Chapter 3

Crumpled papers

Later that day, Arthur had found himself stuck in a lecture regarding the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe, well, if you could even call it a lecture. It was more like sitting still for an hour waiting for the non-stop argument between Alfred and the teacher to finally finish (though that seemed rather unlikely, as his demands that the colour of a particular object meant nothing aside from 'the frickin' colour, brah' failed to make any sort of impact), and praying to whatever god was out there that the Frenchman behind him didn't try to pull anything.

The seconds marked by. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Twenty minutes remained. Oh, make that nineteen. Just as soon as he was beginning to believe (rather half-heartedly) that the lecture would pass without even a glance sent his way, a small, creased ball of paper grazed the cropped mess of his hair. As if he even needed to guess who the offender was. It hit the floor with a light crinkling sound; not loud enough to draw the attention of another student, but apparently enough to warrant a scathing glare from the teacher in front. His hand holding the chalk hovered, as if the faint noise was so utterly offensive that he couldn't find the means to write. His beady eyes switched from Arthur, to Francis, then, (the most livid stare of all) the paper. He reluctantly turned away after that, resuming his dull speech in a tone that sounded strained, the sort of voice a hostage being held at gunpoint would assume. He probably wanted to go home more than the entirety of the class.

Without really thinking, Arthur stooped down to clutch the ball, unwrapping it under his desk with the languid speed of a child who had been granted the most disappointingly small present under the tree come Christmas morn. An onslaught of flowing cursive marinated the page. He scoffed. How terribly French.

Meet me by the fire exit? That is, unless you actually enjoy being stuck in a stuffy room surrounded by sweaty teens.

Bonnefoy X

Arthur rolled his eyes and scribbled a reply within the corner of the page, his messy scrawl barely legible. But, if the Frenchman had a thing for writing in words too flamboyantly presented to make any sense, he more than deserved it.

I wouldn't be surprised if you do. If the teacher weren't in here you would probably lunge at the first thing with a pulse.

Furthermore, what makes you think I'll follow you, anyway? Being in here may be vile and one of the more unpleasant ways to spend my time, but it's easily rivalled by the thought of your presence.

Smothering the sheet with his fist, he threw the freshly-crumped ball back over his shoulder, allowing himself a smirk upon hearing a sharp whisper of merde. If being a gentleman meant he couldn't wish with every fibre of his being that Francis had been hit between the eyes, then he may as well have the title torn away from him there and then. A more considerate throw from the Frenchman this time; it landed upon the desk space in-between his hands.

Since that would technically be you, it would be best to assume otherwise, non? And trust me. It is the most social activity that you will be getting, judging by your stuffy attitude. You would be très mignon if you were always this silent, cher.

This cycle continued, the two throwing the piece of paper back and forth, exchanging insults directly under the nose of the now incredibly agitated teacher (well, not especially directly, since they were both positioned near the back of the room) until, finally, the bell rang. Taking it as an immediate signal to grab the Brit and dash, Francis did exactly that, sparing not a second to pause as the former fumbled around with his briefcase. Who brought a briefcase to university, anyway? Well, obviously the same person who proved himself to be incapable of getting dressed in the morning, let alone arrive on time for his first day.

"For the love of Christ, what do you think you're doing?!" Staring in dismay as a pencil fell out of his bag and was abandoned upon the polished linoleum floor, he continued to defy every movement Francis made.

"Honestly, is the memory of the English really as bad as that? I have something to show you, se rappeler?"

"If you're expecting me to understand that gibberish you call a language, you're mistaken. No part of those blasted notes mentioned that you would be half-dragging me to the bloody destination!"

"Aaah, but you forget, if I let you go then I am endangering my beautiful ribcage's safety."

"You needn't fret, if all goes accordingly then you'll have a charming companion for the indubitable bruise you'll have already acquired from earlier. Good luck covering that up with makeup, prat."

"You are just jealous that my complexion is miles better than your putrid mess. Honestly, I could not attempt to neglect my skin in such a way even if I tried!" Turning a corner through the double-doors, he cut off whatever reply was to be used against him (probably even more scathing than the last, judging by the onslaught of verbal murder he had been subjected to throughout the duration of the day), and called out to two others who were already positioned by the exit. "Gilbert! Toni!" He waved, holding up the arm that had been gripping Arthur's own as if to show him off. Which, come to think of it, was probably exactly what he was doing.

"Yo, Franny, what's with the baggage?" The younger-looking of the two, perhaps a few years less than Arthur himself, retorted. He was wearing a shirt that screamed delinquent, a black short-sleeved with the word Awesome splattered across it in green neon text. His jeans were skinny to an almost painful-looking degree, ripped in too many places to keep track of.

"I would like to think you're aware that I have a name of my own, though I can't say I'm expecting much." He had given up trying to break free of the Frenchman's hold, and had instead resorted to assaulting his companions with a lethal dose of sarcasm. Perhaps then he would avoid dragging him to the blasted group ever again.

"…Hah?" As an alternative to the argument the Briton had sought, he was presented with a confused tilt of the head.

"Oh, do not mind Arthur, he is probably just upset that he has not had tea in seven hours, since he is determined to be a stereotype." Francis waved him off.

"Laaame. Hey, stingy prude-face! You should try being more awesome! Like me!"

"Say, what exactly was the purpose of hauling me over to this band of oddities in the first place? Surely you have already exhausted your admittedly large capacity for posturing?" Quick as a flash, he turned on the Frenchman instead. He wanted to get kicked out as soon as possible so that he could locate his lodgings and (even though it was rather infuriating that this thought process only enforced Francis' belief that he was a stereotype), finally have a cup of tea to soothe his nerves.

"Ah, oui, I have a proposition to make, cher."

"…Yes?" He was uncertain. Thankfully, his arm had now been released, meaning he could storm away if need be.

"You do not have any friends, is that right?"

"W-well…" Well what? He had two supposed acquaintances: Alfred and Kiku, but could he necessarily call them friends? They could tolerate his presence, he supposed.

"If it is taking you this long to answer, I would guess I am right? In this case, I shall grant you an offer that would burst the hearts of every belle in the very world itself!" He flourished dramatically to the group. They could probably tell where this was going. One looked rather downfallen, Gilbert, supposedly, and the one who hadn't talked for the duration due to being too occupied with a tomato, Toni, seemed to be biding his time to say something. "We, out of the kindness in our magnificent hearts, will sweep you under the glorieux wings of stylishness!" He spun upon his heel, afterwards throwing his arms wide to gesture welcome. Was it just Arthur, or did it look as though he had practised this?

Funnily enough, Gilbert with the first one to object. "Dude, this guy is like, a total loser! What's the deal, Franny?"

"On top of that, your sales pitch was more of an affirmation than an offer. Are you sure you're aware of the difference?"

"That's another thing! He's way too serious! Even my baby brother is more awesome!"

Francis sighed. He knew there would be some opposition, but this was just ridiculous.

"Mi amigos?" At that point, everyone's heads turned toward the Spaniard. They had almost forgotten he was there. "You should all take a siesta, si? Ay… Everybody is too loud…"

"Oui, you are right, Toni…"

"Yeah, whatever."

"Well. I wish I could say it was nice talking to you lot, but I'm afraid I would be lying. Good day." To avoid any more of a delay, Arthur turned away from the whole ordeal, the sheer obnoxious flamboyance of it all, and stormed away.

"Hold on, cher!" Despite calling out, he didn't chase after the Brit. If he were at all likely to change his mind, he would have returned there and then, but no such luck. The most charismatic male in the school was left standing there, arm outstretched, and feeling nothing short of a fool.

Ack, my feelings... Yeah, I was thinking of putting the BTT in here, but there was no way I intended for it to go like this. This is pretty much the extent of their appearance, so I apologise to their fans!