Soooo… Septimana. You will be wondering what that means.
According to Google Translate, it means "Week", or thereabouts, in Latin. As it sounds similar to the Latin for "Seven", which is "Septem", I am inclined to believe it. The title has little or no importance, though.
The way this fic works is that I write a short oneshot for every day of this week, all in Gakuen AU.
Each oneshot will span only one day. The day I post it.
I have writer's block and I need to get into the writing mood.
On Monday they met, on Tuesday they hated each other, on Wednesday they were in a love-hate relationship and on Thursday they were friends, on Friday they were shy, on Saturday they were in denial and by Sunday, they were in love. (Seven one shots for seven days and seven different USUK Gakuen AUs)
Septimana
Could my Monday get any worse?
Thinking about it… Sharks, starving children in Africa, Chernobyl, tsunamis, other miscellaneous natural disasters… No, it couldn't. It was a Monday, after all, which was the absolute worst day that I could possibly have slept in until 8:30, through various alarms and the sounds of my brothers getting ready for school. (How I had done that, I was not sure)
No, I decided as I made a toast sandwich and forwent even a single solitary cup of tea, pausing only to put my pants on and grab my backpack, this was about as bad as it could get. I was running to school, which is 15 minutes away on foot, desperately buttoning my shirt up and with my laces undone, with only five minutes let until Homeroom. I was, as my eldest brother Alistair would say, 'Royally fucked'.
There was nothing that could possibly have made it worse.
Except for the fact that this was my first day in a new school, I was beginning 3 weeks later than every other student, I hadn't met anyone yet, and I would for the rest of the day be surrounded by obnoxious and boorish Americans.
Not to mention the fact that I was running the wrong direction.
Fuck it, I was not going to have a good day no matter how much I tried.
I hate Mondays.
000
I bent over in front of the Admin building, panting and dishevelled. Running had never been my strong suit- well, neither was anything physical, really.
The secretary at the front raised an eyebrow at my appearance, and I could see her curling her red-painted upper lip as she bent over her paperwork again, studiously ignoring me. Fat old sod, I thought, waiting not-so-patiently for her to notice me. Or at least pass the point at which she could reasonably pretend I wasn't there in the hope I would go away, like a particularly hefty insurance bill.
Meanwhile, as she indulged her menopausal old-maid whims, time was a-wasting. I checked. She had exactly 5 seconds 'till the beginning of the Homeroom before she finally heaved a gigantic, walrus-like sigh and favoured me with a sour look. "What do you want?"
Oh, that explained it. I'd almost forgotten that she was probably American, and had, in my lapse of memory, been expecting some common fucking decency from her. The heavy Bronx accent she addressed me in, however, banished all doubt that this would be more difficult than extracting teeth.
"I'm Arthur Kirkland," I said with a small, practiced smile. "I'm a new tenth-year student and I was told to get my information packet from here?" I left the final words as a question, to be polite, you understand.
I hadn't expected her to break into a large, rather frightening, coffee-stained smile. "Oh, sweetie, you should have said! Of course you get you timetable from here. I've already put it together for you. Just give me a moment."
I frowned, confused at the sudden change in behaviour. "Of course," I said, faintly, the winced as the sound of the bell drilled into my ears. Late. No doubt about it now.
She shuffled some papers for a second, before popping her head up again like a rather ghastly jack-in-the-box. "What year did you say you were in again, sweetie?"
"Uh, tenth grade, ma'am," I said, shifting uncomfortably under the stench of here coffee breath.
"And what's that?" she asked, smile diminishing.
"I believe you call it sophomore year," I said, trying to keep my temper in check. Was she being deliberately obtuse or jut genuinely that stupid?
She nodded and continued rustling papers.
"Sweetie, are you from Britain, by any chance?"
"England, actually," I said, getting even more pissed off. That would explain it. My accent. It did weird things to Americans. Especially the undesirable ones.
(And I absolutely hated it when people got England confused with Britain. They were completely different, in almost every way)
She finally got the packet out, the bell now a distant memory. I was done for.
000
"Excuse me," I said, knocking on the door to my Homeroom. I probably only had about 3 minutes left, judging from the sheer amount of time it took to find the bloody classroom. At least I'd been able to straighten myself out a bit while in the corridor.
"I'm Arthur Kirkland, is this class 10B?"
The teacher's face hardened into a frown as he glared at me. I made a mental note to figure out how to glare like that.
"Yes," he said, standing. He was MASSIVE. And I don't exaggerate. He was at least 3 heads taller than me, taller even than Alistair. He also had hair long enough to pull into a ponytail, and was incredibly intimidating.
"I am Mr. Beilschmidt. Why are you late, Arthur?" he asked, his voice deep and rumbling. He was German. He looked like a Nazi. Oh god, could my day get any bloody worse?
I stayed silent for a moment, not daring to look sideways to the class who were probably shitting themselves with silent laughter at this spectacle.
Then I closed my eyes and straightened my shoulders. I was British. I would not go down without fight. Even if the adversary in question happened to be a Nazi schoolteacher the size of Godzilla. I would not fail.
"I was held up at the office," I said steadily. "Sir."
The silence was unbearable.
The ice of Mr. Beilschmidt's eyes were burning a frozen hole straight into my soul.
I stared straight back. I would not back down.
He was going to kill me with the power of thought.
I was too young to die.
"Alright," he said, shifting his glare to the rest of the class. I relaxed my shoulders and let out my breath (breath I had noticed I had been holding, because what kind of bloody eejit doesn't realise they aren't breathing and are about to die of oxygen deprivation? Really?).
"Class, this is Arthur Kirkland. Arthur, tell us about yourself."
I froze for a moment, then pivoted on my heel and stood straight. I would show these Americans what it meant to be British. I would not let them get me down.
"My name is Arthur Kirkland and I have recently moved here from London, England. Which is not," I said, glaring at them in a way I hoped was reminiscent of Mr. Beilschmidt (whom I found I had a lot more respect for, now that he wasn't trying to freeze-drill the life out of me with his eyes), "the same thing as Britain. England is part of Britain. The two terms are not interchangeable."
I could tell I was freaking them out a little, so I smiled internally and ploughed on. "I drink tea, not coffee, because I think it is an abomination, and I hope," I said, smiling faintly and a little threateningly in the direction of the "jocks" sitting in the back, "that we can all be friends."
The smile seemed to work after I'd been silent and staring for a few moments, because the boys started shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
Maybe this day wasn't going so bad after all.
Nope, yeah, it was.
000
"So! Artie! Whatcha got first?" The jock said, obviously trying to be cheerful in the face of my glare and over-compensating.
"None of your bloody business," I said, turning my glare down to zero degrees kelvin. "And my name is Arthur, not Artie."
"I'm Alfred!" He said. "Pleased ta meetcha, Artie!"
Woosh, I thought. That just went right over his head.
I sighed and shook my head. "Fine. Whatever. I have Chemistry."
He brightened immediately, grin becoming more blinding than the bleeding sun. "Cool! I have Chem too! You can sit by me."
Fantastic, I thought, in a very surly tone. Not only do I have to sit through a whole bloody hour of chemistry, I've got to deal with him all through it. Fucking Americans.
000
After school, as I was leaving the premises of what I was sure would become a daily torture for the next few years, I was halted by a loud yell. Or do these Americans call them a holler? Maybe a yodel?
"Hey so Artie, I was just wondering…" I looked up at the annoyingly tall, overdeveloped child.
"What?"
"Well, I noticed you weren't doing so hot in class. I was wondering if I could help you with your homework," he said.
Interesting, I thought. He does seem to genuinely want to help. There was no missing the hopeful look in his eyes.
And I really did need help with my Chemistry homework.
000
By the time I went to sleep, I had truly had the worst Monday in the history of the Universe.
But I also had a best friend.
000
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Oh yeah, and there would be a LOT more porn in Hetalia if I owned it. Trust me.