A/N: I decided to put up one last chapter before the exams begin this time tomorrow. I do have some chapters pre-written and in editing, so you can expect an update or two even while the exams are going on, but I'm not making any promises. (Though knowing me, I'll probably have them up sooner than later, you lucky people.) Another reason I decided to just go ahead an upload this is because I'm feeling utterly miserable, and fan fiction makes me happy. XD

Alebard Eichel – a human name I came up with for Germania, since I couldn't find one for him.

Emma Manon – Belgium has a list of four human names, but not a single surname. Emma and Manon were two of the names, so I just used 'Manon' as a surname.

Xiao Mei – Tiwan

Also, stupidly enough, the title of this chapter is too long to fit in the "chapter name" segment, so I've just shortened it to "Potato Peel Pie Society". The actual name of the chapter (and of the book it was taken from) is below.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society – Mary Ann Shaffer, Annie Barrows

"I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library." – Jorge Luis Borges.

Antonio

I'd read about what people did to themselves when they felt like this. I was the sort who'd actively look for things that triggered me. But right now, I didn't have the energy to lift my arm, forget scratch. The thought of breaking a safety razor was so tiring I could just pass out trying to think about it. I'd done that once before. It took hours. So I'd kept the razor safe with me, used it several times.

It had hurt at first. In fact, the pain had scared me. But then one day I got so stressed out…and I just used it. It felt like small concentrated flames balancing on the edge of the blade. It didn't hurt as much as it burned. I used it seven times. It was addictive.

And it scared me so much that I threw it away and told Henrique.

Anyway, right now, it was almost ten in the morning and I was still so tired. I knew I had to get out of bed. We had orientation in an hour. And I hadn't eaten anything last night. Maybe if I had some food in my system…(The thought of chewing and swallowing made me shut my eyes in exhaustion).

Lovi entered the room, but I didn't have the strength to reopen my eyes. I just lay there. Maybe if I pretended to be asleep, he'd leave me alone. But then a cool hand was on my forehead, and he quietly muttered, "Well, you don't have a fever." I didn't move. I wasn't sick. I just wanted a little more rest. He said, "Hey, idiota, wake up. Eat. We need to be heading out soon."

Exactly. He was right. I had to face the day. It was just an orientation. I'd go back to bed after that. So, hating every muscle in my body, I mumbled, "Okay, Lovi." I forced myself in a sitting position, blinking as my head swam. Lovi was at my bedside, a glass of clear liquid in my hand. He thrust it into my face.

"Sugared water, since I don't have any Gatorade." He blushed and looked away. "I mean, my grandfather's had pneumonia before, so I know how tiring it can be."

Pneumonia? Oh. Francis or Gilbert must have told him that. Still, the sugar would only help. I usually binged on Gatorade when this sort of thing happened. So I took several grateful sips, and managed a smile when I was done. Seeing Lovi's face first thing in the morning? That was enough to make even the worst bouts of tiredness go away.

After that, I managed to get ready. Lovi kept the sugar-water in my room, so I kept drinking from it. He made me eat, too, and asked if I had any medicine with me. Of course I didn't, though. I'd never actually had pneumonia before. So I just fed him a lie (he looked at me suspiciously), and got on with the day.

The orientation was not bad. Gilbert and Francis made me sit with them, and Gilbert slapped my hand away every time I started scratching. The principal was a large, serious-faced man of German origin with pony-tailed blonde hair and severe blue eyes. His name was Professor Alebard Eichel. Every time he said the words 'prestigious institution' or 'high expectations', a jolt of terror would hit me and I'd try to stab my skin with my nails. Gilbert would stop me every time, and Francis would give me worried looks.

Apart from that, though, it went pretty smoothly. We met Jeanne, and Francis looked completely smitten, just like he was last night. Both Gilbert and I agreed this was funny – usually it was Francis teasing us about our romantic lives. Now, we finally had some dirt on him! And Gilbert ran into Madeline again, although thankfully she was alone, so Gilbert could have an actual conversation with her without Alfred giving him death-glares.

Afterwards, Lovi and I went to the village. He wanted to post a letter – well, a painting – to his brother, and I wanted to buy Gatorade. Just in case this sort of thing happened again. Lovi was so cute! He was being really nice to me. He really did think I was sick, so he kept yelling at me to not over-exert myself. He even told me funny stories about his brother, his grandfather, and their pet cat. In return, I told him about Henrique. We used to fight all the time when we were younger, but we did some crazy things as well.

I made Lovi laugh. He had such a wonderful laugh. When I told him that, he blushed. So I told him he had a lovely blush, too. Then he called me a bastard, and I started to smile.

On Monday, we had our first class. Since Gilbert, Francis, Alfred, and Jeanne were in the Performing Arts, they were in another wing. Madeline, Lovi, Arthur, and I, however, were in the Visual and Literary Arts, so all our classes were down the East Corridor.

It was initially pretty difficult to navigate our way through the maze-like college, and Arthur and I were a few minutes late. The classroom was massive, but there were only about seven people, including the teacher. Her name was Professor Emma Manon. Emma Manon! She'd written Dauntless and Deserted! It had won the Booker Prize a few years ago! Both Arthur and I were sufficiently dazzled.

The walls had posters and pictures on them of famous quotes or famous alumni – including some of my favourite authors. To think I was in the same classroom where they'd sat and written their masterpieces. It was thrilling and stressful at the same time. Those were large shadows to fill.

I sat behind a large guy from Russia, Ivan Braginski, I believe. There were other students from all parts of the world, including Iceland! I think his name was Emil? Ay, this would take some getting used to. I'd never encountered so many foreign names before. Anyway, Emma made us rearrange the desks so we were sitting in a circle.

"Take a good long look at each other," she told us. "Your classmates will be your friends, your rivals, your critics, and your sounding-boards." But then she gave us a smile. "All of you have been chosen from an enormous pile of applicants. And I've personally gone over your submissions. They're all wonderful. All of you have strong, original voices and a deep desire to convey something to the world.

"By the end of the year, you will each have to submit a completed manuscript. You can't hand in the same thing you used for your college applications. You will have to write something new. They will be critically assessed, as well as judged by a well-known publisher. The best manuscript might get picked up. We've had times when they've rejected all manuscripts outright, but last year, they signed on Raivas Galante for his book, Behind the Curtain, Under the Stairs. As you can imagine, it's a very big deal.

"But we shouldn't be focusing on minting money. That's not what writing is about. Over the course of the next three years, we want to help you discover your potential as a writer. I'm not promising that you'll all become experts – well, when is anybody ever an expert in the arts? But the least we can hope for is for you to tap into and develop your skills. You will learn to study and dissect different writing styles, and you will have weekly writing assignments, where you will have to hand in short stories, poems, free-verse, even essays, to enhance your skill-set."

She paused, took a breath, and smiled at us once more. "But for today's class, we'll just concentrate on getting to know each other's writing styles, okay? Do you guys have your manuscripts? The ones you used for your college applications?"

We all nodded. We'd been told to carry our manuscripts to class the day before. People had their tabs and phones out, with their stories opened on the screen. Dutifully, I took out my iPad as well.

"Okay, good. Why don't we read out parts of it? Pick any random part that you like, and read it out for the rest of the class. They'll give their opinions. And if any of you have an idea for the new story you'll be working on this year, you're welcome to share it and receive feedback. Sounds good?" she looked at all of us, and everybody made noises of agreement.

Ivan said, "Do you mind if I begin?" he looked at all of us with a large smile that looked mildly frightening.

Emma, however, didn't seem fazed. "Of course, Ivan. Go ahead."

He nodded and murmured a soft thanks, pressing a button on his tab and clearing his throat. And then, he read out a two-page extract of his short story.

Something about it was very haunting. Maybe it was the way he read it, maybe it was the words he used, but the story shook me. And I didn't seem to be the only one affected by it. Arthur was looking distinctly paler than normal. Ivan's voice in the story was so…sad. But a ghostly, doomed sort of sad. It wasn't angst or grief. His sentences were woven with complete hopelessness. But…but his writing was so soothing. It reminded me of someone dying peacefully in their sleep. It held no energy whatsoever, but instead a sort of restful quiet.

A silence fell upon the class by the time he was done. Arthur stared awkwardly at his feet. Mei tried to discreetly wipe away a tear. Emil was trying not to look anyone in the eye. And I was just gaping at Ivan. Where had that come from? That was not the character voice of a writer who was well-adjusted in any sense of the word. The Russian was smiling to the rest of the class, apparently proud of himself. Well, he should have been. His extract had been phenomenal.

It was Emma who finally broke the silence. "That was…that was lovely, Ivan, thank you." She gave him an encouraging smile, and then said, "Does anyone have anything to say about that?"

I gingerly raised a hand. Everybody turned to look at me.

"Yes, Antonio?" Emma asked.

To Ivan, I said, "What…what inspired that?"

"Oh, this and that," Ivan replied easily, leaning back against his chair.

"It was…it was really good," I finished lamely.

"Oh, thank you, Antonio!"

"Erm, yes," Arthur finally managed. "It's wonderful. I loved how you brought in a bit of stream-of-consciousness to it. Somehow, I felt like that accentuated the prose. What finesse."

I don't know why, but Arthur's comment made my fists ball up in irritation. Why did he have to use such large, fancy words in his elevated English accent? I bet I was much better than he was, anyway. All of it was just show. Ugh, I couldn't stand him.

"Ooh, thank you!" Ivan smiled even wider.

"Emil, Mei, what do you think?" Emma prompted.

"It made me tear up," Mei laughed, her throat still a little wet from the emotion. "I'd be really interested in reading more of your work, Ivan."

"I liked the darkness," Emil stated simply. "It made me feel really uncomfortable, but in a good way."

"Thank you all," Ivan replied happily.

"Does anyone have any feedback? Anything he can improve on?" Emma asked. Nobody said anything. "Very well. Let's move on. How about…how about you, Arthur?"

Arthur's novel had used the stream-of-consciousness technique too. But it was far faster than Ivan's. But the wording was just as powerful. His writing was very exuberant, kicking with life and vitality that he himself didn't seem to have. There was a lot of ironic, dry humour that made everyone chuckle. I found myself enjoying every word he uttered – and then feeling jealous for it. He was good. He was so good.

But I was better. I was better. I had to be. For the sake of my sanity, I had to be.

When he stopped, seven minutes later, Ivan said, "That was really witty. I love how the main character draws from his experience of losing his car keys to create a grand narrative about destiny. How inventive!"

"Why, thank you," Arthur said. "Although I personally wished it wasn't so grandiose, in hindsight. But I suppose a bit of editing would fix that." He looked at everybody else, as though expecting a response.

He got it.

Mei said, "I agree with Ivan. It was hilarious. But yes, a little grandiose. Also, I felt like the correlation between the main character's relationship problems and that line about the four goldfish didn't really make sense."

Arthur frowned slightly, looked over it again, and said, "Oh, you know what? You might be right. That's one more thing I can work on. Thank you, Mei."

I didn't have an opinion. I was too irritated by this point, and I couldn't trust myself to speak to him, or about him. Mei read her piece next. I thought it was a little flowery, but not in a bad way. There was something rather charming about her description of the village where her characters grew up, and she clearly had an eye for detail. Emil's work, on the other hand, was barren and rather staccato. Everything he wrote burned with a sort of underlying intensity, although at first glance, it seemed rather mundane. It was an interesting technique. I decided I wanted to try it out.

"Your turn, Antonio," Emma suddenly said, breaking me out of my reverie.

"What? Oh." My heart suddenly raced. No way. My story was too stupid. It wouldn't compete here. Not against them. All of them were brilliant. I couldn't, I couldn't – a sudden urge to scratch hit me head on. Calm, calm, Toni, calm down, calm down. I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood. Anything to dispel the nervous energy. I couldn't do this. I couldn't do this. Not yet. My story needed work. It wasn't ready for this yet.

"Antonio?" Emma prompted.

"Right." I winced as my voice shook a little. I turned on my iPad and stared at the page. The scene were Isabel finds out Carlos has been killed. I inhaled deeply. I was happy with this scene. Despite that overly emphatic sentence in the second paragraph, despite that perhaps melodramatic reaction…oh god no, this was terrible. No, no, no, no!

I began reading. My voice was so hesitant, so soft, that Arthur actually had to ask me to speak up. That stressed me out for two reasons – firstly, it was Arthur, and I had to be better than him, and secondly, because I was too frightened to be any louder.

But I forced myself anyway, stumbling over words and flinching at every single flaw in my story. When I was done, eight nightmarish minutes later, I couldn't even look at anyone in the face. I could just imagine their looks of disgust and mocking amusement.

Mei spoke first, her eyes wide. "You write so passionately."

I put my hands under the desk. I was wearing my stupid jacket, but I used my left hand to stab into the skin of the right. My palms were going to be ruined by the end of this, I could just tell.

"W-what do you mean?" I stammered, and then dug my fingers into my skin because I'd stammered.

"It's like each sentence has an active volcano strapped to its back," Emil explained. "It's exhaustive. But in a good way. You've only read for less than ten minutes, and I've had such mad emotional reactions that I feel like I've run three miles."

I stabbed myself harder. And then I began to scratch. So hard, so ferociously, that I think I tore some skin. If I'd caused it to bleed, there would be no way to hide it from Francis and Gilbert. I felt sick with worry.

Ivan said, "I agree with both of them. It's very, very emotionally charged."

"Is that a good thing?" I said in barely a whisper. Scratch, scratch, scratch. God, that hurt. I had broken skin, I was sure of it. The slight dampness on my fingers could only be blood.

"Of course it is," Ivan replied. "I wish I could do that."

Arthur finally said, "They're right. It's very explosive writing. I enjoyed it thoroughly. Although one thing I thought you could work on was the pacing. It moved too quickly for my liking. But maybe that's just a personal preference." He looked to the rest of the group for their opinions. Ivan, Mei, and Emil all shook their heads, and Arthur merely smiled and said, "Then maybe it is just a personal preference. Sorry, Antonio, my apologies."

But that was it. Arthur had done it.

This was rubbish.

This whole book was rubbish.

Why did I even bother writing it?

This was pointless.

I wanted to die.

Lovino

Madeline's 'I dabble' bullshit was exactly that. Bullshit. She gave me a fucking complex. She used a lot of colour, whereas I liked to stick to three or four basic shades in any of my paintings. Whatever those shades were varied with each piece, but I never deviated from them too much. But Maddie's style was much more vibrant. It was visually attractive, of course, but she painted with the sort of surrealism that I'd never been able to manage. I'd tried multiple times, but she was much better at it than I was.

Between her, Yao and Eduard, I felt like a bit of an idiot. But the teacher, Sadik Adnan – he was a big fucking deal in the art world, and we knew it – thought I was pretty decent. He said I painted with a lot of fire. Which made sense, I supposed, because I didn't even know how to sit calmly for one minute. When I told that to Maddie, she snorted.

But it was a lot of fun. To begin with, everyone else had their own styles. Eduard's version of Picasso's Cubism was especially interesting. I didn't bother learning the names of the other people in class, because who the fuck was going to remember so many names? But all of them had something to offer. I was satisfied. This gamble – studying art in a foreign country – seemed to be paying off.

After class, Madeline and I walked down the corridor together. She was telling me about how much she loved using colour. "We live in such a colourful world, don't we? I love highlighting that. Although initially my paintings used to be a bit of an eyesore." She laughed. "But I think I've improved. I think the trick was to manage contrasting and clashing colours better."

"I didn't think it was an eyesore," I told her seriously. "In fact, I think I could learn from your stuff. I mean, you saw my paintings! They weren't as lively, were they?"

She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "I thought they were very intense. Focused and intense." She suddenly blushed violently and her eyes went beyond my face. "Oh, Gilbert! What are you doing here?"

"Hello," he said with a wide smirk. Oh dio. "How was class, Maddie?"

"It went really well."

"Awesome. Mine did too!"

I rolled my eyes. "Talk to you later, Madeline," I muttered, waving at her and sticking a finger at Gilbert. I heard their laughter behind me as I turned around the corridor and walked off, my messenger bag swinging against my hips.

I wish I'd seen where I was fucking going. This was an old college, a really old college. It had all sorts of random steps that came out of nowhere and existed for no apparent reason. I tripped on one of them and fell face-first onto the stone floor, my bag clattering loudly. I heard the sound of glass shattering.

Oh holy fuck. No.

Some idiot came to help me up, but I waved them away with a mad yell, diving for my bag. I had bruise forming on my head and my face fucking hurt, but right now, I was only concerned about the fact that my paints were –

It had been stupid of me to carry my nice paints with me to class, anyway. I knew they'd have supplies. I ended up not even needing to open them! But now, the blue and the yellow were broken, leaking all over my bag, my sketchbook, my pencils, mobile phone, tab, and worst of all, my paintings. The original un-scanned hard-copy versions of what I'd sent in for my college application.

"Shit, shit, shit," I cried, jumping to my feet and diving towards the nearest bathroom. Maybe I could still salvage them. Maybe. There had to be some hope left.

I emptied my bag, first dumping the ruined paint bottles into the dustbin. But the original paintings were finished. Blue and yellow spread all over them, and dare I even try washing it off with water…no, I'd end up destroying whatever that hadn't been spoiled yet. My sketchbook was stained too, but luckily none of the stuff in there was badly damaged. I wiped off as much paint as I could from my phone and iPad.

While I was doing this, I almost didn't notice Antonio step out of a bathroom cubicle. But then I saw his reflection in the mirror, and both of us froze. Except, he looked momentarily panicked, and I saw a bunch of crumpled band-aid wrappers in his hand. He dropped them into the dustbin. His right hand was covered with them, and whatever little of his visible skin was bright red.

"What the fuck happened to your hand, bastard?" I asked.

"What happened to your bag?"

"Paint bottles broke. Fucking disaster. I'm trying to salvage whatever I can."

"Oh, I'm sorry! That's terrible. How did that happen?"

"Fucking stairs that come out of nowhere! I mean, why? There was just one elevated step! What purpose does that serve? Seriously! Anyway, my paintings are pretty badly ruined, but I have scanned versions of them, so I guess that'll have to do. What about you?"

"It's good you have scanned copies," Antonio said with a small laugh. "Although you should maybe put some ice on your forehead, I think it might bruise. Oh, here, let me," he said, taking my mobile phone from my hands and drying it on a strip of tissue paper. When my phone suddenly beeped, he said, "I think you have a message." And he thrust it to me. "Anyway, Lovi, see you later!" and he'd waltzed out of the bathroom before I could even say anything in response.

It suddenly occurred to me that he'd avoided my question.

So what exactly had happened to his hand?

It took me ten more minutes to sort out the shit with my bag. I couldn't decide what was worse – the damage to the paint bottles, or the damage to the paintings? Maybe it was a combination of both. I had to hold everything in my arms as I carried my sopping wet bag around my neck.

And who did I run into, but Gilbert?

"Oh, yeah, I was meaning to talk to you," he told me.

"The fuck? What do you want?" First Antonio, now his idiot friend. Great.

He gave me a sheepish look. "You're not…you're not interested in Maddie, are you?"

"Oh fucking hell," I hissed. "I'm gay, you asswipe. Chill the fuck out."

"You're – oh." And suddenly, a devilish smirk came onto his face. I felt the need to run. "Toni is too." He was completely sneering at me now. And what was worse, I felt like I was on air. Antonio…oh, so this crush…I actually had a chance? When? How? Things like that never just happened to me. There had to be a catch! There always was!

Gilbert noticed my expression. My blush. "Oh, Francis is going to love this."

"Fuck you! Shut up! That doesn't mean anything!"

"I mean, it's pretty obvious Toni's interested in you," Gilbert continued as though I hadn't said anything. "Why else would he turn us down for you? He never does that. And it's pretty obvious you're into him, too. Gott, Francis will have a field day. I better tell him." He whipped out his phone, and I clamped a hand down on his wrist.

"Don't you dare," I growled.

He blinked at me. "Okay." And then he pocketed my phone. "You're right. I'll tell him in person. He is my flatmate, after all."

"You fucking dickwad!" I pushed past him, yelling, "Fuck this, I don't have time to waste on you."

I just heard him laughing in a weird way as I stormed off.

(Antonio was interested in me? Really? I mean, I knew I was fucking amazing, but still. That was…that was just hard to believe. Antonio was interested in me? Holy shit!)

Antonio

"How was class?"

"It was fine, Henrique," I answered quietly, my hands clenching around my mobile phone.

"Just fine?"

"It was the first day. What do you want me to say?"

"Toni, are you all right?"

"Fine! I'm FINE!" I suddenly shouted. "Leave me alone!"

"Toni, what's wrong? Go on, little bro, you can talk to me."

"There's nothing to say," I answered tersely. "I'm tired. I didn't sleep well last night. That's all."

"Right."

"Screw you. I can't talk right now." I cut the call and switched off my phone. I knew he'd call Francis or Gilbert next. His little 'agents'. I loved my brother and my best friends, but I was honestly starting to feel claustrophobic.

I leaned into the back of the couch. I was sprawled on the floor behind the sofa, entirely dependent on the support from that piece of soft furniture. My computer sat open in front of me. The little MS Word icon stared back, just daring me to do it. My arms stung so badly. Both of them. From my shoulders to my wrists. I'd split skin from my hand in class. With only my nails! The band-aids I always kept with me were starting to peel off.

It was raining outside. But then, that wasn't surprising. It had been raining a lot lately. English weather and all that. Layers of epidermis were torn, dead. I should have just plucked it all out, but I didn't have the energy. It took me so much effort to lift my fingers, select the MS Word document and hit right-click.

The drop-down menu appeared, and I saw the delete button.

To delete this novel. I'd spent over a year on it. I'd travelled all over Madrid looking for the best settings, the right descriptions. And now, I was going to get rid of it. What did that mean? Removing every trace of joy I'd ever received typing it out. Destroying Isabel, Carlos, Franco, Hitler, and all the other characters that appeared within the pages.

To hell with it. If it wasn't perfect, I didn't need it in my life.

I scrolled down to the delete button.

And that was when the door opened, and Lovino saw me.

I snapped the laptop shut, pulled my rolled-up jacket sleeves down, and smiled. "Hi, Lovi! Do you need help with the stuff in your hands?"

He looked at me for a very long minute. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but I hope to hell he hadn't noticed anything. Finally, slowly, he said, "Why are you sitting there?"

"It's comfortable."

"You're fucking weird." He took his things to his room. When he came back out, a few minutes later, he said, "Working on your novel again? How's it going? How was class?" He sat next to me, and my heart went to my throat. He was so close. I could smell is cologne. I could see his ears becoming red. He was so cute. Just looking at him gave me energy.

I opened the laptop slowly. The drop-down menu had disappeared, and with it, the delete button. Out of sight, out of mind. For now, anyway. Lovino took hint, and lifted the laptop easily. He opened the document, scrolled down to where he'd last stopped, and began reading again.

I sat with him in silence, not daring to look at the stupid manuscript.

Instead, I looked at Lovi's face. I watched how his eyes were bright with excitement as they raced through the words on the page. And then I put my head back against the back of the couch and unintentionally fell asleep.

A/N: Thank you for reading :)

Also, for those following my PruCan fic, The Fling, I'm sorry, but I'm putting that on temporary hiatus. I'm completely stuck for ideas. I thought I knew where it was supposed to go, but honestly, I was having problems with even writing chapter one. I've written about a thousand words for chapter two, but you know that feeling you get when you write something that you're happy with? Yeah, that just isn't happening. Ugh, it's like trying to eat cardboard or something. Bland and weird.

I'll try to get back to it, I promise. But if this continues, I might just delete it. I'm sorry. It's just not happening right now. I'm really sorry :(

Anyway, thank you for reading this chapter. Please review :)