and Tom's small stereo was still beside his beloved throne as well.

Tom stuck his head into the room. Ah, now he saw who was emanating the feeling of foreboding...

Peta was marking.

He couldn't help but beam at the sight, his bangs tickling the corner of his mouth.

"Stop lurking. Either come into the room or leave."

Tom stepped inside immediately, closing the door after him, "Bad day?"

"Hardly." Peta practically growled from his place amongst his mountains of paper.

The pile to his left was much smaller than the neatly set pile to his right. Tom could also spy angry red marks splayed across the ones to the left. Peta himself looked tired and irritable. In front of him was a thick, cut into columns book. His mark sheets and rolls composed it, his writing legible and small amongst it's tiny boxes. He was holding an essay in his left hand and a red pen in the other, his thin hands deceptively lax as his eyes darted across the page. Tom's lips curled at the corners; he always appreciated when Peta wore his hair up and clipped his front bangs out of his hazel eyes.

"What impossible task did you set them this time?" Tom asked as he dropped his bag near the ironing board (careful not to knock it and send it crashing into the television). He withdrew a blue cube, decked in healthy green leaves, "Would you like a cup?"

Peta nodded, eyes leaving the essay in front of him for a moment, "Yes, thank you." He then shifted, sitting up straighter as his eyes found his place again, his voice lifting as Tom disappeared into their kitchen, "We are studying the way the author of Animal Farm uses animals to make statements on human traits and behaviors."

Tom puttered about the room, placing the kettle on the stove and filling two cups with tea bags and two sugars for himself. He made sure the strings attached to the teabags remained outside the cup, before he went to collect the milk.

He called out, "And? You've said your students are competent."

"They are. However," He could hear Peta flip the essay in his hands, "Look at this boy's essay. Look at how he spells! How am I supposed to teach a student that doesn't understand he's not in America any longer? He has a sound understanding of the text and the question, his arguments are sound and well supported - but his spelling is atrocious!"

Tom could hear the phantom, "and they let them get away with this sacrilege over there!" Peta never voiced, but always thought. He dusted his hands off on a checkered tea towel and strolled out to have a look at the essay tormenting his best friend so.

It was crumpled, as though it had been kept at the bottom of the boy's bag. The boy's handwriting was a mess, ranging from fairly legible to hieroglyphics, but Tom could see what Peta meant. The page wasn't drenched in red, however, how was a teacher supposed to take a student seriously when they couldn't spell 'colour' correctly? The boy was one of Peta's seniors; so he would be finishing school soon. This had to be dealt with fast, lest his marks be lowered. And over such a small thing too. However, what Tom thought as a small and forgivable mistake, Peta (a passionate English teacher) would view in a much more strenuous light.

He spied the boy's name.

"This is The Joker's?"

Peta looked up from another student's essay. This one had pinks, sparkly hearts scribbled around the sides, "Yes. He seems to think we share a bond because we both have long, blonde hair. And he can't even spell that correctly."

"At least he seems to have a grasp on your beloved commas though." Tom grinned, eyes crinkling at their corners as he handed the crinkled pages back and pushed his hair out of his face. It did no good; it immediately fell back in front of his eyes.

Peta huffed, his eyes closing briefly as he droned, "If he thinks he'll be getting special treatment because he incorporates a few correctly used grammatical symbols in his work, he best give up now."

The kettle shrieked, beckoning Tom as Peta moved onto another student's work. He was quick pouring the scalding water, adding the milk to his cup, stirred and tapped the tea spoon on the side of each mug thrice. He was sure to kick the corner of the carpet laid down on the linoleum floor, making note that he or Peta would have to vacuum that weekend, before he presented his booty with a flourish.

"Your drink."

Peta smiled slightly, thanking him quietly before taking a big whiff of his tea. Tom found himself grinning as Peta's frame loosened infinitely, leaving him smiling contently as he took a sip, once, then twice.

"You're welcome."

Woffy: I'm totally sided with Peta in this. We used to have to mark each other's essays (it was to show just how much work it was and encourage helpful criticism, team work and the ability to take criticism amongst us), and my friend always used American English. I have never had to replace my red pen twice in the same term before or since then.

George Orwell wrote Animal Farm. It's an interesting read (though I didn't think so at the time)... And I wonder what the creators of the sex prompts list would think if they saw me using one of their prompts as I have. XD

Critique is welcome~