Friday, Hetalia International Academy, 8:45
BRRRRIIIING! The arrival bell rang throughout of the campus of Hetalia International, signaling the students who were arriving late that they had 5 minutes to get to class. The red pickup parked in a lot across from the towering gates of one of the most prestigious academies near D.C. A blond with a stubborn cowlick and square framed glasses, wearing the school uniform hopped out of the car, an egg Mc B*scuit in his mouth and his schoolbag in hand. Slinging the bag quickly over one shoulder, senior Alfred F. Jones, quarterback of the football team, star hitter of the baseball team, holder of four track records and not too bad at basketball either ran for the polished buildings of his high school. Flags of all the different nations flew in the spring breeze outside the school, waving to the American teen as he dashed across the grounds.
Of all the days…and to have Honors World History with Mr. Adnan first thing, he hates stragglers. Alfred thought as he blasted though the long halls lit by morning light, up glass staircases and around tall pillars, somehow managing to not run into fellow laggards. He wished he had some sweet, delicious, bittersweet chocolate to help him get through the morning. Chocolate was more understanding and accepting than his Turkish teacher.
When he reached classroom 700, he opened the door so quickly that the boy leaning on it moments barely had time to form a reaction past yelling "Bloody hell!" before falling onto an equally surprised American who promptly caught him.
After a second of pause, the Brit straightened and dusted off his uniform's jacket, glaring now at the panting, blond teen whose glasses lay askew on his nose. He scoffed, "You just have to arrive late and make a big entrance every single day, don't you, Jones? And fix your shirt; it seems like a crime to have let a mess like you into this beautiful learning establishment."
"Come on, President Kirkland, the hero is always late," Alfred huffed, trying not to care about those scornful emerald eyes, that adorable peeved expression, "and I'm here before the bell, which means I'm on time. Maybe certain SCA presidents shouldn't lean on doors that open outwards." He threw a smirk at his classmate, to be rewarded with his cheeks reddening slightly in rage.
"Not only your manners, but your grammar is also atrocious, Jones!" Insults flowed like water as the two started fighting.
The rest of the classroom was more than accustomed to the constant bickering of the two, with Elizaveta and her friend Kiku making bets on who would win today's argument, Ivan just smiling in a slasher-smile kind of way while watching Eduard finish his homework and about twenty other students milling around and ignoring the fight. Old maps on the walls gave off a sense of antiquity even among the throng of students.
As soon as the bell finished ringing, proclaiming the start of a school day, Mr. Adnan, the Turkish history teacher walked into the room, holding his morning cup of coffee
"All right, you rambunctious lunatics! Sit down, another day has started. You two especially, Jones and Kirkland. If you two argued anymore, I'd think you were married!" Laughter erupted from the classroom as the enemies sat down, one blushing but the other with a winning smile on his face. Their unfortunate last names meant they sat right next to each other. "Now that that's settled, turn to page 110 in your books and let's read what the significance of the Iliad was. Now, as the Trojan forces fought a noble battle, let's not forget that, since they almost won," a bit of the teacher's pride in his heritage sprung through his speech, "however, Mr. Karpuci in room 701 feels that the Greeks were winning most of the way. So, anyone have anything to support or disprove this?"
As always, three hands went up immediately, Arthur's, Kiku's, and Yao's. Kiku and Yao immediately glared at each other, the rivalry between them only matched by that between the British and American sparring team. Mr. Adnan just sighed. "Yes, Arthur?"
"Well, as Homer writes…" Alfred, sitting beside the overachieving Brit, sighed and rolled his eyes behind his glasses, as if to say here we go again, earning him a glare from the Londoner. Secretly, he just enjoyed the voice of the president of the student body, with that incredibly sexy accent explaining the brilliance of the Trojan horse, "…but Aeneas acted uneducated, fighting off all the forces without proper preparation…"
This caught Alfred's ear. Any name of a hero, even one of an Ancient Greek war, sparked his interest. He decided to interrupt this stupid tirade of Arthur's. Speaking up, he cut off the English boy, "Aeneas may have acted without knowing everything, but by taking a risk he managed to become famous for his bravery and courage."
If looks could kill, Alfred would have been long dead. Arthur continued on, "But some of the worst defeats in military history, like the Charge of the Light Brigade, failed because of insufficient intelligence, and wouldn't you know about uneducated minds, Jones?" Arthur bit back.
Alfred maintained his nonchalance, enjoying the annoyance of his rival. He was fairly sure his knowledge of "military history" far surpassed Arthur's; he had gotten into this school for a reason, "Oh sure, but when a commander takes a chance using the best that they've got, like the battle of Saratoga in the Revolutionary War, they can cause a major turning point!" The two competing classmates were glaring at each other while Elizaveta threw a note to Kiku, who read it, nodded and pointed to his small digital camera.
Mr. Adnan sighed. He would need to move this along. "It certainly looks like the Revolutionary War in here, but let's bring in the French to change the tide. Francis, you had your hand raised?" Francis Bonnefoy, famous among the girls of the school, had volunteered during the fevered debate.
"Yes, Mr. Adnan, I was wondering if the two over there would stop releasing sexual tensions and we could get on with the lesson for today." The French playboy winked; he was flirtatious enough to get away with the joke. Several students laughed and the Hungarian in the second row held a tissue to her nose as the Japanese boy did the same.
With twin cries of "We're not!" the rivals were silenced by their teacher. "Okay, boys, turn it down a few notches today so we can get through Homeric Greece." The rest of the day devolved into worksheets, activities and notes. Once an hour had passed, the bell rang, giving students ten minutes to get to their next class. With a mutter of "finally" Arthur got up from his seat and slung his leather messenger bag over his left shoulder, determined not to glance back at the troubling American.
Alfred relaxed in his seat a bit, taking a rest before continuing to Health Education, where he was not looking forward to Mr. Køhler explaining exactly what heroin trips felt like. He sighed, it had been a good morning, absolutely infuriating the pompous Brit with his debates and comebacks not once but twice! Damn, I wonder if he would argue back if he knew how cute his angry face is, all pinched…Alfred shook off the thought, just in case it had showed on his face. Times like these he chose to dwell on the origin of his strange affection.
"Class," Mr. Adnan said, quieting the crew, "this is the seating chart for this year. No arguments and no swaps, what's on this paper is law. So sit down, imps."
There was a hustle and bustle as students moved around, and both Jones and Kirkland uttered the same oath after viewing the chart. "Oh, hell." They sat side by side, already too familiar with the other's personality, messing things up for each other whenever possible, always scolding and arguing, until one day Arthur got sick.
It was a fairly serious case of bronchitis which had matured into pneumonia. Rumor had it that Arthur had ignored it, hoping it would go away until one day, he collapsed in the hall. That was true, but it left out that he had collapsed while arguing against a point made by a stubborn American. The way Arthur had looked when he fell, sick, tired and helpless made something snap in Alfred. The hero grabbed him and ran him to the clinic, where the panicked nurse called 911.
Alfred had found himself wondering what he would do if Arthur died, how his life would be, for all the trouble the Brit brought him, it was fun to argue and put up with his scolding, eat those weird scones he brought to class occasionally, and Alfred realized that he couldn't imagine life this fun without him. Past that, it was all downhill. It had trapped him before he knew it, and now all he wanted was Arthur, just Arthur.
Alfred hauled himself from his melancholic nostalgia, longing for a bar of chocolate to down his sorrows in, exiting the room and joining his group of friends waiting slightly down the hallway, namely Toris, the nice Lithuanian, Feliks, Toris's talkative Polish friend, and Kiku, the game-obsessed Japanese boy.
"Alfred, don't you think your fights with Arthur are getting out of hand?" Kiku questioned, his accent turning ls into rs.
"Naw, don't sweat it." Alfred said casually.
"Anyways, like, guys, we should like totally go and like start an equestrian club! Like, wouldn't that be totally cool?" Feliks broke in with one of his hilarious ideas which made the whole group laugh.
"Po, I really doubt the school has a budget for that." Toris tried to shoo the idea away.
"Liet, come on, it'd totally be like fun!" The strange nicknames didn't seem to trouble them unduly, but everyone else wondered about them a little.
"Anyways, I gotta go, see you guys in lunch!" Alfred left the group as they approached the doors of room 567, which read "Danish Territory!" with a little axe made out of the T. The teen just shook his head, sighing and opening the door. "Good morning, Coach." He said as he greeted his teacher who also happened to be the track team supervisor.
"Hey Jones, the rest of us were wondering when you would show up." The fit instructor replied, the strange little black hat he always wore bobbed as he acknowledged the presence of his pupil. The American gave his teacher a fist bump before sitting down next to Gilbert, his jock friend who was a notorious trouble maker. They didn't really like pulling anything in their coach's class, mostly out of respect for the former drug addict. Just looking at the classroom, with its many tributes to Denmark, Scandinavia and axes, you didn't have to know the teacher to assume there was something wrong with the man.
The fairly boring lesson went on, in which Alfred took the right notes, almost fell asleep during the drug abuse lecture which the coach seemed equally bored about, but perked up a bit around the Dane's explanation of addiction.
"Now listen up kids, an addiction is when your body builds up a dependence on a substance, whether it's heroin or smoked salmon, you physically need more, making you a hopeless wreck in school and life, even if the person who's addicted looks fine on the outside, they crave that substance more and more. Now," he walked around the room to a whiteboard, "every addiction has a cause. Whether you started for money, fame, power, lovesickness," Alfred flickered imperceptibly at this, "it's never good to turn to something else to drain the pain away."
Alfred just buried a smile. That was him, the teen chocoholic suffering from chronic love drama. Thinking of chocolate, he remembered the bar he had packed that morning. He'd eat it in third period to brace himself for seeing Arthur at lunch.
BBBBRRRRIIIINGGG! "All right, class dismissed, quiz Monday, homework to research a drug of your choice." Mr. Køhler sat back at his desk. "Have a good lunch, no chomping drugs!"
"Like he is!" Gilbert snickered in Alfred ear, making the youth want to protect the sanity of-
Their teacher was talking on the phone behind them. "Norge! I need a fix, I'm still seeing trolls! Come by my house tonight? What do you mean, 'no way in hell'?"
"Never mind, Gil."
Alfred sat down at a table in the airy, high domed cafeteria, adorned with artistic touches, swinging his legs under the table in one smooth motion. He mainly sat with the jocks and told "war stories" of their finest moments in sports, or he sat with the video game nerds and started talking about Modern Warfare 3 cheat codes. He loved games about death and winning, which now that he thought about it was a bit morbid, but true, as he made his way over to the gamers.
Opposite his table, a group of preppy, clean student council members talked about, God knows what, something exceptional and proper, embroidery?, the discussion lead by their glorious leader, the great Arthur Kirkland himself. Even though he smiled and wore that familiar pompous expression of his, it was clear to Alfred that he wasn't entirely content with his surroundings; clearly he feared for the security of his position. Every the wary one.
He wondered what is would be like if they were dating, taking long walks, spending Saturdays together, Saturday nights….some rather R-18 thoughts passed briefly through his mind, making him blush, but it had gone unnoticed by geeks debating the advantages of character types. Alfred listened in while biting into his Big M*c and adding in his points.
Arthur just sighed over at the council table, thinking of his next period with Jones, that despicably stubborn American. It was Mr. Edelstein's class, Arts, called by that name because their teacher also taught music, but their class was Portfolio Prep, meaning that you could do pretty much anything as along as it was art-related. Again, the dratted alphabetical seating caused him to sit next to the obnoxious rival, getting into arguments about Abstract-Impressionism and Post-Realism.
"Oui, something is bothering you, Monsieur Kirkland?" Francis, the vice president said, leaning to close for the Brit's liking.
"Off me frog, I'm fine." Arthur pushed the overly-flirtatious Frenchman aside, "I was just thinking what a pain it will be to deal with Jones next period."
"Oh? Mon ami, surely you know…" Francis raised his eyebrows, but Arthur had no idea what he was implying.
"Know what, frog? I'm busy and I don't have time for half-assed expressions like yours."
Francis sighed. Really, the Kirkland boy was so clueless that he hadn't noticed Alfred looking at him for the past five minutes then blushing? Hopeless. "Oh, nothing, mon ami."
"Everyone, sit down and listen up," a voice with a slight Austrian accent said, quieting the crowd of students, "your home project this week is to create a human face, through whatever interpretation you choose, but it must be the pinnacle of perfection or I will not accept it. Now to work on your identity projects!" Mr. Edelstein sat down at his desk, which happened to be on a piano that he practiced on while the teens worked, calming the atmosphere. The piano in the room wasn't the strangest part; musical instruments dominated the other half of the room, clearly allowing anyone to guess what it was used for. The art half, however, had drying racks, paints, and virtually any art material placed around. Despite the volume of supplies, the clean-freak teacher kept it completely orderly.
Their independent project was to make one about their personal identity, which Feliciano, the cheerful Italian, was constructing a beautiful Renaissance-style oil painting, while Tino was showing off his skills at sewing, making some sort of red sack. Alfred, being better at drawing than anything else, was sketching a gigantic hamburger. The proper English gentleman beside him, rather embarrassed, took out an embroidery hoop and separated some floss, adding to his design of a teacup.
"You know," Alfred said, rummaging in his bag for a 3C pencil, "I didn't think we could use the arts and crafts movement-"
"It's a proper British art practiced for many decades-" Arthur could feel his face reddening with anger already, a familiar hot rage bubbling inside him. A new record?
"Heh, call your pansy art whatever you like-"
"Listen here, bloody yank…" With that, another long verbal fight erupted, drawing some sidelong glances from fellow classmates, but mostly just blending into the background for everyone else, drawing comments like "Not again" and "What is it this time?" The class was all too short for Alfred, who had quite enjoyed the fight and the look Arthur shot him when he had imitated his accent.
Back into the halls. They had the same last period too, English. Mr. Zwingli's indifference to teenage predicaments made him a bit volatile if you wanted to turn in an essay late because your printer wasn't working.
Purposefully, they took separate routes to avoid each other. Alfred dashed into class later because he had accidently knocked over a tray of paint, which the neat-freak teacher made him clean up. Alfred had also thrown a chocolate bar wrapper on the floor, earning another admonishment. The American athlete couldn't help himself to resist a bit of sweet escape.
Once again, Alfred's amazing speed delivered him to class safely, where he promptly sat down next to Arthur again, trying to catch his breath before his demanding teacher started class precisely on time, thanks to his Swiss watch. The classroom was almost bare of any educational posters, the walls all looked the same, as if the teacher prided neutrality above all.
"Listen up, since we've been studying the art of debate this month," the toughest teacher in the school vocalized, "and..," he said, glaring at Alfred and Arthur, "been given some fine examples of it by Jones and Kirkland here, you will break into teams of two, which have already been chosen," he added, demoralizing the class, "to construct a debate about any subject, as long as you have a proper for and against stance for every issue you present. Now, the first pair…"
Alfred snickered. Watch he and Arthur get paired up, he'd be waiting for the expression on the Brit's face.
"Beilschmidt and Héderváry…" The two glared at each other, red eyes meeting green.
"Bragaski and Galante…" The small Latvian cowered at the thought, while the Russian smiled contentedly.
"Kirkland and Jones…" Yes! "No!" Arthur said under his breath before scowling at Alfred, who was putting up his façade of nonchalance that infuriated the British teen so much, leaning back in his chair and winking at Arthur, "Let's have fun, 'k partner?"
"When hell freezes over, bloody wanker!" Even though it didn't show, those words cut into Alfred's heart a little.
"Well, there's someone's vote you won't be winning, President Kirkland."
"I'm not running for re-election, you idiot, since I'm graduating this year along with the rest of senior class, perhaps omitting you and your fellow incompetents."
Like I needed to be reminded that you're leaving my life forever? "Yesh, Kirkland, awfully harsh just because you flunked the science test?"
Arthur turned red. Ah, so he did flunk it… "My grades are none of your business, Jones!"
The satisfied American smiled. "Sure, just don't expect me to keep quiet-"
"SHUT THAT ANNOYING LITTLE TRAP OF YOURS, JONES!" The Swiss teacher with all the gentle touch of a Gatling gun yelled, "Now, as I was saying, you will have to meet over the weekend and practice your debate, and I will expect audio proof in MP3 form given to me on a flash drive before 3:45pm sharp Monday. Clear?" The class mumbled agreement, which the instructor decided was the best he was going to get. "Then go!"
The rest of the class was consumed by arguing over topics, while Alfred was leaning towards recent political scandals for his favorite fast food chain and Arthur making it clear that theology debates were the best way to go. Elizaveta, having been paired with Gilbert, was unexpectedly dominating the power struggle and calling all the shots. When the poor German tried to protest, she shot him a glare which made him shut up.
Planning a meeting was more difficult for the famous rivalry. Arthur had a dinner party to go to tonight, while Alfred had a baseball game all-day Saturday in addition the Arthur's church Sunday. The only opening was Saturday night.
"Bloody hell, one way to spend a Saturday, working with a blighter like you." Arthur grumbled.
Frankly speaking, Alfred was fairly happy. But he was determined not to show it. "Well, where should we meet up?"
"Not my house." The Brit said immediately, "I've got three violent older brothers and a pesky younger one. In fact, you remind me of Peter with your pointless questions."
"Ha ha, quite the comedian. How about my place?" Alfred was secretly praying for that.
"I'd rather eat my own feet, but the library is closed and anywhere else wouldn't work." He sighed, damning this project under his breath, "Fine."
YES! "Hey, think I want you bringing that stench into my lovely house? I'm making the biggest sacrifice here." Alfred kept up his act, though inside he was bursting from happiness.
Arthur scoffed. "Yes, of course, because setting foot in your disgusting hovel won't be punishment enough." Even the thought of having to spend time outside of school on the filthy pig of an American made him wince. And now he'd have to waste an entirely good Saturday night on a project.
"Oh, can it Brit." The bell rang, instilling energy in every student in the room. "See you Saturday!" Alfred waved, wearing what would look, to anyone in the school, like a fake smile. But only Alfred knew it was real.
Blimey idiot going on like that. I might catch something again just so I don't have to stand his stupidity on Saturday, Arthur thought, picking up his bag and kicking the chair back under the table angrily. Sighing, he exited the room and made his way to the student parking lot. As he walked, a faint memory from earlier in the year was brought to mind. It had been a while since the incident when he collapsed at school, in a dead faint while in the middle of an argument with the bloody yank. He'd awoken in the hospital a day later, recovering. Not like his parents visited, just some of the other students he was friends with. Enough cards and flowers, and everyone had told him the same thing. How Jones had ran him all the way to the clinic, panting and almost setting a new record. He'd refused to believe it at first, of course, but the boy had an insufferable hero complex and would have done it for anyone. Obviously.
Alfred got home and did a flying leap into his couch. His cat, Hero, replicated his master's actions and landed on the tired teen. The boy laughed and held the cat up, still lying down. "Arthur's coming to visit soon. So behave yourself, okay?" The cat meowed, and Alfred set down his adorable feline, brushing the big puff of black fur away from the cat's neck. "Gee whiz, I have no idea what breed you are, mostly 'cause I don't think any breed has a big ol' bomber jacket ruff like you." The cat purred, and Alfred smiled contentedly. It had been two years since he started living on his own; the house was one owned by his aunt and uncle who didn't really care for it, and its mortgage had been paid off, leaving Alfred free of that.
"So, Hero, want to help me tidy up the house?" The cat immediately disappeared into some foreign cubbyhole. "Well, I don't want to do it either!" Alfred felt a bit silly for talking to his cat, but it did give him companionship. Oh well, to work! Now, where did he leave his cleaning supplies…He whistled a tune to himself.
Let me know that I've done wrong
When I've known this all along
I go around a time or two
Just to waste my time with you…
Arthur groaned. He'd barely gotten home when Peter started bugging him about playing "UN" with him, an offer which he refused, stating that "Sealand" or whatever it was he was representing wasn't even a country.
Luckily, his older brothers were out, leaving him to finish his homework in peace. What topic had they finally decided on for the debate? Oh yes, the necessity of colonies developing and breaking away from empires. Alfred had been pro, so he'd be against. Any chance to disagree with the uppity American. He grinned as he pulled up the website page on British colonies. This was going to be a breeze.
