A/N: I'm slightly obsessed with writing High School AUs, I apologize. But this idea was cute, if a little cliched, and I just really wanted to write my first ever Hetalia fic. So, enjoy! I will be updating as regularly as A-levels allow.
Other possible pairings include GerIta, Franada and Spamano.
Chapter One.
The sound of thirty screaming classmates and the poignant sting of some form of acid were still orbiting Arthur's senses as he settled into the corner of an isolated stairwell, pulling out a book to read and a cigarette to smoke. Damn those scientifically adept buggers that understood the mechanics of bloody useless chemicals; blast Yao and Ivan and the others in the increasing selection of loud-mouthed illiterate wankers who couldn't name a classic novel if their life depended on it but could get an A* in every science. A bunch of tossers, the lot of them, and he didn't need them. Arthur was quite content admiring the work of Dickens and not thinking about the obnoxious laughter he could hear from Francis and Gilbert somewhere nearby, along with the other bastards who were enjoying being 'popular' and 'fashionable' and 'able to cook.'
"At least you didn't burn those brows off, man," Arthur spat, bitterly, mimicking Alfred's irritating squeak that he had been subject to mere moments ago, "too bad I didn't burn his ghastly face off," he concluded, pulling a rather bland ham sandwich from his bag and banging his head back against the wall in an inane attempt to block out the vast array of pricks he was subjected to at Hetalia Academy. The first sentence Alfred had said to him in months and it was plain, arrogant bullshit.
The remoteness Arthur was cursed with did not, however, come as a surprise. He wasn't born to be loved; he was intelligent and witty, charming if not a touch standoffish, but lacked the energy and social prowess that his peers seemed to take in their stride. Years of being the 'posh totty' sat at the back of the class had taken their toll, and he was ashamed to admit that, as he entered his first semester as a junior, he was yet to find a friend that had stuck.
Or maybe that wasn't fair, Kiku had remained loyal throughout his time at the Academy. He was a tad too reserved for Arthur's liking but continued to be an amiable study partner, if only he didn't spend so much time with Ludwig and that Italian fellow, not to mention the rather odd companionship he'd found in Alfred. Ah, Alfred.
If Arthur were to lie on the couch of a psychiatrist's office and share his woes in a desperate attempt to figure out the root of his segregation, Mr Jones would highly likely be the first utterance from his lips. He was a sophomore now, one year younger and yet significantly taller. It wasn't always that way; well, he had always been a year younger, but it was only this summer that had morphed him into the grand hulk of masculinity he now appeared. Years ago he was small- adorable, if Arthur was forced at gunpoint to admit it- and took to Arthur like no one had taken to him before.
Alfred had moved in across the street, jumping out of his car with a bright red cape adorning his back and a high-pitched giggle that had alerted Arthur, who at that time was aligning toy soldiers in his front garden, to his new neighbour's presence. His new neighbour, apparently, thought that Arthur was 'funny looking' and proceeded to bring all his action figures across the road to battle against the sad-looking, ugly wooden men that weren't to his liking. Arthur furrowed his brow and told the kid to "bugger off," which only made Alfred laugh even louder and declare them best friends.
When High School began for Arthur he discovered the glory of drinking, smoking, and the art of procrastination. One year later, Alfred discovered the wonders of football (the wrong kind), baseball, oversized varsity jackets and girls. Needless to say, the words they share now are few and far between, one reason why this 'tutoring' predicament had, to put it lightly, put them both in quite a pickle. The other being because Arthur had formed a, seemingly never ending, unjustified, pre-teen style crush on the lad to the point where he'd accidentally signed official forms as 'Arthur Jones' whilst lost in memories of hamburgers on foreheads and 'the hero next door'.
"You are to offer him at least one session of English tutoring a week in return for one session of mathematics tutoring from him, do you understand?" Mr Edelstein had said the day before, straight-faced without an ounce of humour even though what he was suggesting was ludicrous to the point of pushing Arthur into hysterics. "And when I say 'offer' I, of course, mean it's compulsory."
"We're not even in the same year! He's a whole bloody year younger than me, what am I supposed to learn from him!"
"He's in advanced placement for all sciences and mathematics, whilst you are far below your predicted grades that are, may I remind you, essential to pass the year. This exchange is fair and simple as, I believe, you live quite near, am I correct?"
Arthur nodded grimly, failing to hide his upmost horror at the situation. Each day he ensured to leave his house at least five minutes later than Alfred to avoid any unwanted contact, however wanted it actually was, and now such close interaction was being institutionally forced upon him. It was ironic, if he were to be polite, and absolute shit if he were not.
"Alfred and I don't particularly get along," he said slowly through gritted teeth.
"Well get along," Mr King said with a note of finality, "but for now just get out. Miss Héderváry has done you the pleasure of organising your first meeting- be in the library after school tomorrow, and please, Arthur, make good use of an excellent opportunity."
The words on his page blurred into an incoherent mess as the memory of yesterday's conversation returned to him; the bell rung to signal the end of lunch and he'd barely eaten any of his food, one pathetic cigarette stump squashed by his feet and another hour spent on his own awaiting inevitable embarrassment. What was he supposed to say to Alfred? 'Good afternoon, I'm still horrifically inadequate at maths but never gained the confidence to ask for help from you myself because you're horribly attractive and I'm an introverted nob.' No, that wouldn't do. He'd have to suck it up and remain stoic and unmoving, blunt and arrogant, sarcastic and an all-round arsehole if he wanted to protect his last remaining litres of dignity.
Perhaps he could convince Ludwig to kill him before the end of the day, or maybe Alfred wouldn't turn up at all, too busy with having a social life and other similar menial tasks. Whatever the outcome of the meeting, and however bad at maths Arthur may be, he was sure that there was a 100% chance of absolute disaster, and the sickening feeling in his stomach made him glad he never managed to finish that sandwich.