One of my friends (who also happens to be one of my beta readers) and I decided to make set writing times while we're on vacation. So we've set a specific hour every day (depending on the day, of course), where we have to put down our phones and we aren't allowed to pick them back up or respond to any messages during that hour; all we're allowed to do is write. So we tested it yesterday and it worked out pretty well, so we decided to start doing it during vacations (since school is too unpredictable). So I might actually start getting crap done. XD


My sketchbook is missing.

The realization makes my blood run cold. Panic swells in my chest and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. No, no, no. I'd just had it yesterday and I hadn't even taken it out of my bag, so there is absolutely no way it just vanished into thin air like this. I am quite sure I have never come this close to losing my mind.

When I was a child and my parents already knew I would be a very artistic person, they'd bought me a book for drawing and coloring. I'd lost it no less than a month later and cried for hours because I liked it so much. After that, I'd never lost a single art book. Even now, I have all of my old sketchbooks and the like in a bookshelf back home. I'd brought two with me; my current one, and an empty one because the current was nearly out of pages.

It isn't as though I keep anything bad in my sketchbook. I would never be able to draw things like that. Regardless, it's very important to me and it unnerves me not to have it. To me, it's another piece of home and losing it is throwing me off badly. I spend the next hour practically tearing apart my dorm room in search of it and I'm sure the rooms below, above, and on either side of me are wondering what's going on by now.

Upon concluding that it's not, in fact, buried in my room somewhere, I barely pause to throw on my uniform and repack my bag before I speed out to check a few places before class starts.

I don't stop to look at the teacher's shocked expression as I barrel into the art room, half out of breath. I'm really not a very athletic person when I'm not pacing myself, but then again, that's a lot of stairs to sprint down, only to resume running down the hall. Typically, I would avoid breaking those rules, but they're the last things on my mind right now.

The art room is the last place I remember having it. Yesterday, when I came back to finish my painting, it was still in there. I remember seeing it when I opened my bag to grab a sharpie so I could scribble my signature in the corner of my painting. I don't recall taking it out, but this is my best bet so I take some time to look around.

Class starts in about fifteen minutes and I have no luck in the art room. It isn't there; it isn't near my easel, the art teacher shakes her head when I ask about it, and it isn't anywhere else I think to check, either. I know if I go through my classes without it, I won't be able to focus. It's already making me nervous and irritable and I don't want to take that out on anybody.

My next destination is the library and I rush past the very confused looking pair of Ludwig and Feliciano, only barely managing to get out a quick, "I'll explain later!" to them when they attempt to question me.

A few surprised students scramble aside as I burst into the library. I pause to apologize, before hurrying over to the librarians. Much like the art teacher, neither of the librarians have seen it and nothing has been turned into them.

"Thank you," I say, spinning around on my heel and deciding to use what little time I have before class to check around the library myself.

The shrieks of the bell makes me want to scream, too. I haven't seen a single trace of it and now I have to go to my first period history class. I won't have time to search again until lunch. I have until third period when I have to face Ludwig, but until then I can avoid the two of them to keep from taking anything out on them.

I like to think I don't get angry very easily. I don't; honestly, it's more sassiness than anything. I have a good temper in comparison to some of the ones I've seen and no matter how much people get on my nerves, I don't really yell at them. I typically prefer to remove myself from the situation to avoid making matters worse.

My first period is an entirely different case. Even the slightest irritability is a very uncomfortable emotion to me, so I try not to get into situations where I'm bound to feel that. That emotion is unavoidable right now, though.

Yao feels the need to comment on it, but when I grow uncharacteristically snappy, he sees sense and finally backs off with a roll of his eyes. I'm beginning to wonder if I can get out of having to deal with him again in third and fourth period by smacking my head against the desk hard enough.

My classes seem to be determined to drag on painstakingly slowly. By the time my third period finally rolls around, my teeth have torn through my lip at least twice and I'm desperately trying not to restart my old habit of biting my nails.

"My sketchbook is missing," I tell Ludwig, when he drops into his seat next to me.

He scrutinizes me for a long moment and I drum my fingers against the desk. Stop looking, stop looking, stop looking. He does, with a nod.

"I see."

The silence that follows makes me want to rip my hair out and perhaps scream a little. It would probably help. I'm only growing increasingly worried; maybe I'll check the office during my lunch break to see if anybody has turned it in there. Hopefully the students here are trustworthy enough to at least do that.

I'm beginning to doubt it, honestly.

I think Ludwig notices my change in attitude, because he's very careful the rest of the class period and doesn't say too much. Fourth period drags on without event, surprisingly; if Francis, Gilbert, and Antonio notice my mood, they say nothing of it. If anything, the three seem to have no interest in me anymore and it pleases a part of me to know that I won't have that to deal with any longer. Now if I could just find my sketchbook, my life would be just perfect.

Fifth period just drags on and I break the lead of my pencil at least three times. I'm not usually such an impatient person, but I can't check the office until after this class. Once the bell finally releases us, I pick up my too light bag – I knew it had felt a little light, yesterday, but I had ignored the nagging feeling and I shouldn't have – and hurry out of the room.

The office is easy to locate at the entrance to the school and I go in, going up to the front desk and repeating the exact same question I asked the librarians and the art teacher before the lady at the front desk. She pauses and turns to check a drawer, shifting through it for a moment. If it isn't here, I don't know where else to go.

She shakes her head and apologizes. My heart drops. Giving her a halfhearted thanks, I turn and exit the office, checking my phone when it vibrates. It seems Feliciano and Ludwig are going to be late again, unsurprisingly. It gives me a chance to compose myself, so I'm not complaining.

I take my seat at our usual table, in my same corner seat, laying my head down. I don't really have an appetite right now, but the cold table against my cheek is a bit relaxing and helps me think a bit clearer. I still have my last period class to check and my art class will give me a chance to relax, I hope. It occurs to me that there might still be places in my dorm I haven't checked, or maybe someone I know found it and hasn't run into me today to give it back.

Elizabeta, Feliciano, Arthur, and Lovino come to mind, just as a body drops into the seat across from me.

A thick, familiar book thunks against the table and my head snaps up to focus on it. Mine. The instinct is immediate and my hand shoots out to grab it, but a chuckle reaches my ears and it's pulled out of my reach. It occurs to me, in that moment, that none of those four people would even know what my sketchbook looks like. I look up, only to come face to face with Francis, who is leaning unnervingly close. He holds my sketchbook just out of my reach, lips curled into that mischievous smile of his. He's alone, I note, but a quick glance past him reveals Antonio and Gilbert not-so-subtly watching from another table.

It was rash to think they were through with me.

It clicks that the book I saw Francis walking away with the day prior must have been my sketchbook. It's no wonder he looked so satisfied and didn't even glance at me. He already had everything he needed.

Francis' lips curl into an irritatingly handsome grin. "Ah, ah, ah," his tone is almost disapproving and he holds it further out of my reach as I dare reach forward. "Hasn't anybody ever taught you it's rude to snatch things from other people's hands? I happen to quite like these drawings, you know. I spent quite a bit of time flipping through them and they're all very lovely."

Francis leans forward, too close, and I immediately lean back. My gaze darts to the book, held a good distance out of my reach. He knows exactly how to drive me back, so I don't have a chance at grabbing it. Francis is cornering me between a rock and a hard place and he knows it.

I want to shout at him. Don't you know it's rude to steal things right out of people's bags and go through it without their permission?! But the words lodge in my throat. I don't want him to decide not to give it back at all. My pieces of home are too precious to me to lose them like this.

"Say please," Francis tells me.

"Please," I don't hesitate, almost desperate. "Bonnefoy-san, please, give it back to me. I don't think you understand, it's very precious to me."

I realize, a moment too late, that I probably should not have mentioned that. His piercing blue eyes spark with something wicked and I feel as though they're staring clear through me.

"Oh?"

That was a mistake, the orbs seem to say, smiling the same smile that graces his lips. Francis always seems to have that smile on. It's as though he always knows he's one step ahead of everybody else. Right about now, I honestly don't doubt that he usually is. He is several steps ahead of me and now he's simply laying his trap. I'm walking right into it, I know I am, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

Francis knows this, too.

"I don't know, mon cher, I quite like it," Francis drawls, keeping the sketchbook out of my reach and tauntingly flipping through it. "I might keep it."

I dart out of my seat and lunge around the table, but Francis is quick; he half rolls on top of the table and sits facing me, knees raised. He has a very challenging smile on and he keeps his arm stretched behind him, holding my sketchbook away. His other hand is stretched out towards me with one finger extended upwards and the others folded in as a sort of 'wait one moment' sign. He crosses one leg calmly over the other, as though he fully planned to be sitting on a table today.

A part of me shudders at the fact that he probably did. His reputation got around, that was for sure.

People are looking over now and it makes me shrink. I grip the edge of the table, staring at him incredulously. He keeps smiling and I find that I'd really like to slap it clean off of his face right about now. He acts far too natural about these kind of things and I wonder how often he actually does this to people.

"You're quite adorable when you're angry, mon petit lapin," he comments, chuckling.

Heat prickles up the back of my neck and I start to move to grab the sketchbook again, but he's having none of it and I'm forced back to my standing position at the end of the table. This is probably the most inappropriate place I could possibly be standing right now.

"It would appear we've come to a standstill, mon chèr," Francis informs me, with the slightest tilt of his head.

I've about had enough of him and his silver tongue. "What do you want from me?" I demand. "I just want my sketchbook back."

He straightens, as though the words are exactly what he's been waiting for me to say. "A date," he says. "This Saturday."

"A date?! You're holding my sketchbook hostage to get me to go on a date with you?"

"Well, when you put it that way, it sounds very stupid, no? Unfortunately, my dear, I know it is the only way you would agree. You are a man of your word, I believe?"

I have never despised that part of myself more than I do in this moment. I have three choices. My first option is to resume trying to get my sketchbook back, at least until Feliciano and Ludwig come to assist me. I don't know when they'll return, though, and Francis can easily get bored before then. My second option is just to forget about it. Reject Francis and lose my sketchbook. It doesn't sound very appealing. My third option is to agree and very reluctantly go on Saturday, because I am a man of my word, but get my sketchbook back.

It isn't an impossible decision. I know what I'm going to say. Francis knows what I'm going to say. I know that he knows, because that annoyingly perfect smile of his doesn't budge. When I sigh, he only smiles and straightens up slightly, sliding off of the table at last. Most of the people slowly look away.

"I'll see you on Saturday then," he tells me, holding out my sketchbook.

"Yeah," I murmur, taking it back and flipping quickly through it to make sure nothing is missing. "See you then."

He saunters over to his friends, just as Feliciano and Ludwig come into the cafeteria. They find me standing at the end of the table, sketchbook clutched to my chest and a forlorn look on my face.

What did I just get myself into?


So like I wrote two pages of this after that hour I talked about before, and then for some reason I just got up and made a chocolate cake? I dunno, man. Panicky Kiku is entertaining. I don't see him losing his temper unless he's just really, completely freaking out over something. Francis is a douche canoe rn, I'm sorry (I love him, honestly, it was just a necessity). Is it obvious I like writing Francis though. And Kiku speaks the words of every high schooler ever. Maybe screaming would help a little. You scream, I scream, the police come... It's awkward. I don't know, this chapter might not even make any sense. No wonder sick people don't write. I should know better by now but like whatever. I feel kind of bad for my two beta readers 'cause they gotta deal with this crap before it's presented to you guys. 2/6 chapters done, four more. I got this (maybe).