A.N.
Four drabbles un-linked with bad english and a smattering of grammatical errors, as well as being quite badly OOC... You have been warned.
Start / high school AU
It's something sweet with a hint of spice and a lot of strangeness.
"So I guess I'm your partner for this assignment." says Fran with his ever-monotonous voice as he gazes through a fringe of teal hair down at the blonde who's lounging comfortably in his seat.
He's seen this kid around. The blonde is a transfer student from some distant country that the green-haired teenager has never even heard of and would most definitely not be able to seek on a map. Apart from one chance encounter where he accidentally bumped into him, dropped his books and picked them up to the sound of the others "Ushishishi. Just like a frog." (What the heck was that even meant to mean, anyway?), the male had done his best to keep out of the other's way after hearing tales of knives, wire, and traumatised students.
Okay, that's a bit of a lie. He's been secretly eyeing the lad for a few weeks now. He can't help himself. There's just something really annoying yet fascinating about the way that the other carries himself. It's as if he has the aura of a snobbish prince, albeit a pretty darn messed up one.
Or perhaps a princess, Fran muses as he spies the unmistakeable glint of what looks like a tiara. I wonder if he has a favourite Disney princess?
"Ushishishi." A cackle snaps the boy out of his reverie, and he glances down with his perpetually blank face down at the blonde. "And you are?"
"Fran." His blank tone matches his expression perfectly.
A bright grin that seems both ominous and jubilant. "Call me Bel-senpai, or his highness."
"We're in the same year level, and you're wearing a tiara."
Fran idly notes how the other's eye twitches.
"Ushishishi."
The teal-haired male glances down and notes how the other has a pencil jabbed into his arm. Ah, it's pretty sharp too.
It's the start to a beautiful, annoyance-filled, pain-filled and all around crazy relationship.
Fran can't find it in himself to care. (Then again, he never appears to care for much of anything.)
Seeing red / weird neighbours
"You're a jerk." His normally neutral expression has the hint of what seems like annoyance.
"You're a peasant." The other snorts, maddening grin growing wider and wider as time passes by.
"You're an asshole."
"Ushishishi. Is that an invitation?" The self-proclaimed prince laughs as he leans over the wooden fence that separates the two properties. A forgotten bundle of letters is in his grasp, the crisp, slightly off-white colour a stark contrast to the coat of the fence; once upon a time when the blonde-haired male had first moved in it was still perfect and even, but hard work had never suited Belphegor and so as the months wore by, the forgotten fence had been neglected in favour of annoying his neighbour.
Poor, poor Fran.
Choking at the response and the many heavy implications it held, it takes all of Fran's self-restraint to not leap over the fence (a difficult feat that would be, considering the male wasn't that much taller than it…) and throttle the elder ("Taller!" Belphegor would often taunt) man.
Schooling his face back into his usual inexpressive appearance, he scoffs and turns away, daily argument and mailbox-checking routine over.
Or so he wishes.
"Bye, froggy!" his ears pick up the irritating voice call in a sing-song tone, and the young male doesn't need to look back to know that he has that stupid, yet strangely endearing grin on his face.
"Ushishishi. Don't fall in love with me!"
Mist / a darker mafia scenario
He stands in front of the boss with a perfectly-straight spine, hands flat at his sides and a perfect poker face.
Honestly, this is the last place that the blonde wants to be. Submitting to another when he so prides himself on being the true prince and ruler of his country? Tch, how utterly humiliating. It should be him who the peasants and commoners flock to, not some fake playing a game that's too much for their unroyal blood to bear. Soon enough, he's going to come crashing down from that fiery throne, and Belphegor, a prince in name and in nature will be there to mockingly grin down at him from his proper placement on the throne.
His throne is the type which is flame resistant, and though at present it does not exist in corporeal form, it is something that accompanies him wherever he goes and through whatever decisions he so desires to make; after all, heritage is something one cannot cast away whether they desire to or not.
So though this time around he will throw the bag unceremoniously down as an offering, liquid-proof material settling down around the round shape of what suspiciously looks to be a human head, Belphegor, Prince the Ripper will live on through these dark, uncertain days, if only to catch the ever elusive mist.
How stupid, beneath his blonde bangs his eyebrow creases and his eyes narrow in thought. The prince is escaping the mist, only to hunt for more.
"I will serve you well, boss."
Indeed he will, because he's finally reaching the end of the uneven forest trail, and soon enough he's going to be out.
Just a bit more.
Picking up the pieces / biker gang
There's something about the thrill of the ride that sends him going back for more despite the imminent danger it poses.
It's terribly cliché and he knows he probably looks ridiculous (if it's possible for his handsome self to even look ridiculous, this is probably it), but even with the gaudy leather jackets (worn out, and covered in places with patches and specks of paint and oil from doubling as both outerwear and maintenance clothes) and the admittedly crappy members (it was pretty damn difficult to match the expectations of a prince, after all), there is one thing and one thing only that draws Belphegor back in for more.
Every Friday night there's a race to behold and participate in, every Friday night there's the opportunity to engage in a conversation of not words nor expressions but of the humming engine and the squealing tires, of the plumes of smoke out of the exhaust pipes that spiral out and above, a thought or fancy enclosed in dark smoke that contributes to the pollution of an urban, populated city.
Even though he tells himself that this is the best he will ever have next to a blood-stained throne, as he inhales a cigarette ('It's unhealthy for royal blood', he had said after the first time he had tried it and promptly hacked up a lung, but he still comes back for more) and relishes in the toxins that swirl and penetrate his body, there's still something that makes him then look up and stare at the other who had seen him through the sorry mess that is his life.
"Bel-senpai," the teal-haired youth begins. It's not fair, Belphegor thinks. It's not fair how he can still radiate pure cuteness and joy whilst in this profession. "Bel-senpai, they're calling for you." he informs in his ever-present monotonous voice.
The blonde-haired male drops his cigarette, squashes it out with his foot, and breathes. His usual grin is gone, and that's probably what alerts the teal-haired male to the fact that something is up.
"Bel-senpai? Yo, fake prince? What's wrong with you, besides the usual?" he asks, and though there's nothing different about his tone, he is worried, somewhat.
Belphegor breathes in before letting out the breath in a lethargic, smoke-tinted sigh. "Froggy. Be quiet."
Lips crash down on lips, smoke meets purity, the gunshot of the beginning of the race sounds, and they're off.
A.N.
Oh wow I wonder what I wrote. This is the reason I usually don't write, because I can barely communicate coherently to people, let alone sit down and write fanfic.
In any case, this is for the birthday of the amazing, beautiful and cute Aya! I was going to sing her something instead, but urgh my throat has been sore so yeah, idea scrapped.
One day, I will write something proper!
(Also, am I the only one who likes the mental image of a Badass!Smoker!Punk!Biker!Belphegor? Heckyeah.