A/N: Loooong ago, I had a PM-exchange with wildkurofang that gave me an idea. =3 So here it is. Very stupid, but I had to find something for Shiro to do at that place.

Swedes can be very bad at English: for some inexplicable reason, many of our everyday words overlap phonetically with English dirty words. So this is a crash-course in Swenglish, and all the examples given are 100% authentic. xD

You are hereby warned that there will be dirty words used, and that they will be used in ways you (hopefully) haven't come across before. There is a glossary at the bottom, but I hope you will restrain yourselves and read through the chapter without it for the same wtf-reactions Shiro experiences.

I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.

True Cross Academy was bigger. True Cross Academy was more elegant. Still, True Cross Academy had never made Shiro feel what he felt before the mastodon chunk of glass and steel they were approaching. The brown shoebox of a building may have been ugly, but it filled his gut with flame-winged butterflies.

"I thought it would look different", he said as the pink limousine drove another metre forward. They were but one of many in the long queue of gaudy cars filing past the entrance. "Imperial Theatre sounds like a much fancier building." ...holy shit, was that an actual red carpet? They were going to disembark on a red carpet? Shiro swallowed hard as the butterflies in his gut grew into seagulls.

"And it was; before some tasteless ingrate of a bureaucrat decided it should be demolished and replaced with this mediocre cube." Something Mephisto seemed to take as a personal insult, judging by how he crinkled his nose. "Thankfully the inside retains some degree of flair."

…uncomfortable. Uncomfortable, uncomfortable, uncomfortable: Shiro would never grasp why it was necessary to dress up in such suits. And bow ties…? Was there even a point to bow ties, or were they just for making the shirt collar scratch his neck?

"Fidgety, are we?" Mephisto observed in that special kind of voice that gave him away as an older brother. "Relax, Shiro. Act natural and you will look natural."

"How do I act natural in this?" He gestured at the suit Mephisto had forced him to rent. "I'm a throw-away street kid; this is as far from natural as I get."

"Confidence, little lion~" The finger that landed on the tip of Shiro's nose was clothed in the burgundy gloves he'd bought when they went shopping together. They were tailor made to match the scarf he wore outside a purple-striped suit and some god-awful ruffled shirt. "Clothes make the man, but it takes a man of confidence to make the clothes. One can look dashing in anything if you believe you do."

Shiro took in Mephisto's appearance in one glance – stripes and frills and all – and reluctantly admitted that there might be some truth to the claim. Confidence, confidence.

"Right." He peered out the tinted car window and adjusted his bow tie, only to have Mephisto adjust it again when he did it wrong. "Our turn next, yes?" It was indeed a red carpet - there was even a guy in uniform waiting to open the car door for them. Damn, this was- "Relax", he told himself as the limousine pulled closer to the entrance. "Welcome to the VIP world, act like you belong." …easier said than done.

The July heat hit Shiro physically when he disembarked the car, and the butterflies flitted wildly in his gut. He didn't even register if anybody was looking at him: all he could think of was that he sported pink hair and formal suit. God, he looked ridiculous. He could feel them from all around, the needling eyes of people who did belong, people who did have their own suits, people who stripped his pretence right off with a single glance and dismissed him as-

"O-oi…!"

But Mephisto merely shot him a smirk glinting with mischief and continued to drag him along the red carpet. Arm in arm. Smack in the middle of Tokyo. Hell no. Flustered, Shiro matched his pace and unhooked himself from the demon.

"And that didn't make this any less embarrassing", he muttered under his breath and tried to erase the scene from time by pretending it never happened.

"Dithering doesn't become you, little lion." Mephisto's voice held the same expectant bounce as his confident gait. "What happened to charging heedlessly into battle, hmm~? We have many a battle ahead of us this evening; many a foreign territory to raid and conquer by the twofold law that all is fair in love and war~!"

Oh, no need to worry about looking embarrassing when Mephisto was around. The flamboyant principal became the main attraction the moment he stepped onto the red carpet, and owned the show every step of the way up to the glass doors below the giant banderol:

Miss International 1976

There was no telling if the beauty pageant was heaven, or hell. The VIP seats were the best in the theatre, of course. They allowed them see everything on the grand stage, where the world's most beautiful women lined up time and again, like a mouth-watering buffet that Shiro was allowed to see but not taste; the national costume parade, the evening gowns, oh god, and the swimsuits…! He couldn't tell which one he liked best – it was such an onslaught on his senses that he very nearly suffered a nosebleed over Miss France. How did Mephisto put up with this? It was bad enough a temptation for a human – what wouldn't it be like for a demon?

"I'm never gonna criticize his restraint again." He shot one quick glance at his friend. Mephisto kept a perfectly composed demeanour, outwardly, but there was a… a heat, a nearly visible sensation roiling in his presence, and it made Shiro think of large predators coiling up before pouncing on prey. "Can't be easy, that."

When the break was announced, people rose to file out into the foyer for some air. Mephisto rose, too, but not to join the throng on its way to the foyer. He meandered out to the side aisle, in the direction opposite to the rest.

"Oi, Mephisto – where are we going?" Shiro felt a little like a chick anxiously following the mother hen as he trailed after him.

"Johann", Mephisto said over his shoulder, stopping for a trail of guests to pass.

"What about him?"

"Officially, I am Johann Faust the fourth: headmaster, businessman, and multi-millionaire." Mephisto sent him a conspirational wink. "The masks one has to wear in public, you know?"

"Got it. Johann." ...no, it didn't feel right on his tongue. "Where are we going?"

VIP. Three letters that open doors to the land of milk and honey: or to the backstage parlour where all the misses gathered to mingle. Deep red carpeting spread before their feet, muffling all sound of polished dress shoes and high heels. A soft, warm light saturated the room from lamps concealed behind tinted glass panels, mounted on sequoia walls with patterns like frozen flames embedded in the wood. The room wasn't that large, but the high ceiling dotted with spotlight stars gave the impression they were in a grand castle hall.

It was like watching TV. Gorgeous dresses on even more gorgeous women, and dapper men in formal suits with drinks in hand; nodding, smiling, circulating between groups or filing along the buffet tables that shyly pushed up against the walls. It wasn't something that existed in real life. It was like film, so far removed from anything Shiro had ever seen. It was-

"Not fair…!"

*bonk* *bonk* *bonk*

Access to the VIP-room, yes. Mingling with all the misses, yes. Did they speak Japanese? No.

*bonk* *bonk* *bonk*

Shiro had found a suitable secluded niche near one of the emergency exits, where he could wallow in self-pity without anybody wondering why he was head-butting a wall. Or so he thought.

"Just what are you doing?"

At least it was a familiar voice. Shiro let his forehead rest against the red, mottled wood and turned his head to shoot a dismal look at Mephisto, who'd just come out of the nearby lavatories.

"I'm in a room with forty-five of the world's most beautiful women, and the only one I can speak to is Miss Japan. And what are you doing? Isn't that...?"

The women's lavatories? Why yes. And it was most likely a woman's lip-gloss Mephisto was wiping off his chin with one of his embroidered handkerchiefs.

"I'm practising my French", he replied with a charming wink.

"With Miss Venezuela?" Shiro observed, and gave him a knowing smirk as said Miss discreetly snuck out from the same lavatories. So much for Mephisto's restraint.

"French is an appreciated tongue regardless of nationality." Oh yes, Shiro could imagine that tongue was very appreciated. "Why don't you seize the opportunity to freshen up your English, rather than abuse the walls? The lovely Miss America over there is the same age as you."

"No way: I'm not gonna make an idiot of myself by trying to chat with someone who's spoken English all her life." Even if she did indeed look lovely, with those heavy curls hugging her face. "I was having a very interesting chat with this wall before you came and interrupted us."

Mephisto snickered softly, the way you do at recalcitrant little children – the only thing missing was the patronising pat on the head. Shiro did feel like a dumb kid, though. He had never had any problem approaching girls; girls had never had any problem understanding Japanese, on the other hand. You don't realise just how much humans depend on language until it's taken from you – or how quickly confidence evaporates when you can't communicate what you mean.

"That leaves another forty girls that aren't native speakers either." Mephisto scanned the parlour with pursed lips, gaze drifting idly from one young woman to the other. "Blondes or brunettes?" he asked, as casually as if he had been inquiring if Shiro preferred green tea or red tea.

"Am I at a beauty pageant or a brothel…?" There didn't seem to be any difference, from a demon's point of view. "I'm Japanese: all I've ever seen is girls with black hair, or bleached hair", he said with a shrug. "Blondes."

"Something exotic, then… Oh, I know just the one~" His face lit up like a candle: one of those candles for birthday cakes, small and in bright colours that children like. "Here we go!" And then he grabbed Shiro's wrist.

Oh this wasn't going to end well, not at all, not with that happy look on Mephisto's face. They passed the long line of buffet tables, where Mephisto somehow put a glass of rosé wine into his hand – "The best cure for nervous hands is to occupy them with something~" – and zigzagged between guests over the red carpeting while Shiro tried to gather his nerves together. This would be a piece of cake. Just talking, right? Just practising English. No harm in that. Nothing to be nervous about. Not at all.

"I'm gonna screw up." Yep. "Act natural my ass. No confidence in the world's gonna magically teach me better English."

Did Mephisto give half a damn about that? No. He dragged him across the parlour like a too energetic dog eager to share an especially exciting find with its owner.

"…maybe he is." An energetic dog? Yeah, sure. Mephisto was enjoying himself, and royally so. But more importantly, Shiro realised, while staring blankly at the bobbing hair curl before him: "He wants me to enjoy myself."

Mephisto had invited him into this extravagant world of celebrities and luxury because he took pleasure in pushing Shiro outside his comfort zone, surely: but also because he wanted him there. He wanted to spend time with him – enjoyed spending time with him… Shiro's gaze wandered downwards from the swaying curl, touched the hairs that curved sharply from the nape of Mephisto's neck, and landed on the burgundy glove. His wrist was held firmly in the paradox of that gloved hand: firm as concrete, and gentle as butterfly wings. The touch of a demon that didn't want to harm humans.

"He did the same with Johann: snuck into the Emperor's harem, stole food off the Pope's table, raised hell just for the fun of it…" For twenty-four years: longer than Shiro had been alive. Long enough to be called a lifetime. Long enough to forge bonds that could never be replaced. "Am I just repeating...?"

Without even meaning to, Shiro looked away from the hand holding his. It was uncomfortable, those matters he had no right to pry into; yet, his ever-curious thoughts wandered there whenever he let them stray from a given track. Was he really Mephisto's friend? Or was he a reflection of the friend he'd lost?

"Who's that?" Shiro asked, giving his thoughts a new track to run. There was an auburn-haired girl, a textbook wallflower, who stood by herself and plucked shyly with untouched hors d'oeuvres. Nobody seemed to pay attention to her, and she looked like she wanted nothing more than to fade through the wall: Shiro kinda felt he could relate. Maybe he'd have better luck talking to her...?

"Miss New Zealand, I think – but that's not important. There's a young lady over here that you should meet. God kväll, fröken Törnkvist." Mephisto switched abruptly to a melodious language Shiro had never heard. A slender, honey-blonde girl turned in surprise, revealing dark-shaded eyes bluer than a clear summer sky. Rows of bangles jingled on her wrists, and in her surprise she didn't notice that the plate she held was tippi-

"Försiktigt", Mephisto admonished softly, having caught her hand, and steadied the plate. His gentlemanly charm wasn't quite on highest effect, but not far from it; the girl visibly turned into putty under his gaze.

"God kväll", she echoed hesitantly and made a strange, bobbing motion in her knees. "Tack ska ni ha, öh, herr…?"

"My name is Johann Faust." Mephisto replied with a polite bow, switching languages effortlessly. "Could I trouble you to speak English? My Swedish hasn't been in use for a while, and I think my nephew would find it a great opportunity to practise."

Sky-blue eyes settled on Shiro, and the butterflies in his gut confirmed that he did indeed like exotic blondes.

"Your nephew?" She looked from one to the other – how the hell did Mephisto expect to pass them off as relatives? – and broke into a smile that was coy and unabashedly bright all at once. "You don't look like each other at all."

"I wonder which one of us is most grateful for that?" Mephisto smiled back. "You must pardon me; I don't know your full name…?"

"Oh." She faced Shiro and made the same bobbing motion again. "My name is Marie-Louise Törnkvist."

"My name is Fujimoto Shiro", he said, awkwardly repeating what she had done: it seemed to be the Swedish equivalent of a bow.

"That's women's way of greeting", Mephisto informed with a merry chuckle, and gave him a light pat in the back. "Men bow in Sweden, too." Lovely, he had already made an ass of himself. "Good icebreaker, though", he added furtively in Japanese. "Well", and back to dapper English, "I merely wanted to express my appreciation properly. Both my nephew and I are rooting for you, Miss. I find there is a certain natural grace that comes with the modesty of the North, and I think that is precisely what this kind of contest needs: natural beauty." Oh god he was such a smarmy bastard… And yet somehow he pulled it off. How the heck did he do that? "Now, I think I will have treat myself to some of the other delicacies in the buffet, before they run out – excuse me~"

Pushing the chick out of the nest and hoping it can fly, huh?

"Excuse my uncle: he is special." Shiro hoped his English wasn't too accented. "…says the guy with pink hair", he groaned mentally. "This idea is his, also." He smoothed over the spiky mess of hair demonstratively with an excusing smile. "And this." He touched the crosses that hung on his glasses string. "But we does- We do… think you should have crown."

"Oh, thank you kindly." And without warning, she reached out and felt his hair. "I'm so envious of Japanese hair. It's so thick and strong." Seeing the baffled look on his face, she pulled her hand back quickly. "Åh, sorry. I forget, you Japanese are much more polite."

"I'm not so polite", he said truthfully, smiling as he did. "But you gave me surprise. Japanese girls don't do- don't act like this."

"And Swedish men don't act like you", she smiled back with a perfect set of white teeth. "Is it rude if I ask how old you are?"

"No. I'm nineteen." Not what she had expected, from the looks of it. "How old you thought I was?"

"I'm sorry… I thought you were fifteen at most", she said between multiple shy excuses. "It's so hard to tell age on Asians. …how old do you think I am?"

Shiro's guess was closer than hers had been, but he was surprised to hear she was as "old" as twenty-one.

"I actually had to show my leg to be let in here", she told him with a merry laugh. "The guard didn't believe me when I said how old I was."

…it struck him as somewhat strange that one could tell a Swede's age by looking at her legs, but he didn't know much about Sweden and assumed that people there could be rather different from the Japanese. Maybe it was like trees? You could tell the age of trees by looking at growth rings, so...?

Talking to Miss Sweden Shiro learnt that the Miss could play the guitar, had one younger sister, and she was going to become a nurse. He also learnt that it was a great difference between seeing a girl on stage, or in magazines, and seeing her in real life. In real life there suddenly was a personality, besides the pretty exterior, and his subconscious had somehow never thought of that.

Shiro quickly decided that he liked how the Swedish melody came through in her English: it made him less self-conscious about his own accent, and it gave her speech a pleasant rising and falling quality, like birdsong. Inevitably, much of the conversation came to be about the differences between their countries. Shiro's sole experience with countries outside Japan was his short sojourn in Rome, but talking with Marie-Louise made him realise just how different places can be.

"You say you aren't polite, but compared to a Swedish nineteen-year-old you're a swear-mother's dream", she said, gesturing at him with a hosomaki sushi that she held with her bare fingers. "Swedish young men are terrible. They curse and drink and rape. No manners."

"That… sounds terrible", he agreed awkwardly: compared to that, he must come off as extremely polite. "It make me sad to hear."

"It is. I like the Japanese: you have much better manners. And you have such wonderful cocks", she said, swallowing a piece of sushi almost whole while Shiro tried to keep himself from going beetroot red. He had heard that Swedes were supposed to be "free-spirited", but he hadn't expected this degree of… free-spiritedness.

"Um… Thank you?" he tried, not sure if he wanted to have this kind of conversation in public. "I… really liked your dress, Mari-Rouisu-san. The blue one at stage – but this one is very nice also, of course." The one she wore was a knee-length one with bright flower-patterns. It looked out-of-place among the glossy evening gowns, but then again so did Shiro's hair.

"I should have worn the same dress I had on stage, but…" She lowered her voice with a shy yet impish look on her face. "It got stuck in the cunt when I went up on stage", she tittered. "It broke a little, so I had to switch when I came down. I just hope it didn't show on stage."

"Uh, no. No, it didn't show", Shiro spoke into his glass, sipping some wine to buy time to get his face straight – what kind of person tells people about such a mishap?! "Good you have other clothes for wear."

"Well, we were all given a fuck backstage under rehearsals, so I had some clothes left there." …and Shiro almost spat his wine back into the glass. "I still can't believe I'm here. It's like a drea- Sorry, how are you?"

"I'm fine", he croaked, coughing and patting his chest to make the alcohol take a u-turn out of his windpipe. "All fine." Nope, not making an idiot of himself at all.

"Precisely what a Swedish guy would say", she smiled, although it looked like she tried not to. "But it will pass over. Say, you must have just finished school, right? What do you do now? Work?"

"I study. I will become doctor." Of sorts.

"Oh, wow – that needs very high marks." Her pink lips formed an impressed o. "It's very difficult to become doctor in Sweden. It must be even harder in Japan…?"

"It is, but I was number six best in my school", he smiled through watering eyes, having brought the worst of his cough under control.

"Wow! You must be so smart! Oh, sorry – I don't mean that I think you weren't smart, I just didn't know how smart you were", she excused hurriedly. Just how…? How could one girl be both extremely worried about offending somebody, and extremely open about other things…?

"Is okay", he smiled. "I was not always smart, so when I heard, I celebrated to morning. I had never think I would have this success like this."

"It sounds like me when I was told I would go to Miss International in Japan." Bracelets jingled when she pushed a lock of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. "They took me on the bed when they told me - it was wonderful. I couldn't stop crying, and my mum sucked at me, but it was wonderful. I get too see the world!" She laughed with all her shining white teeth, and raised her glass. "Cheers to our successes, Mr. Shiro?"

Shiro clinked his glass against hers with a smile he hoped wasn't too artificial. Just what the hell…?

"Anno…" He had no real idea what to say after their little toast, but settled for the obvious. "Shiro is given name. Fujimoto is family name."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Yeah, it seemed like Swedes were either sorry or horny, in some case of bizarre bipolarity. "When you presented yourself, I thought… You say your last name first, and your first name last?"

Shiro had to take that sentence apart in his mind, to be absolutely sure he got it right, but confirmed after a moment that yes: that was how people introduced themselves in Japan.

"So I should call you Mr. Fujimoto, then."

"No, not… Is too sharp." Oh dear, how would he explain this? "Don't meet lip and tooths when you say 'fu'. Just wind." He would never be able to say 'breath' and make it intelligible. "Like this." He left a narrow gap between his lips and blew a stream of air between them. "Only wind, no tooths. Fujimoto."

"Fujimoto", she repeated, correctly.

"Hai. Yes, Marie-Rouisu-san."

She beamed at him, dimples digging into her cheeks when she smiled, and then returned the challenge:

"In Sweden we present ourselves with our own name first and family name last."

"Oh. Then I should call you the other name." Whatever that had been. Something crisp with too many consonants together. "Ta… Taanvitsu?"

"Törnkvist."

Oh god…

"Taankuvisto?" He articulated with his whole face, trying to wrestle down the foreign phonemes, and if he hadn't looked like an idiot before then he sure did now.

"Almost", she encouraged with some sort of polite amusement. "Törnkvist."

"Te- Töönkuvisto? Töönkuvisto-san?" She nodded enthusiastically at that. Good. He wasn't going to get any closer than that. "Swedish people have difficult names", he chuckled helplessly, running a hand through his hair out of habit.

"It's because we have more pricks than others."

Just when it couldn't get more awkward.

"Uh… Women also…?" He hoped he'd misunderstood that, but Swedes didn't seem to have any qualms at all about speaking of such things.

"Oh yes." Same enthusiastic nod. What the hell was wrong with this person? "I have two pricks, but one can have more."

"But… Your dress was stuck on stage…?" And she had been on stage in a swimsuit, and just what the flying fuck…?

"Sorry, I don't think I understand." Oh, she wasn't the only one… "What did you ask about my dress?"

…and even if he didn't fulfil the technical requirements for a guardian angel, Mephisto did fill the practical function of one when Shiro spotted him in the corner of his eye.

"Excuse me, Töönkuvisto-san. My uncle wants me. It was nice talking with you."

He bowed, she curtsied, and Shiro left the bizarre conversation to trot over to Mephisto and the hors d'oeuvres at the buffet. He seemed fine as a fish in water, humming anime openings to himself as he balanced a plate on his spread fingertips and loaded it with a steadily growing tower of food.

"So~ How was Miss Törnkvist?"

"…very exotic."

When they returned to the Academy late that night, Shiro found a note tucked in under his dorm room door.

Ahoy there, Fuji!

I was passing True Cross on the way and thought I'd stop by, but it seems I missed you. Well, we both did. Shizzy composed a haiku for you instead, so here you go!

See you at the next crossroad, as the saying goes. Or that might just be our saying? Shizzy says it's not a real idiom, and he's a know-it-all when it comes to language: but I'm his big sister, so I'm always right.

See you at the next crossroad!

- Kasumi

Pink bloom falls in spring
It does not spring up in fall
Unless it's stupid

- Shizuku

A/N: …and that's Swenglish for you. =P

Glossary

leg is short for "legitimation", the equivalent of an ID (you wouldn't believe how many Swedes that make this mistake when they speak English).

svärmor is Swedish for mother-in-law, but translates literally as "swear-mother": the mother you're sworn family to, as opposed to the mother you have a biological connection to. A "swear-mother's dream" is the term for a man (usually) who has all the qualities a mother wants her daughter's husband to have.

rapa means to burp, but it's much closer at hand to turn it into rape.

kock is Swedish for chef, and sounds very similar to cock. Care for a linguistic elaboration on that? The difference in sound is that cock goes farther back in the mouth – which I suppose shows that Freud is indeed ubiquitous. x')

kant means edge, and sounds like cunt when spoken. And yes, we say that something sticks in an edge. Prepositions are treacherous little things.

fack sounds like fuck, and has several meanings: the one valid here is box, of the locker-kind you'd find at a train station.

bli tagen på sängen is an expression that translates word for word as to be taken on the bed, but it equals to be caught off guard. What we mean is that you're caught by surprise when sleeping. (…although, shift the accent in "tagen" ever so slightly and you will end up with the Freudian meaning in Swedish, too. Don't ever attempt this as a learner of Swedish: the difference is so small you wouldn't be able to hear it, but a Swede would.)

sucka means to sigh, and in the past tense it's suckade, so yeah… sucked.

prick means dot, here referring to the dotted letters å ä ö. This lovely frog jumped from the mouth of a representative for Göta Bank, which had changed name to Gota Bank to simplify international relations. The man in question claimed: "We are the same guys as before although we have lost our pricks."

Törnkvist (lit. Thorn-twig, a pretty common surname) has a mute r in standard Swedish, which is why Shiro's pronunciation-attempt looks he way it does. It's the same type of difference you get in (British) English, if you add an r to bun and notice how the vowel sound changes into burn without leaving any trace of an r.

Miss International is a real competition, of course. It's one of the four largest beauty pageants in the world, held annually in Tokyo's Imperial Theatre. I'm not using the real Swedish contestant, for obvious reasons. =P

What happened to Miss New Zealand?
I must say, beauty pageants have the worst documentation I have ever come across. You'd think there would be photographs of everything, no? There aren't. Lists of contestants? If you're very lucky.

There was a contestant from New Zealand in the semi-finals in 1976. Who? Well, check the "documentation" and you'll find that the NZ contestant in one of the world's biggest beauty pageants was: unknown. Seriously. You can make it to the semi-finals in Miss International, be on stage in front of thousands of people, and nobody knows your name? 0_0' Those of you who live in NZ: could you find some explanation to this, and still a poor writer's curiosity?