"You need other people to help you out," Elizaveta mused as she twirled spaghetti around her fork. The strands slid and slipped together, the whole plate overflowing with bolognaise. "A oadio station isn't exactly reliant on a sole contributor.'"

"I'm not doing it." The sound of plastic crinkling filled the air as he tore his straw out of the small container.

"Gilbert, it was approved. You can't back out of it now."

"You signed me up for it." He stabbed the straw into his juice carton viciously, the small cover making a loud sound as the foil seemed to burst under the force of the tube.

"Are you still going on about that?"

"If it was your idea of a joke, it wasn't very fucking funny. I'm too awesome for this shit. Look, you started it, so shouldn't it be your responsibility?" he snapped between gulps of the orange juice. It tasted sour on his tongue, and he had to restrain a shudder as it trickled down his throat. The Hungarian must have noticed though, because without a word, she had poured a glass of water from the jug by her side, and pushed it towards him. He nodded in gratitude. "OK, look, I know I was a prick the other day, but there's a difference between bringing up a past relationship, and you know, a radio station." Her back stiffened at that, and when he lifted his eyes to meet her gaze, it bordered on glacial.

"Really Gilbert?" she replied frostily, "Because unless I'm mistaken, both of those things involve responsibility." He held up his hands in a placatory gesture, setting down his drink.

"OK, wow, I shouldn't have brought it up. You could have just forgiven me though. Or hit me around the head with a frying pan, you know, like you usually do!" She tilted her head, as if in consideration, before raising her eyebrow with a sceptical expression.

"Excuse me if I'm wrong, but I'm starting to think you haven't exactly taken it seriously for a long time. I also have a feeling it's not good for your brain cells either," She prodded at a meatball, shunting it towards him. "Eat."

They were in the school cafeteria – one of the venues in which both genders could visit, although it had to be said that many eschewed it in favour of the meals to be found in the surrounding city. It was located on the edge of the school grounds, almost exactly on the border between the two schools, and also, rather conveniently, where the radio station was positioned.

"'m not hungry," he responded at length, eyeing the food with disdain. "I don't see how you can eat that stuff," The meatball, as if inhabited with a life on its own seemed to trundle a little further towards him, and he promptly recoiled. "I really don't, woman."

"I swear I never see you eat anything but junk food and concentrated fruit juice. You're like a bird, but you're certainly not skeletal enough to be one."

"Maybe I'm an overweight bird," he puffed out his cheeks in retaliation, narrowly avoiding the trajectory of the tomato sauce that flew past his ear. "What did I do this time?"

"As I was saying," she pointed the fork at him, strands of spaghetti dangling from it wildly, "You need help."

"I've been told that several times."

"Would you stop diverting the topic?"

"Fine! You're just jealous of my awesome!" he snapped, and she snorted.

"Oh, you must be kidding," she rolled her eyes as she started on her salad, crisp leaves crunching under the assault of the cutlery's prongs. "You think I'd honestly envy a person who overuses the same adjective, and seems content not to expand his vocabulary?"

"I resent that! Lack of vocabulary doesn't mean a lack of intelligence!"

"Well defended – it does demonstrate a certain lack of imagination if you haven't thought about branching out, though."

"Are you saying I'm unimaginative?"

"I never implied it was you, Gilbert, I can't imagine where you're getting your ideas from," She seemed to find the patch of air just above his left shoulder extremely interesting, and he scowled, sinking further into his seat, the material of his hooded jacket crumpling quietly. Everything from his dishevelled hair to his untucked shirt seemed to reek of a hooligan, and, Elizaveta thought as she rolled a piece of tomato in her mouth, one of the exact reasons why she'd volunteered him. "Besides, I also signed you up because I thought one of the qualities a good radio DJ possessed was, you know, talking the ear of somebody with inane chatter."

"Hey!" she shrugged, wiping her mouth with her napkin, before screwing it into a large ball.

"At least I can multitask next time you have a problem. I can do my work and have your complaining in the background."

"I don't announce my personal issues to the whole school!"

"At this rate," she returned, noting idly that Gilbert's words tended to venture into a musical scale upwards, "I'd take those words back." Any further protests were promptly ignored as she took out a notebook from her voluminous bag, the contents of it rattling a little as they were displaced. It was a small, leather bound book, and seemed innocuous, but her companion eyed it with suspicion.

"What is that?"

"A list," she declared, flicking through the pages, innumerable sheets covered in her elegant sloping handwriting. If there was a contest purely based on script, he was sure she would have walked home with first prize – it was copperplate enough to make even the most expert Victorian jealous. "Now, there are some of these here who I think would make an ideal candidate – Roderich, for one, Vash Zwingli, your brother, Matthew Williams, Lukas Bondevik - "

"I haven't even heard of half of these people!" his suspicion was only compounded when she flashed him a small, cryptic smile over the top of the book. "How do you know them an – shit, is that your list of shippings for me?" He lunged for it almost instantly, only to find himself landing on the cold, detergent smelling linoleum floor as she moved out of the way. "I should have recognised that immediately. Fuck. I'm not taking part in some crazed fangirl dream about yaoi or whatever the fuck it's called. Ugh, you even put me with your boyfriend!"

"Oh come on," she waved a dismissive hand as he struggled to his feet, glaring venomously at the potent collection of names. "It's not as if Roderich isn't attractive. Besides, the things he could do with a whip…"

"I don't even want to know," he snapped as she seemed to immerse herself in some form of rapturous daydream. "I really don't want to know what you two get up to in your spare time." As if he'd flicked a switch, her expression immediately shuttered.

"I haven't seen him for a week," she proclaimed briskly, snapping the book shut. "He said he had work issues."

"Well tell him to stop working, then. Burn his sonatas or whatever. Then again, wouldn't he get really pissy about that?"

"You don't say," she remarked dryly. "You know, whenever you commit an act of vandalism on a musical instrument, a poor Hungarian is once again subjected to the most awful rant about your hooligan ways," She busied herself with once again rummaging in her bag, her voice growing progressively more thick, as if she'd swallowed too much of something at once. "I swear I'm more of his therapist than his girlfriend, and then he has the audacity to tell me that it would be horribly bad of him, but please could he postpone our date for the next evening, only he has yet more music to compose."

"Do you want me to go and have a talk?"

"Hahaha, no. He's perfectly gentlemanly about the whole thing. I knew, anyway, that when I was going out with him, music would be his first love. Anyway," she cleared her throat, throat working as she attempted to restrain a choked sound. "You need some help with this station."

"You should work with me," her head jerked up at that, and she stared at him with disbelief. "I'm serious."

"Gilbert, we'll end up driving each other crazy."

"Hey, I'm awesome, I'll figure something out."

"You can't just do that!"

"Says who? It's my station, I'll do whatever I want, right? You got me into this in the first place, I'm pretty sure we can somehow get out of this mess. Besides, you're better at getting people to agree than I am, peacefully," He lifted a hand to rub at the nape of his neck almost self-consciously, "I can't believe I'm actually saying this. Besides, if you don't agree, you'll spend the whole of your life regretting you missed out on something so awesome."

"…you really need to work on selling things," she replied after a long stretch of silence, frowning. "You really do. But," she held up a hand, pre-empting his protest. "It's not a no. Just…give me a little longer to think about it, alright? I have to go to lessons now, but I will give you an answer soon," She slung the strap of her bag around her shoulders, raising one hand in goodbye.

"I can't quite believe I'm doing this."

"Kesekesekese, of course you can."

"I don't even know how to start a radio…" Arthur shuddered. "…station," He blinked at the single sheet in front of him, outlining a brief plan – to his surprise, meticulously detailed – on how exactly the next two weeks would work. He held it up so it would catch the light, ameliorating the strain on his already well used eyes, skimming the top few lines. "How many people did you say were helping you again?"

"One," Gilbert replied, examining his fingernails which seemed more than a little fascinating. "Yeah, one." The blonde's lips pursed at the tone of the response. He set the paper down, the legs of his chair scraping across the wood of his office as he stood, going around the desk to lean over the albino with a neutral expression.

"How many lessons did you say you skipped to plan this?"

"Not many, just three – fuck!"

"No expletives in here please. Gilbert, as much as I admire the fact that you seem to be taking something in your life seriously for once -"

"- Hey, I take pride in being an excellent big brother!"

"I can't help but point out that while this is constructive, you need to focus on your work."

"This is work! Look Arthur, I know this is impacting your career or whatever sad thing people build up in school, but remember, I didn't ask you to take an interest in whether or not I was improving, and I most certainly don't recall you being a counsellor!"

"Do you think I wanted to take an interest any more than you did?" he snarled back, his tone defensive as he straightened, arms folded. "I was forced to, and I was trying to make the best of it I could, but my God, you're not helping at all. Do you know how many times I've had to take attendance slips from teachers who've filed them? You skip every other class, and your grades are the only thing keeping you afloat. You can't just come up to me and expect me to help you when you obviously don't want to be helped!"

It was never clarified who threw the first punch, but to say that the two had a disagreement would be an understatement. He was only a little taller than Arthur, and quick on his feet, while the other had a knack for sensing open spaces, and evenly matched. By the end of it, Arthur had managed to gain a winded stomach, a bruised neck and several cuts from the fight, while Gilbert wound up with less, if more noticeable marks. A black eye was beginning to puff up around one eye, while a long shallow cut had been created across his jaw. Slumped adjacent to each other against the foot of the desk, they exchanged weary glances, and Arthur winced as he rolled his neck tentatively, fingers skittering across his frame as he made a quick assessment of his injuries.

"Well," Gilbert declared, one hand resting on his side as he cradled his ribs, "That was cathartic." Blood was beginning to bubble from the edge of his cut, trickling down his neck and the Englishman thought he looked more like the victim of a ravaging by a vampire than having come out of a fight.

"I think we need to go to the san," he announced, having taken an inventory of his bruises, before standing with what he thought was admirable fortitude. His face scrunched in pain, thick eyebrows drawing together. "You have a good right hook."

"You can do good uppercuts," the other responded, before, after some thought, adding, "Even if your nails are fucking sharp."

It would be cliché, in some respects to say that they immediately became the best of friends – there were as many things different about them than similar to completely get rid of the fraction that sometimes came between them, but it did mean that Gilbert had in some way, managed to gain help from the other. Arthur, on the other hand, was seeing a lot less of his teachers, and, rather sadly, a lot more of his homework, which had during the day, been almost constantly buried underneath the small pile of complaints.

The only thing which was left to do, it seemed, was to actually check out the station itself. It was of moderate height, built like a solid block, while a small satellite dish stuck out from its side like the antennae of an alien. It was set up, much to his surprise, much like the boarding houses at the school, with the exception of a foyer, which, with its rich carpet and flowery wallpaper, looked as if it belonged more in a hotel than a station. Going past that on the ground floor were several rooms filled with what looked to be technology that had been outdated by years, while the first floor was equipped for a studio, and the remaining two merely filled with empty rooms that appeared not to have been touched for years. There was a sense of mystery about the whole thing, going from room to room and sweeping the dustsheets off, although the German rather wisely decided to abstain from touching any of the buttons until he'd located an instruction manual.

"You can see why this shut down," he murmured aloud, giving nearly everything a cursory glance. He gave a particularly low whistle as he located yet another covered object, tugging it away to reveal a particularly sleek looking electric keyboard. "Well, shit." In retrospect, he was extremely glad he had come to survey the scene, because the next thing he knew, there was a shrill ring from his phone, something which, in the silence of the building almost made him jump out of his skin.

Elizaveta's initial of Arthur Kirkland hadn't been the most flattering – in fact the thing she'd noticed the most when he'd entered the ice cream shop was – damn, he has bushy eyebrows. The second thing she'd seen was the rather belligerent attitude he seemed to project, as if he had something to prove – a trait she thought, fitted rather well with Gilbert's own.
He'd shuffled into the room wearing a scowl, casual clothing still painfully smart, and had promptly taken up residence in the seat opposite the door, as if, like in spy stories, he was ever so carefully noting all possible entrances and exits and placing himself accordingly.

She hadn't recognised him immediately – Gilbert was notoriously bad at giving fair descriptions of a person, or any description at all. "Grumpy, blonde hair, really bad eyebrows," he'd given as a short explanation over the phone the evening before, as he'd gone tearing off to do who knows what. She could only assume that his own description of her was equally vague, because they sat at opposite ends of the room for a solid hour before she lowered the book she'd been reading, sudden recognition dawning as she recalled the description. It must have dawned on him as well, and they moved out of their seats at the same time, prompting several others to chuckle quietly, regardless of the glare which they received from both. They remained that way for what seemed like forever, caught in an uneasy balancing act before the Hungarian, realising the sheer idiocy of their postures succumbed to the pull of gravity, falling back into her seat.

"Elizaveta Hedervary?" He queried, extending a hand as if he was ten years older than he actually was, "I'm Arthur Kirkland. It's nice to meet you. I take it we're here for the same thing?"

Ah. The reason why she was currently freezing her insides instead of doing some much needed work, namely, an impromptu meeting called by the school council treasurer. Vash Zwingli.
It was a name which could have been a well identified synonym for trigger-happy and miserly – his sister was two years below, a little quiet, but polite, and, according to all accounts, a direct contrast to her elder brother. Rumour had it he held the student council in the palm of his hand, and most of the club funds. He was the centre of a large portion of many of the school horror stories, involving rifles, naked Italians and besmirched honour, while he was the epitome of a protective elder brother – one look at his sister in any way that he didn't deem innocent, and the perpetrator was liable to find himself held at gunpoint in a chapel, while the priest stuttered out the wedding vows.

Those rumours weren't even the tip of the large iceberg. According to lore, the Zwinglis, who had been educated at the school for at least two generations, knew the school better than even Gilbert, and had no qualms about hiding bodies for days on end in some secluded hallway.
Needless to say, the albino, when he received the sharp, brief message on his phone, was more than eager to sprint as fast as he could into town.

Elizaveta had never been one to be intimidated easily; she'd certainly intimidated more than enough people from her own days dressed as a boy, and even then, was no less lethal when wearing a dress. She was a weapon clothed in some semblance of human skin, Gilbert had said, once, when they'd had an especially long, physically exhausting fight. He'd always been a little in awe and a little in fear of her – although it would take something bordering torture to admit that.

The devil reincarnate had decided to grace them with his presence, and lesser beings would probably have quailed at his arrival. The devil incarnate being Vash Zwingli of course, not Gilbert, who had come sprinting in only seconds afterwards, murmuring apologies at high speed as he appraised the situation quickly. Albeit, said demon was wrapped up in a teenage gun-toting blonde who took sadism past the realms of Ludwig Beilschmidt's dreams concerning his sibling.

He merely gave them a bored nod, as if it was beneath him to even deign to acknowledge their presence, waving at the nearby seats (a completely different area, as if he liked causing them psychological torture) with an imperial air.

"Sit down."

"I'll - "

"Sit." The three dropped onto the artificial wooden chairs with only a squeak between them – even that seemed to come from the legs of the seats as they gave a little under their weight. The Englishman next to her sat, back stiff with tension as he cast glances almost everywhere, eyes darting from the walls to the drink machines, while Gilbert concentrated studiously on what must have been a fascinating part of the doorway. Or maybe the doorway in general was just so gripping. It certainly looked appealing to her.

"I presume you know who I am," he leant forward, placing a thin file in front of him, and there was something so eerie about his calm that even she had to restrain a shiver, "Likewise, most," his gaze swept the whole of them, taking in Arthur's…unusual facial accoutrements, his painstakingly tidy appearance and the way he gripped the table tightly. He perused Elizaveta next, and she had the horrible feeling of being under a microscope, as if he could see into her and catalogue every single crack. His gaze landed then on Gilbert, and his face, stuck in something resembling the border between pain and disapproval twitched into an outright scowl. "Received my email. I came to talk to you about this because the rest of the council seemed rather reluctant." There was a stifled snort from Gilbert.

"I don't blame them." He promptly schooled his facial expression into one of contriteness, only increased tenfold by the way Elizaveta kicked him underneath the table. If it was possible, the scowl only deepened.

"Well, that leads me to the question of why you nominated yourself for it."

"I - "

"Despite this, I came to notify you that unless you actively want to have this closed, you're going to have to save money. The previous owners weren't exactly the best of friends with that thing known as school expenditure."
Arthur immediately stepped in, delivering points in a cool, precise manner – as if for once he was showing exactly how capable he was of running something like this. It was as if he knew exactly what he was talking about, which was rather a shame, because he had a tic – his middle finger twitched once every so often – and it was an indicator that quite frankly, he was pulling figures and arguments out of his arse – not that Gilbert really objected. In fact, he almost wanted to kiss it.

In a non-gay way.

Elizaveta, who seemed to have an instant stream of the output his mind often formulated merely chuckled, and shot one of her condescending smirks towards him. In fact, it was the blonde who managed to eke out a lot of potential thoughts about the direction they should take, and he was only stopped when Vash forcibly clapped a hand over his mouth. His jaw was still working, even if his vocal chords weren't, and judging by his expression, he was torn between highly affronted, and as some might say, scared shitless. Which was another shame, thought Gilbert, because that would mean that technically, it would go from his…to…his…he shuddered visibly, and it was then that the full bore of Vash's attention moved, pendulum-like, from his acquaintance to him with all the feline grace of a cat.

"Tell me, Beilschmidt, Miss Hédérvary," he began, shuffling from one note to the other, detaching his hand from Arthur's orifice, "What will you bring to this?"

"Is this a job interview or a statistics update? I really don't know anymore." A frying pan promptly materialised into Elizaveta's hand with alacrity, and with the same rapidness, she wasted absolutely no time on introducing it to the German's formerly unblemished head.

"Gilbert, you're not helping."

"I was going to say," muttered Gilbert, eyeing her balefully, "We were talking about cutting costs, right?" Vash's lip twitched infinitesimally upwards.

"It's been the subject of conversation for the past half hour, and Arthur has already suggested simply selling half the equipment there."
Oh great.

"What I was going to say, was, to er, expand on Arthur's idea, right? I was listening, is to, erm…" Think, think, think, where are plans when I need them? "Openaninternetstationinstead andlivestreamittotherestofth eschoolforawhile."

"…sorry, what?"

"It would cut costs," he tried for guileless, which it can be said, had never worked on a Beilschmidt, excepting his younger brother who probably didn't even know the meaning of the word, so fixated on openness. "Opening up one on the internet as a test. We can pre-record something and stream it at breaks, and, if it got more traffic, we could attempt to buy in better recording sounds from the profits made out of the old ones. I mean, the old ones, they're, well, vintage, right? Isn't that the in thing at the moment, along with really big headphones and a penchant for bands no-one's heard of?"

"...wouldn't the cost of the wireless the school has to pay only add to the upkeep?"

"It's a lot cheaper than having to pay for the whole building, and seeing as we're in charge, I propose we rent it out to the cheapskates. I know someone who's willing." There was a pause as he nodded almost imperceptibly to Elizaveta, who caught on immediately.

"Oh my…isn't that cruel? He's going to have to wake up insanely early to make it to class on time!"

"…I'm not objecting, Lizzy."

"I know you're not, you hate him, but he's my boyfriend, I'm not going to inflict that on him!"

"Hey, he's got more space to put his music, and…"

"I'm loath to intrude on you tete a tete, but who is this?"

"Roderich Edelstein," they answered simultaneously, before promptly quaking at the look of absolute glee that came over Vash's face. "You know him?"

"Too well for my liking – you're planning on subjecting him to life in the radio station?" Abruptly, he began sorting the documents into the file with a curt nod. "I think that settles it. You have one term to prove yourself capable."

"That's it?" He turned as he was exiting the small corner he had put them in, one blonde eyebrow raised.

"Why?"

"Isn't there something else?"

"Get Roderich Edelstein into one of those rooms, subject him to living in bohemian ways, and honestly, get him to learn how to look after himself instead of imposing himself on others." They were left in almost stupefied shock.

"…I have a feeling I should be the one saying that."

I think it needs more awesome. Thank you for following, and I hope you enjoyed this installment! Constructive criticism and reviews are appreciated. I'm fairly sure some of these characters are OOC, but some have their reasons, while others, I haven't quite got the feel of at the moment.

Psst, want to know a secret? Principal Vargas might think he has control over his school, but the School Council (headed unofficially by Vash Zwingli, who would totally run for President if he didn't think another person would be less capable of running the funds) need to be looked out for.

Hetalia is owned by Himaruya, I have no authority over any of these official characters. If I did, it (the manga) wouldn't be as fun (different, less...humorous... humour). I also probably wouldn't write this and, well, my artistic skills would be better.