I.
"Flaked out on you again, huh?"
Feliciano sighed, staring dejectedly at the sad sandwich in front of him, cheek resting against his hand. "What do you think?" he said, idly poking at the construct with a plastic white fork. He set the fork down on the table and looked up, one eyebrow arched, somehow wordlessly sarcastic.
Alfred rolled his eyes and lunged across the table, ignoring his larger boyfriend's weak protest, grasping the thin sandwich in one hand and sitting back. He lifted the floppy ham-and-bread up, studying it with a critical eye. "Jeez," he finally said, lifting one of the bread slices with a finger and furrowing his eyebrows at the single sliver of ham crammed underneath. "This isn't a sandwich," he informed them, giving Feliciano a pointed stare over his glasses before taking a huge, measured bite.
"Thanks," Feliciano said, the single word bone-dry. Alfred just grinned, wiggled his brows, and took another bite. Feliciano rolled his eyes, and, unable to keep the unimpressed facade up any longer, laughed. "It really is kind of pathetic, isn't it?" he said, smiling despite himself. Alfred nodded.
"My god," a quieter voice piped up. "Please tell me you're going to the vending machine, or something."
Feliciano held up two dollars. "Don't worry, Matthew," he said. "I've got it taken care of."
The other boy breathed a sigh of relief, the motion making his loose golden curls gently bounce. "I know you like to joke about it, Feli, but really, if you ever need anything-"
"Loosen up, Matt!" Alfred scolded. "He knows he's welcome at our house. Just enjoy the moment, man." His mild-mannered twin shot him a glare underneath a raised brow, but leaned back, ceding for the moment. "Here," he said after a moment, raising a finger and proceeding to dig through his messy backpack, eventually pulling out a wrapped (though slightly crushed) moon pie. He slammed it on the table, and made a frantic gesture that could have been interpreted as both an invitation or a threat.
"You never ate that?" the large white-blonde beside him said, eyes wide and hurt. Alfred froze. "That was my three-month anniversary gift to you, Alfred," he continued, appearing to deflate. Feliciano stifled a giggle behind his hand. The teen in question gulped, eyes flicking back and forth frantically.
"I- babe-" Alfred said, voice strained. His entire world seemed to be crashing around his shoulders. "That's… a different moon pie?" he attempted, sounding too guilty to be at all believable.
"Don't lie to me," Ivan said. "I can see the label. I wrote your name on it."
Alfred put his head in his hands. "I'm sorry," he said weakly. "I just forgot. Please forgive me? I'll eat all the moon pies you give me from now on?"
At this, Feliciano let out a cackle. Soon, quiet snickers could be heard beside him. Alfred shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and huffed, crossing his arms and glaring at the table. Then, even Ivan began to laugh, low, rumbly chuckles making a strange sort of harmony when paired with Feliciano's loud, mirthful giggles and Matthew's breathy, half-muffled ones. Ivan, shoulders still shaking a bit, leaned over, pulling a still-grumbling Alfred into his side and pressed a smiling kiss to his temple. All the pent-up tension in the smaller blonde's shoulders suddenly released, leaving the boy a boneless, slumped, disgruntled mess.
"Teasing you is fun," Ivan offered, resting his cheek on Alfred's hair. Feliciano mock-cooed at the two, snickering when both promptly flipped him off.
"But, uh…" Feliciano said, smile fading a bit. He fingered a stray thread on his jeans and nodded at the crushed American treat. "Can I? Eat that, I mean. We… haven't gone out to the store in a while." The air around the table stilled, becoming much more somber.
"'Course, Feli," Alfred said, leaning out of Ivan's one-armed embrace and pushing the pie forward. "Man, what happened to your standards? Sophomore year, you refused to eat anything that wasn't sprinkled with cheese," he joked, cracking an encouraging grin.
"What was it called?" Matthew mused aloud. "Arpeggio?" From the humorous glint in his eyes, Feliciano could tell that the teen was just egging him on. That didn't keep him from rolling his eyes and giving the smug boy a light shove, though.
"That's music, not cheese," he said, matter-of-fact, tearing open the flimsy plastic and taking a small bite out of the chocolate marshmallow treat inside. It was disgusting, as cheaply-made, pre-packaged food usually was. But it was food, so Feliciano kept eating.
"Oh, shit," Matthew muttered, taking a moment to bite his lip in worry before leaning down and tearing frantically through his backpack.
"You alright there, my bro?" Alfred said, not sounding concerned in the least. He leaned smugly back against his boyfriend's side.
"I would be if you hadn't dragged me halfway across town for a carton of eggs last night," Matthew hissed, shooting him an unimpressed look before triumphantly pulling out a torn, half-finished homework page.
Feliciano choked on his moon pie, and fell into a violent coughing fit that had tears pricking the corners of his eyes. "You what?" he demanded.
"Shh!" Alfred said. "It's a surprise."
"What kind of surprise?" Ivan asked.
"Unless you're gonna help me with this Stats homework, shut your mouth," Matthew said, harsh and angry. He took a deep breath. "Sorry. Can anyone help me with this Stats homework? Feli?" he asked, eyes wide and pleading. Feliciano shook his head and wiped the chocolate crumbs from his mouth.
"Nope. I'm majoring in visual arts, I don't need to take a math course this year, I'm finished." He shrugged and took another small bite. "Sorry, Matthew."
"I took Statistics last year, I can help," Ivan said. "Feliciano? Mind if we switch seats?" Feliciano shrugged noncommittally and stood.
"Be my guest," he said, grandly gesturing to his hard, wooden chair. Ivan's lips twitched.
"Wait," Alfred whined. "Don't leave me, Vanya!"
"You brought this on yourself," Feliciano remarked, settling into his new, identical wooden chair. "I can put my arm around you though, just like him, if you want."
"Don't make fun of me." Alfred huffed, eyeing the math-inclined boys across the table with a hint of jealousy. He sniffed. "You know what, fine," he said, a note of mock bitterness touching his voice. "No homo, though, bro." Feliciano snorted and lifted his arm. Alfred leaned back, and let it settle comfortably around his shoulders once he was settled. It was almost comical, and a bit uncomfortable, with how much shorter and slimmer he was.
"Never," he promised, absently patting Alfred's shoulder. "Absolutely none."
"Culture!" The single, sharp word, accentuated by the harsh slap of a stack of folders against a table, was laced with the ridiculous theatric grace of a Shakespearian actor. The speaker, a tall man with pale skin and glossy raven hair, let his threatening gaze settle on every individual student in the classroom before continuing. "For the past six and a half months, one hour each day, five days each week, this is what you've studied. The nuances of how global development can influence it, the diversity of the modern world- tradition and change, past and present."
Feliciano slouched in his third-row seat and muffled a yawn. He'd stayed up too late the previous night, as he usually did, sketching out designs, procrastinating on homework, and the like. He stared up at the Prof and let out a tiny snicker. The man was an entertaining, eccentric figure, well-known throughout the school for his strange, foreign accent, his richly colored coats and shiny shoes. He had a last name, everyone was fairly sure, but he'd never let it slip- on the first day of school, he insisted that everyone instead call him "The Professor". More often than not, though, the name was simply shortened to "the Prof" in polite conversation.
Rumor had it that the Prof had been offered a job at a local college as a young adult, before the offer was chalked up to a strange computer error. He'd grown attached to the title, though, despite never actually having it, and he was far too pretentious to simply let it go when he downgraded to teaching classes at the closest high school.
Feliciano had made it his personal goal about a quarter through the school year to annoy the shit out of him at every possible opportunity.
If that meant laughing at his absurd ensemble, he was absolutely down. Maybe that was just the lack of sleep speaking, he wasn't quite sure. Then again, he didn't quite care. The Prof's outfit of the day included what looked like a woman's coat that hugged his waist and draped to his mid-thighs (deep robin's egg blue, because gray is for cowards), black dress slacks, blacker shoes, and his absolute favorite, a white ruffle of thin fabric that hung from the base of his throat and tapered off at the breast. In Feliciano's exhausted, hungry stupor, the only thing he could think of was a mildly offended exotic bird with its chest puffed out.
The snicker turned into a mute giggle. Feliciano hadn't processed a single word the Prof had said since the opening of his dramatic speech, he realized. He coughed and swallowed his laughter. Luckily, the Prof had been so absorbed in his own prattle that he hadn't noticed a thing.
"…the good news is that you will not have a final exam in my class. The bad news? This project will be worth your entire final exam grade."
Feliciano leaned forward, suddenly alert. Project? He hadn't zoned out for that long, had he?
"Now, since most of you are seniors, and the school board insists on teaching you how to work in… cooperative environments…" The Prof took off his wire-rimmed specs with one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, looking both annoyed and incredibly distressed. "…I will be… assigning you two partners."
Feliciano was decidedly lost. He threw his hand up, and without waiting to be called, opened his mouth. "Professor, I got the majority of that," he said, pretending to ignore how the man suddenly stiffened and pivoted almost comically slowly to face him. "But, uh, sir, could you repeat that whole section on what the actual project is?"
The Prof clenched his jaw and sighed out through his nose, obviously very irritated. "Did you listen to a word of what I just said, Vargas?" he said stiffly.
"Yes! The majority of it, actually. I'd just like to be entirely clear on everything." Feliciano smiled, and nodded at the man encouragingly.
The Prof gave a tight smile. "I'm glad you're… taking initiative." He cleared his throat and fiddled with his elaborate neckpiece. Feliciano masked another bark of laughter with a strangled cough. "Your final project of the year is going to be a mock TED Talk, with a minimum length of twenty minutes. You will discuss, compare, and contrast the cultural development of at least two countries of your choice, from the 1950s to today. A more thorough explanation will be on the rubric. Entirely clear, Vargas?"
Feliciano nodded and flashed him an ok hand-sign. "Crystal," he confirmed. Somewhere further back, he heard an impatient cough.
The Prof sighed again. "Moving on…" he said wearily, shooting Feliciano a wary glance. "Now, we will have to discuss the matter of our in-class schedule. I'm sure you'll be happy to hear that unit thirteen was the last you'll be tested on in this class." He paused, raising an eyebrow at the classroom. A few students in the front row gave a half-hearted cheer. "However," he continued, "I am required by the board to put grades in the gradebook. So, every Tuesday and Thursday, I will give out a unit review that I expect you to finish in class. Mondays and Fridays will be mandatory work days. You will meet with your group and work quietly on your project. Wednesdays, you will be free to do whatever you wish, as long as it doesn't disturb other students. Any questions?"
Ten seconds ticked by. No one raised their hand. Fifteen. The Prof cleared his throat again. "I will now assign you to your group," he announced, whipping an ink-marked off his podium and waving it in the air. Feliciano leaned forward and squinted, trying to make out the names written in tiny, elegant script, but to no avail. Why did the Prof insist on hand writing everything, again? It just made everything more difficult. Feliciano puffed out his cheeks and leaned against his hand, knee bouncing anxiously underneath the table.
"Tino, Vargas, Natalia." Feliciano picked his head up and scanned the room, making brief eye contact with his partners- Tino, a pale senior with equally pale eyes and hair, but one of the sunniest, friendliest personalities Feliciano had ever seen, and Natalia, Ivan's younger sister. She was visually striking in every way, but also cold and standoffish- Feliciano had been lucky to get on her good side. He wiggled his fingers at her with a wink. She raised an eyebrow and very subtly flipped him off.
"Honda, Beilschmidt, Berwald." For such an extravagant man, Feliciano noted, the Prof was also painfully lazy. He called his students by whatever name of theirs was easiest to pronounce. Feliciano shifted in his seat, turning to look at the other students whose names had been called. Honda- Kiku, as he was usually called, was nice enough. They shared an art class earlier in the day. Kiku was surprisingly content to just listen and draw while Feliciano rambled about nothing in particular without complaining which he appreciated. Berwald was tall, quiet, and awkward- bad at conversation, painfully gay, unintentionally intimidating, but with a mature, golden heart that was rare among boys of their age.
The last one, though, Beilschmidt- Ludwig Beilschmidt-
Everything about the boy made Feliciano's blood boil. Every single thing, from his plain, boring glasses, to his blockish handwriting, to his gratingly deep voice, to his sharp, logical mind- Ludwig Beilschmidt was a callous, robotic coward, just like his father, just like he'd always been. Feliciano didn't hate easily- he believed in forgiveness, in free love, in good will, in second chances. But Ludwig Beilschmidt had proven, over and over and over, that he wasn't worthy of any of it.
It took Feliciano a few moments to realize he was glaring, and a few more to catch onto the fact that Ludwig was glaring back. Feliciano glared harder, and flipped a rude gesture in the other boy's direction before whipping back around to the front of the room and staring resolutely at the empty wall.
"…And that's it. Any questions?" the Prof asked. "Final call." The ostentatious man's chest was puffed out, head tilted up so he could look down his nose at them all. His hands were folded serenely around his crisp, ink-stained notes. Feliciano was suddenly struck with an idea, one that made him forget the rigid blonde a few seats behind him entirely. He lazily raised his hand, not bothering to mask the smug grin slowly spreading across his face.
"Professor?" he said, lacing his voice with a subtle sing-song tone that entertained no one but himself.
"Please wait until you are called upon, Va-"
"Would it be alright if we used you in our project?" Feliciano interrupted, not bothering to put his hand down, internally laughing his ass off at the offended shock on the Prof's face.
"Of course, I am a resource you may always use, the wealth of my knowledge is at your disposal, as it has been all year," the Prof ground out.
Feliciano set his raised arm back on his desk and gave a solemn nod, making a show of averting his gaze nervously and fidgeting with his hands. "It's just…" he started, then trailed off and took a deep breath. "Well, I want to address the renaissance fair in my project, how it developed and became a modern thing, yeah? I just wanted to know if it was okay to consult you for reliable information, since you, uh…" Feliciano paused to choke back a giggle. The Prof still hadn't seemed to have caught on- he was listening intently, but there was an odd confused look on his face. He had all the pieces to the puzzle, he just needed one more to complete the picture. "Since you seem to know so much about the attire," Feliciano finished, looking pointedly at the man's peacock-blue vest.
The whole class was tense, Feliciano could feel it. From most, he got a general sense of Oh shit, he went there. But a few rows over, he saw Berwald hide his grin with a sharp cough. Good man, he appraised. Then, he looked up, and the results. Oh, they were beautiful.
The Prof was wide-eyed and truly angry. One hand was clenched on his podium, the other had entirely crushed one side of his previously pristine notes. His face was a marvelous shade of puce that rivaled his grandpa's tomatoes.
"Feliciano Vargas." That was Feliciano's first clue- he got the vague feeling that he pushed a little too far this time. The wide grin began to slide from his face. The Prof would never report a student to the office, he valued his reputation too much. But at this moment, he looked truly threatening, and the realization that he didn't actually have the power here hit Feliciano like a sharp slap to the face. "You and Berwald switch groups."
But wait- that meant-
Feliciano had long since stopped grinning- he was too busy trying to remember which group Berwald had been in. He snuck a glance at the imposing teen, snapping his gaze back forward as soon as he saw the intense glare the other boy was giving him. Who-
No.
Feliciano turned around again, slowly this time, dread like ice hardening in the pit of his stomach. Kiku, the nice, quiet boy from art class, Berwald, the nice, quiet boy from around, and him.
Ludwig Beilschmidt, who looked just as shocked and enraged as he felt. Who pushed little kids on the playground in elementary school, who mocked his paint-stained hands and rough notebook sketches in middle school and told him he'd end up just like his daddy, because artists have never been worth anything so he should just give up and start learning to wait tables-
Feliciano took a deep breath, in through his nose, out through clenched teeth. He cracked his knuckles with one hand, swallowing the disappointment that bubbled up when none popped. If the tension in the classroom had been at a ten when he made his wisecrack, it was easily a fifty now- dead silent, still as a photograph.
Feliciano let one more angry breath out through his nose and smoothed the angry lines from his face away with a tight smile. The Prof had done the worst thing he possibly could, but that didn't mean he won. No. This wouldn't be a victory for that stuck-up prick if he had anything to say about it. He would do an amazing job on his project. He'd work with Ludwig Beilschmidt, if he absolutely had to.
"Of course," he ground out. The Prof nodded sharply, still red in the face, and made to go sit down at his desk, but not without first sending Feliciano a smug look down his nose.
"You may assemble with your groups, now," the Prof called out to the rest of the class. Then, as a very clear warning, "Do not speak with anyone except those in your group."
All of a sudden, the room was a flurry of activity. The rough metal feet of desks and chairs screeched against the polished tile floor as the students manning them arranged themselves into little huddled triangles. Feliciano instinctively cringed at the sound, for a brief moment forgetting that he was angry. He shook his head and stood, intending to move towards Kiku's desk. Instead, he walked straight into and bounced off of the chest of his rival.
"Move," he snapped, not even fazed, staring straight up into the boy's eyes. After a pause in which neither moved, he narrowed his eyes and shoved past, bag in tow. He ignored the hot glare on his back, opting to instead drop his bag beside Kiku's desk and push two together.
Kiku himself seemed a bit perturbed, and a bit more terrified than his usual serenely calm self. Feliciano brushed aside the guilt that was beginning to bite its way up through his insides. He was still angry. Luckily, Kiku shook his head, and the emotion cleared away, leaving Feliciano's conscience slightly cleaner.
"Don't talk to me," he said, once the tall blonde had finished settling himself in. He didn't bother meeting the other boy's eyes, instead studying his nails.
"I wasn't planning on it, believe me," Ludwig grumbled, shuffling through his notebook.
Feliciano hummed disbelievingly in response, making no motion to get any notes of his own. He traced a few circles on his desk with his finger, and squinted at the shiny, wobbly shapes drawn in skin oil. He rubbed them away with his sleeve.
After a few minutes of tense silence, Kiku piped up. "Do either of you have ideas?" Feliciano shrugged. He didn't bother to look at Ludwig, but he assumed the other boy did something similar, because he didn't respond either. Feliciano closed his eyes, listening to the rapid, forceful clack of fingers beating steadily against an old-school computer keyboard.
The trio didn't speak for the rest of the period.
"I'm home!" Feliciano announced to the dark, empty foyer, slamming the front door with his foot.
No response echoed back. Feliciano wet his lips and opened his mouth, about to call out again. Then, he paused, thinking better of it, and clamped his jaw closed, shaking his head. He trudged to his room, passing the kitchen and giving the heaps of unwashed dishes a disappointed glance. He'd do those later, after he charged his phone.
As he neared his father's room, he lightened his tread. The house was dark for such a nice spring day, which must mean his father was sleeping. A quick peek confirmed his suspicions. Feliciano held his breath and crept past. He'd heard Augustus crying late into the night, and didn't want to disturb his rest, the man desperately needed it.
Once in his own room, he tossed his bookbag into the corner and hefted himself up to the top bunk of his bed. He was spent. The day had been too long and hard.
He missed Lovino. Usually, the elder boy would offer snarky advice when he complained, keep him in check. He could almost feel the sting on the side of his head where Lovino would lightly smack him, and tell him to stop being cocky, being sweet can only get you so far. And Feliciano would lean over the side of the bunk and poke him on the head, and tell him that at least teachers liked him for the most part. And then they would quit whatever they were doing and engage in a game of petty revenge after petty revenge, until Lovino was laughing on the floor, and Feliciano was laughing on the bed, and-
Feliciano turned on his side and pulled the pillow a little lower beneath his head. His pants pocket buzzed. A text from one of the twins- Matthew, this time.
You coming over tonight? it read. Feliciano paused to think before tapping out a response.
nope, aug sleeping and needs to keep sleeping, put leftovers in one of those little plastic things with a fork I'll eat it tomorrow
The disappointment was obvious even over text, given how Matthew would start typing and then stop, and start and stop. Eventually, a response came through.
Okay. Tell him to go out to the store tomorrow when he wakes up, he does need to eat too
Feliciano sent back a simple thumbs up emoji, and turned his phone off. Wooden floorboards creaked somewhere across the house. Feliciano ignored them.
Ludwig Beilschmidt. Ludwig Beilschmidt.
Lovi was right again, Feliciano supposed, closing his eyes. He really did need to keep his mouth shut a little more often.
This was going to be a rough quarter.
