~The Way It Works~
Prologue
The six, very different teenagers all were trying to decipher exactly what had happened previously. To a few of them, this place was a foreign land, and for the rest, this is where they spent most of the school day. Some wanted scream multiple profanities at whoever, some were about to cry, some looked like they were crying, some were trying to come up with an excuse for this, and some were guiltily staring at their feet at the floor.
And of course, where it says 'some', read: all of them.
Well, you may ask, what exactly happened?
Well hold on a second. We'll get there when we get there.
At that moment, a prim lady with blonde hair, that was littered with pens, pulled into a bun, and glasses hiding her thin eyes, walked in from the ebony door and cleared her throat. "Ł...Łukasiewicz, Williams, Vargas, Honda and... Kirkland?" Their heads snapped up toward her in unison. "Dr. Vargas will see you now."
Gulp.
Got it yet?
No?
They all walked into the door as the woman held the door open for them, their eyes trained at the hardwood floor. They all sat in the six chairs arranged in front of the large desk neatly, staring at the nameplate that said in perfectly carved print: 'Principal Vargas'.
Ah, yes, bet you've got it now.
The man, Romulus Vargas, looked fairly young, despite his age. Especially if you take into account the fact that he'd been in the education business for twenty years. He had been adjusting his dusty brown hair before the sextet had shuffled in, and once they all were seated, he looked at each of the faces before him. He immediately frowned in a very uncharacteristic act.
"Miss Robinson," he began in a questioning tone, his eyes not leaving the teenagers.
"Yes sir?" She responded clearly.
"Are you sure there isn't a misunderstanding?"
"Positive, sir."
"Hm." he paused. "Positive-positive?"
"Yes, sir."
This back-and-forth conversation went on for about five minutes. During this time, the aforementioned group took a moment to recount the day's previous events. The first teenager in the row of chairs, Arthur Kirkland, remembered well. Oh, yes, he remembered almost too well. His green eyes showed a dark scowl while his face remained visibly calm (making the Italian next to him yelp a tiny bit in fear) at the memory.
Arthur had been making his rounds early that morning as the student body vice president, scribbling little notes onto his notebook (little things that he'd noticed that needed to be dealt with. I.e., graffiti, obnoxious amounts of gum underneath a desk, students out of dress code, other forms of vandalism, the like). He was able to keep his shoulders back and his chin up as he ignored the comments that included, but were not limited to, "Go back to Russia!", "Why does his voice sound funny?", "He's French... or something."(that one especially got his temper flaring on occasion, as it was an insult to his British pride), "He needs to stop saying I'm a bloody walker or whatever he said. That's probably Mexican for asshole."
So far, the day had been going surprisingly well. Jocks hadn't called him an old maid yet, cheerleaders hadn't mistaken him for a very, very ugly girl yet, and band students hadn't thrown reeds and music sheets at him today.
Why, you might think to yourself, would people do these things? That's just bullying.
While that may be the case, some would argue that he deserved it. He spent most of his time in the student council convincing the other members to make multiple budget cuts. No contest or new music for band. No championship for the sport-players. No uniforms for the chorus. Hell, the art teacher had to buy most of the paint herself around that time. Instead, he... Well, no one really knew where the money went. He blamed the bad economy for it, but only the people who knew him knew that he just didn't like physical activities or art programs. Why? That, they don't know.
Arthur was just about done with the freshmen hall when, out of nowhere, someone (looked like a freshman, since he hadn't seen her before) had grabbed his arm and started dragging him in a random direction. She'd been rambling about the band room and troublemakers and something else he couldn't really understand amidst the sound of their stomping footsteps down the hall and her jagged, uneven breathing (that led him to believe that she'd been running to find someone). The moment he heard the name 'Gilbert', he'd started running as well, nodding to every word the girl was saying that he couldn't make out.
Gilbert Weillschmidt. The arse who'd been the first name on his 'must be dealt with' list when he entered school there.
Bastard.
"And- and- Oh my god, please tell me he's gonna get it." She finally finished as they ran down the band hall, gaining stares from the students in the technology class that also resided in that hall.
Arthur nodded firmly, slowing as they made a left and came face-to-face with the double-doors of the band room. "Absolutely, dear." He had no idea what this was, but it didn't take a genius to put two and two together. Gilbert (plus the shouts and multiple sound of things being broken coming from inside) equaled trouble. And, no, not the kind that came from one of his favorite bands (Coldplay, if you must know). He pushed the doors open and walked past the band director and assistant's office (they had ISS duty or a meeting or something at this time of the morning, since they didn't hold homeroom) and stared at what he found.
Before him were several terrified, yet furious students who watched as two people tore apart band binders, throw instruments and their cases out of their respective cubbies, and things of the like. Arthur saw clarinet keys broken off, trombone slides bent in half, reeds cracked, and whole instruments dented like you wouldn't believe, all littered about the room. He stared at the students watching, only recognizing a few faces, seeing his enemy among them, simply inspecting his hair. Francis Bonnefoy.
Before Arthur could yell and go tear his hear out, his stare jumped over to the two causing this at the sound of a mix of a scream and a sob. There were Gilbert Weillschmidt and Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. Should've known, he scolded himself. He let out a deep breath in the middle of all this chaos and then took one in, and startled everyone with a shout.
"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON HERE?"
Everyone looked at Arthur, slightly disoriented and their ears still ringing, as he stomped over to the two causing it all. "You have about ten seconds to explain what it is you're trying to gain from all this before I-"
"Oh, shut it, Kirkland," the albino, Gilbert, sneered in that annoying thick, German accent, ignoring Arthur, then proceeding to stand on a chair near the blackboard and pulling out a can of spray paint. "Yo, 'Tonio, what should I write?"
"A ver... Maybe write something about Arthur?" Antonio snickered as he tore some more music apart, "Since he really is sucking all of the fun out of this all of a sudden, no?"
"Don't you bloody dare!" Arthur said, jumping up and yanking the can from his hands. Before another word could be said, though...
"THE HELL, TOMATO BASTARD!" broke though the silence, and everyone look toward the Italian twins at the entrance, one furious and one devastated in small cries of 'Vee!'
"Lovi!" Antonio's demeanor suddenly changed to a ridiculous smile.
"Don't 'Lovi' me, you damn tomato bastard!" The twin with darker hair and olive green eyes, now introduced as Lovino, stomped over and grabbed the Spaniard's collar.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"I'm doing this for you, mi tomate!"
"EH?"
"You said that you wanted 'revenge on that son of a tomato bastard director', no?"
"STUPID BASTARD! THAT'S STUPID!"
As the two went into a heated argument, consisting of both Spanish and Italian, Feliciano, the younger of the twins began to cry, staring longingly at his broken flute on the ground. Arthur began shouting at Francis, who easily retorted and started yet another war between them, giving Gilbert enough time to shrug, retrieve the paint can, and continue painting. A few students had left- to tell a teacher, or something- while more had gathered around, watching the chaos unfold before them.
Amongst the students, eventually, came Alfred F. Jones and his twin brother, Matthew Williams (their parents divorced and Al got his mom's last name while Matt got his dad's, so. More on that later.), who both stared at everything going on before actually doing anything. Alfred was the first to make a move, going to mess with Arthur for no reason before arguing with Francis along side him. Matthew walked over to Gilbert and began scolding him as well, turning it into a one-sided argument as Gilbert often acted like he couldn't hear them.
Then Kiku Honda and Feliks Łukasiewicz showed up, mostly because they heard Feliciano's cries. The smaller Japanese teen had rushed over to console his friend, his brown eyes holding concern. Feliks had seen his broken drumsticks and began screaming and throwing stuff at Gilbert (because one drumstick had 'Awesome wuz hre' scribbled on it with sloppily in sharpie) in his native tongue, Polish.
All of this went on for what seemed like hours and then some. Until, that is, they heard a frustrated, familiar voice with anger laced throughout it.
"STUDENTS!"
"Crap, it's the director!" Gilbert glared in the direction of where footsteps were audible from down the hall, tossing the spray paint at Arthur's head (he caught it, though) and running out the door that led outside, only to be chased by Alfred. Antonio shoved the music in his hands into the air, to be caught by Lovino, and followed after the two, followed by Francis, who yelled something about a 'damn rosbif'.
By the time the band director had arrived, the trio had ran away and the only movement in the room was the door slowly closing. Everyone looked at each other and realized that this probably didn't look good. No, not at all. Arthur, holding the paint in his hands, looked up at the board and read the red letters, 'Arthur Kirkland', that had been stopped mid-writing. Starting to panic, he looked to the others for reassurance. But he found none.
Feliks clutched his drumsticks as if he was so angry he'd broken them. Matthew was standing in the chair where Gil was, paused in the middle of trying to wipe away the words on the board, but looked like he'd been adding to it. Kiku held a few broken binders on the ground and Feliciano held his broken flute solemnly. Lovino had the torn music in his hands. They all audibly gulped.
They'd been played by the Bad Touch Trio.
The six had just enough time to remember that last line before Dr. Vargas' voice interrupted their thoughts.
"Now, boys... I'm very disappointed in you."
"But, like, it wasn't us, Dr. V!" Feliks cries, rising to his feet and flailing one sleeve of his slightly-over-sized sweater. "It was Gil, Toni, and Frenchie!"
A twitch of hope entered their minds as Feliks actually had the principal's attention.
"Then, like, the stupid director had to be bitch and totally blame it on us! I mean, like, stupid!"
And then it died just like that.
Feliciano simply tugged on the flamboyant teen's skirt (they'd all come accustomed to his cross-dressing) as Arthur motioning for him to sit down. Feliks huffed impatiently, but sat nonetheless.
"Now, what in the world possessed you to do something like that?" Dr. Vargas asked, leaning against his desk on one palm.
"Vee... But, Grandpa, we didn't do anything..." Feliciano shifted in his seat, his gaze at the ground.
Again, another flash of hope was found as they saw a bit of softness flash through the man's eyes. Perhaps the whole, 'I'm-your-grandson-and-I'm-cute-so-believe-me' thing would work for them.
"Yeah, dumb ass, we didn't do nothing! Dammit, everyone in this damn school is so stupid!"
Again, it sank. So far:
Losses: 3
Lives: 3
"W-well, sir... e-eto... We don't really have an explanation because..." Kiku began. The self-proclaimed sane ones there (read: the ones who had yet to speak) sighed in relief. If anyone, Kiku could get them out of this mess...
... That is, until whatever heartfelt speech he was about to deliver was overflowing with hesitation, honorifics, and polite, random apologies before every other word. With his accent on top of all that, he was almost speaking a foreign language. Sigh.
Losses: 4
Lives: 2... Well, everyone had forgotten about Matthew, so to them, 1
"Sir," Arthur began with the clearing of his throat, "I swear upon my duty as student vice president that we were not the perpetrators. Although it may seem only like an excuse, none of us were present when that event had began."
"Mhm," Dr. Vargas nodded vaguely. He let out a sigh. "Several of the witnesses that director talked to said much differently. They said that you were the ones who initiated it."
"I beg your pardon?" Arthur blinked.
"They also said that you've been budget-cutting all over the place for them, too, on top of it all. It'd only make sense that you'd do this, they all said."
"But, sir, if you would just ask the ones who were there first, then-!"
"No," Dr. Vargas held up a hand to stop him. "I'm afraid that I've made up my mind. Even if you yourself are innocent of this crime, Mr. Kirkland, then you re most certainly not innocent of cutting budgets without consulting me, nor my secretary, first."
Arthur remained silent. He felt the other five staring at his back, probably in disappointment. He mentally sighed.
He'd fucked up.
"Now, I've yet to come up with an official punishment for you all, but in the meantime, I'd like for you all to come to school over the Thanksgiving Break weekend so you can repair the band room and find a way to pay for the instruments that were broken."
They all groaned.
Mss Patricia Robinson watched them all slouch- typical teenagers, she thought (even though it wasn't long ago that she was a teenager herself)- with a slight feeling of satisfaction. Finally, a suitable punishment for a student. She'd long gotten tired of Dr. Vargas' easy-going attitude. Suddenly, all those days she'd spent trying to do work in her office having to listen to him pretend like he knew how to play the lute and sing became worth it if it meant he really was this serious about arts-related incidents. She felt like smirking.
"And Miss Robinson will be making sure you do it."
"Wh-wha," she sputtered, sounding uncharacteristically unprepared for the sound to come out of her mouth for the first time that day. "Dr. Vargas, it's the break, and...I may be going somewhere with my boyfriend..." Seems like she was more like those 'teenagers she despised' than first believed.
"Firstly, everyone knows you don't have a boyfriend, so stop saying that. Second, it's just Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. You can handle that, right?"
"...Yes sir."
A glance was exchanged between all of those who were going to spend that weekend figuring out how the hell they were gonna fix something the actually had nothing to do with.
And, so begins our story.
Man, this is short for my recent writings. I know you all are glaring at me because of my not updating TMwY, but hey, I had this piece of awesome in my head and I have to get it out. Like, now. :I
I'm planning on making this a really long one, so...
Oh! That's right, parings. For now, it'll start as USUK, one-sided SpaMano, one-sided LietPol, and, well.. a bunch of one-sidedness. If you want, you can vote on my poll on my profile for the parings you want based off of the chapter I've uploaded each week, but only for that week. If I has inspiration, you'll see it in dere.
Adieu, mon lovlies~!
~Hari Sama
