Bully!Francis makes his first appearance in this chapter. I have to warn you, he's incredibly out of character, as is Alfred (who is a little cowardly). Once again, I apologise for any spelling/grammar mistakes. Please, please, please review, even if it's just a couple of words. Your opinions really do mean a lot to me. Thankyou for reading, and I hope you enjoy it!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia Axis Powers characters.
That evening, Alfred was painfully aware of his roommate's absence at dinner, of the empty seat beside him, the untouched plate of food, and the two black eyes Francis Bonnefoy was sporting. He picked listlessly at his pasta, barely tasting the food, and carefully deflected any attempts at conversation.
After half an hour or so, when most of the pupils had drifted away to the common room to watch TV or battle with their chemistry homework, he was only halfway through the plate. Can I just tip it in the bin? Alfred thought to himself, Or will the scary dinner lady notice?
Luckily, (or unluckily, depending on whether you like sneering Frenchmen who beat up your best friend or not) a tap on the shoulder distracted him from his musings.
Francis Bonnefoy was shuffling from foot to foot behind Alfred, arms folded and looking like an effeminate version of the villain in some sixties cop show. Alfred noticed with some satisfaction that he was limping, and there was a vicious looking scratch on his neck. Serves you right, he thought bitterly, the image of Arthur's battered face swimming into his mind. "Where's your friend?" Francis sneered, his blue eyes cold and hard. Alfred shrugged, trying desperately to look as innocent and unassuming as possible.
He was lanky and uncoordinated, not very good at fighting. Unlike Arthur who despite his small stature (Alfred could see his ribs when he had his shirt off) fought like an angry cat. Oh God. Now he was thinking about Arthur shirtless, which was definitely not the mental image he wanted at that moment in time. Alfred took a huge mouthful of pasta to distract himself and ending up choking.
When he finished avoiding asphyxiation, Alfred realised Francis Bonnefoy was still standing a little too close for comfort, glaring at him. "Tell your petit roommate," the boy hissed, "I'm going to kill him. No-one insults my hair. Il est mort. Understood?" Alfred was about to nod mutely, like the coward he had always been, but something stopped him. Arthur's poor swollen eyes and defiant expression came into his mind again, and before he knew it he had pushed himself out of his seat. Francis's eyes were about level with his own, and Alfred saw a glimpse of something similar to fear in them, behind the arrogance and the bravado.
"You're pathetic," the words had slipped out of his mouth before he realised what he was saying, "You're a stupid little coward who sexually harasses people too weak to defend themselves, because you know that no one will ever truly love you. But you know what? You're not powerful. You're no one. And if you so much as touch Arthur again… you're going to regret it."
There was silence. A hush had fallen over the canteen, the sound of one hundred jaws dropping as the goofy, weedy kid that nobody really noticed put the bully in his place. Alfred found himself blinking rapidly as he tried desperately to figure out why he'd done that. Francis's expression was somewhere between shock and horror.
Then he pulled himself together, nervously licked his dry lips and attempted a sneer, though it was more like a whine. Alfred watched with some sense of satisfaction as the boy turned and limped away from him. Justice felt good.
He sat back down with somewhat shaky legs and stared again at the plate of spaghetti (or, as it was starting to look like, red worms). There was no way that the fluttering sensation in his stomach would ever allow him to eat that. Instead, he stood up and made his way over to the bin, where the dinner lady (who didn't seem so terrifying after all) was waiting.
As Alfred scooped the remains of his food into the waste, something compelled him to look up at the door. Arthur was standing there, looking small and dishevelled, his clear green gaze flicking from Francis Bonnefoy to Alfred himself. Their eyes met for a second, and Alfred thought he saw pride reflecting back at him. Then Arthur turned and fled back upstairs, and Alfred was left with a half-empty plate and an irrational, clawing sense of guilt.