Title: MSU No Gakusei-Tachi Part 3: School and Work or A Day in the
Life
Author: Kimiko
Genre: Parody/humor, fluff, sap, AU
Warnings: Future lime?, silliness, OOC, bastard!J, yaoi, yuri, subtle self-
insert
Pairings: 1x2, 4x3, 5+Meiran, 13x6, DorothyxRelena, Catherine+Hirde,
SallyxNoin
Disclaimers: The boyz and grrrlz belong to Sunrise and Bandai and any
other rich people who hold a claim to them, all of whom should refrain
from suing a starving college student. Tom's the real cafeteria-head guy at
Hubbard, and belongs presumably to his wife. I don't make any money
from writing fan fiction - pardon me while I die laughing at the very
thought.
Feedback: Please! I need to know if I should continue posting this fic as it
evolves! Off-list, though, please, as I'm lurking.
Archive: Anywhere at all. (Darkflame, are you listening?) Please let me
know!
Warnings for PART 3: Hectic schedules, evil cafeteria food, stupid
English instructors, bastard!J makes an appearance, Heero cooks Italian –
be very afraid! Also, a lot of Duo's classes are semi-based on my own;
this is what I have to put up with every day.
~TSUZUKU~
A number of factors conspired to ensure that Duo's doodle was absent
from his mind; firstly, his next class was a thoroughly involving
philosophy course – mostly discussion, in which Duo was, or rather would
have been had he been uninterested, forced to participate. Lunch was an
ordeal; it took him an inordinately long time to discover the location of
Wilson Hall's cafeteria, and when he managed, he was rewarded for his
trouble with mushy noodles in watery marinara. He sat carefully in a
wobbly chair at a dirty table and glanced around, seeking the TV.
Wilson Hall's cafeteria does not have a TV.
He glared furiously at his tray, willing his lunch to transform into
something more appetizing – nothing fancy, just a Big Mac and some fries
– hell, even cold pizza would be better than this! Duo's lunch stubbornly
refused to be cold pizza, and so he stoically ate his mushy, runny
spaghetti.
His English class was insipid and nauseating; he had thought "Readings in
North American Literature" would be about books, rather than "ethnic
identity". Duo was not interested in his instructor's opinion that race was a
genetic constant. He knew from his anthropology course (he had been
dual-enrolled in high school) that race is a social construct based on
physical appearance and is entirely subjective to culture; but when he
expressed this fact, he was merely blinked at and ignored.
The booklist he received, naturally, was insipid and nauseating.
The remainder of his afternoon was spent in the Hannah Plaza College
Store, hunting with Quatre after a somewhat rare book on the religion and
culture of the Ancient Near East. The book, incidentally, was not required
or even specifically recommended for Quatre's class; but the instructor
had mentioned it in passing, and when this was questioned as sufficient
motivation to dig futilely through a bookstore for hours on end, Quatre
would mutter something about "getting back to his roots" and wade
cheerfully into the stacks once more. It was a rather trying afternoon, all
told, and Duo's taffeta hair bow had wilted significantly by its end.
Dinner, of course, was awful.
Hubbard had apparently succumbed to the vegetarian pressure, and was
now serving several varieties of meatless slop; currently on the menu were
veggie hot dogs, lentil casserole, meatless chili (which Duo privately
thought might be all right), and veggie "chicken" nuggets. He filled a large
bowl with the chili, reasoning that he could at least indulge his craving for
spice of all varieties, even if he could not act on his inherent carnivorous
tendencies.
The chili, he soon discovered, was quite the mildest he had ever
encountered.
*************
Yui-sensei suffered through two more sections of Japanese 101, staring
fixedly at the board and not bothering to follow along in his lecture notes.
The stupidity of the Amerika-jin gakusei-tachi was appalling; but it could
not account totally for their ignorance. Nakamura-sensei had to be the
worst sensei he had ever encountered; she had no connection whatsoever
to her students, did not even glance at them to see if they were paying
attention. It would not bother Hiiro in the slightest if the students never
learned anything.
Except, he realized, that Nakamura-sensei's office hours were during
extremely inconvenient times of the day; and that meant that hordes of
baka Amerika-jin would begin bombarding Yui-sensei in his office as
early as this afternoon. Once this occurred, his mentor would know
instantly; and the burden of their education would fall squarely upon Yui-
sensei's shoulders.
He groaned inwardly.
*************
"Yui-san!" called Dr. J, entering his protégé's immaculate apartment.
"Yui-san, where are you?"
"I'm here," came the reply, muffled slightly by distance. J made his way
into the kitchen, opening the door with a flourish to reveal Yui Hiiro,
standing over the stove and carefully watching a pot.
"Yui-san," J began, then stopped, sniffed delicately… "What on earth are
you cooking?"
"Fettuccine alfredo." The Italian words rolled fluidly off the Japanese
tongue.
J blinked. "Why would you – " he stopped. "Never mind." He paused.
"How was your day?"
He was rewarded only with the famous Yui Glare of Death.
J smirked. "Yes, I thought as much; not the easiest to work with, is she?"
The glare intensified, eliciting a chuckle from the aging professor. "It's
not as if you have a choice, is it? Well, go ahead – drop out of graduate
school. Go back to the gutter in Tokyo!"
Hiiro seethed impotently from across the kitchen, practically snarling. He
hated the way his "mentor" (as the baka insisted on being called)
pronounced "Toukyou". "Don't worry about me," Yui-sensei said quietly,
dead calm. "I'm not going anywhere. Those students are going to sound
like native speakers when I'm through with them."
J's infuriating chuckle echoed in his wake long after he left the apartment;
like the cackling of crows it lingered, driving Hiiro toward madness. But
he had made his own bed; now he must lie in it.
He cradled his head in his hands, alfredo sauce forgotten and boiling on
the stove. What on earth had the Sensei gotten him into this time?
~TSUZUKU~
Life
Author: Kimiko
Genre: Parody/humor, fluff, sap, AU
Warnings: Future lime?, silliness, OOC, bastard!J, yaoi, yuri, subtle self-
insert
Pairings: 1x2, 4x3, 5+Meiran, 13x6, DorothyxRelena, Catherine+Hirde,
SallyxNoin
Disclaimers: The boyz and grrrlz belong to Sunrise and Bandai and any
other rich people who hold a claim to them, all of whom should refrain
from suing a starving college student. Tom's the real cafeteria-head guy at
Hubbard, and belongs presumably to his wife. I don't make any money
from writing fan fiction - pardon me while I die laughing at the very
thought.
Feedback: Please! I need to know if I should continue posting this fic as it
evolves! Off-list, though, please, as I'm lurking.
Archive: Anywhere at all. (Darkflame, are you listening?) Please let me
know!
Warnings for PART 3: Hectic schedules, evil cafeteria food, stupid
English instructors, bastard!J makes an appearance, Heero cooks Italian –
be very afraid! Also, a lot of Duo's classes are semi-based on my own;
this is what I have to put up with every day.
~TSUZUKU~
A number of factors conspired to ensure that Duo's doodle was absent
from his mind; firstly, his next class was a thoroughly involving
philosophy course – mostly discussion, in which Duo was, or rather would
have been had he been uninterested, forced to participate. Lunch was an
ordeal; it took him an inordinately long time to discover the location of
Wilson Hall's cafeteria, and when he managed, he was rewarded for his
trouble with mushy noodles in watery marinara. He sat carefully in a
wobbly chair at a dirty table and glanced around, seeking the TV.
Wilson Hall's cafeteria does not have a TV.
He glared furiously at his tray, willing his lunch to transform into
something more appetizing – nothing fancy, just a Big Mac and some fries
– hell, even cold pizza would be better than this! Duo's lunch stubbornly
refused to be cold pizza, and so he stoically ate his mushy, runny
spaghetti.
His English class was insipid and nauseating; he had thought "Readings in
North American Literature" would be about books, rather than "ethnic
identity". Duo was not interested in his instructor's opinion that race was a
genetic constant. He knew from his anthropology course (he had been
dual-enrolled in high school) that race is a social construct based on
physical appearance and is entirely subjective to culture; but when he
expressed this fact, he was merely blinked at and ignored.
The booklist he received, naturally, was insipid and nauseating.
The remainder of his afternoon was spent in the Hannah Plaza College
Store, hunting with Quatre after a somewhat rare book on the religion and
culture of the Ancient Near East. The book, incidentally, was not required
or even specifically recommended for Quatre's class; but the instructor
had mentioned it in passing, and when this was questioned as sufficient
motivation to dig futilely through a bookstore for hours on end, Quatre
would mutter something about "getting back to his roots" and wade
cheerfully into the stacks once more. It was a rather trying afternoon, all
told, and Duo's taffeta hair bow had wilted significantly by its end.
Dinner, of course, was awful.
Hubbard had apparently succumbed to the vegetarian pressure, and was
now serving several varieties of meatless slop; currently on the menu were
veggie hot dogs, lentil casserole, meatless chili (which Duo privately
thought might be all right), and veggie "chicken" nuggets. He filled a large
bowl with the chili, reasoning that he could at least indulge his craving for
spice of all varieties, even if he could not act on his inherent carnivorous
tendencies.
The chili, he soon discovered, was quite the mildest he had ever
encountered.
*************
Yui-sensei suffered through two more sections of Japanese 101, staring
fixedly at the board and not bothering to follow along in his lecture notes.
The stupidity of the Amerika-jin gakusei-tachi was appalling; but it could
not account totally for their ignorance. Nakamura-sensei had to be the
worst sensei he had ever encountered; she had no connection whatsoever
to her students, did not even glance at them to see if they were paying
attention. It would not bother Hiiro in the slightest if the students never
learned anything.
Except, he realized, that Nakamura-sensei's office hours were during
extremely inconvenient times of the day; and that meant that hordes of
baka Amerika-jin would begin bombarding Yui-sensei in his office as
early as this afternoon. Once this occurred, his mentor would know
instantly; and the burden of their education would fall squarely upon Yui-
sensei's shoulders.
He groaned inwardly.
*************
"Yui-san!" called Dr. J, entering his protégé's immaculate apartment.
"Yui-san, where are you?"
"I'm here," came the reply, muffled slightly by distance. J made his way
into the kitchen, opening the door with a flourish to reveal Yui Hiiro,
standing over the stove and carefully watching a pot.
"Yui-san," J began, then stopped, sniffed delicately… "What on earth are
you cooking?"
"Fettuccine alfredo." The Italian words rolled fluidly off the Japanese
tongue.
J blinked. "Why would you – " he stopped. "Never mind." He paused.
"How was your day?"
He was rewarded only with the famous Yui Glare of Death.
J smirked. "Yes, I thought as much; not the easiest to work with, is she?"
The glare intensified, eliciting a chuckle from the aging professor. "It's
not as if you have a choice, is it? Well, go ahead – drop out of graduate
school. Go back to the gutter in Tokyo!"
Hiiro seethed impotently from across the kitchen, practically snarling. He
hated the way his "mentor" (as the baka insisted on being called)
pronounced "Toukyou". "Don't worry about me," Yui-sensei said quietly,
dead calm. "I'm not going anywhere. Those students are going to sound
like native speakers when I'm through with them."
J's infuriating chuckle echoed in his wake long after he left the apartment;
like the cackling of crows it lingered, driving Hiiro toward madness. But
he had made his own bed; now he must lie in it.
He cradled his head in his hands, alfredo sauce forgotten and boiling on
the stove. What on earth had the Sensei gotten him into this time?
~TSUZUKU~