In this installment: Feliks remembers the Golden Ages, Feliciano remembers that the art room isn't used 5th period, and nobody remembers Matthew's name.

Warning: Russian misuse of articles. Sorry. Russians are funny. Slight Canada/Poland if you squint and squint-worthy Germany/Italy Veneziano. If you squint very, very hard there is some Hungary/Ke$ha.

1447

Official union of Poland and Lithuania

It was not the first day they'd met, but it was the first day they had known they would always be friends. Who knew the shy-looking kid from the down the street would turn out to be such a good companion? Who knew the mean-looking blonde would turn out to be such a hilarious buddy? Who knew that they had so much in common?

Okay, so Liet wasn't the most exciting friend, and Feliks wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. But that was why they were so close - they completed each other. Each filled the holes of the other and made a stronger whole than either alone. Everyone knew it – these two were buddies that would be inseparable for life.

Roderich's fingers were light and graceful on the keys, even if he was just giving them starting pitches. He barely even had to look at the music to play the right notes. Usually Feliks loved watching his skill, but today his eyes were focused elsewhere. Feliks watched the Lithuanian from across the rehearsal hall. His young gaze was focused solely on Toris's gently moving lips. He was captivated, for one sole reason…

"I know you're, like, totally mouthing the words," Feliks accused the boy after rehearsal, arms pompously akimbo. "That's like, totally unfair. You're, like, making the rest of the choir do more work!"

"I…" Toris looked down, a creamy blush coloring his face. He mumbled something inaudible, but Feliks's condemning stamping of the foot demanded a repeat. "I don't know how to say them…"

Feliks grinned, lightly slapping the back of the brunette's well-combed head. "Don't be, like, such a dumbass! You're, like, s'posed to ask for help!"

So they found an empty practice room, and Toris painstakingly found the opening notes while Feliks painstakingly taught him the pronunciation. Toris blushed the whole way through, nearly whispering the words as though to make a mistake would be to incriminate himself for the heinous crime of not speaking Latin. Each time Feliks cracked up into a fit of giggles at the stupid way he pronounced something, it grew easier and easier to make a mistake. Somehow, the embarrassment that should come from being laughed at did not emerge. A mistake was just that – a mistake. It was funny. That's life. Eventually, the words seemed to come naturally from Toris's mouth, like he'd known the song all along and merely needed Feliks to explain it to him.

Afterwards, Feliks demanded that Toris buy him an ice cream cone as payment for his benevolent instruction. Sitting on a bench near the stand, they partook in their frozen treat, though Toris only had enough change to buy one and thus they had to share. Feliks slung an arm casually around his friend's shoulders whilst Toris groaned at the mischievous glint in the Pole's catlike eyes. Something terrible this way comes, surely. Unfortunately, his intuition was correct: Feliks began belting out the song they had been learning all afternoon. At the top of his lungs. Off-key. In public.

"Laus eius in ecclesia

In ecclesia sanctorum

Cantate domino canticum novum

Laetetur Israel in eo

Qui fecit eum et filiae Sion

Exultent in rege suo!"

That's a preview, folks! Like, y'all should totally show up on Sunday when we do it for real!"

Toris couldn't help but giggle, throwing a hand over his new friend's mouth to silence him.

Feliks had no trouble switching between MIKA and hymns on his MP3 player. He went from "Gloria! In exelcis deo!" to "Don't let the stars get you down, don't let the waves let you drown, oh Billy Brown!" His only rule was that all music played between the hours of 1:00 and 20:00 must be happy. After eight in the evening and until one in the morning, however, he was free to sob along to depressing teenage anthems all he liked. Any longer than five hours would be just ridiculous, after all. Anyway, he needed his beauty sleep.

So he bopped down the hallway, shaking his blonde locks in time to his bouncy pop music. New shoes are always worth a celebration. He was so enthusiastic that he had to hold the earbuds in with his hands to keep them from falling out. Bullies like totes suck at getting me down, Feliks thought, performing a little jazz square next to the drinking fountain in his new high-heeled purple dancing shoes. He thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a familiar golden smile beneath auburn locks and eyes that matched his own. Feliks felt an answering smile tilt the corners of his own mouth.

Cuz oooooh heaven is a place on Earth!

Slam! For the smile.

Ivan's giant mittened hand pushed the side of Feliks's head into the wet surface of the drinking fountain, his snide grin blindingly bright. The blood rushed behind his ears, a small trickle breaking the skin to course down his forehead. Feliks blinked and gasped. He squirmed, trying to aim a high-heeled foot at his captor's leg, but the Slav was too big to escape, even though only one hand held the Pole's head down. The other dipped out of sight, leaving Feliks to wonder what Ivan had in store for him. His answer came all too quickly.

The fountain spluttered on, water spraying all over the Pole's carefully made-up face. It got into his eyes, all over his chin, and Oh Holy Mary in heaven please no into his hair. It was cheap school water, hard water, full of minerals and chemicals and God knows what other unsavory items

"You son-of-a-bitch! That water is like totally fucking hard and it is going undo, like, three months of conditioning! I am prone to split ends, you know!" Feliks shrieked, flailing helplessly. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a trio of Baltic students watching him nervously. Through the stream of water, it appeared that Toris was staring resolutely at his own (very manly) shoes.

"Oh, you are not liking the hard, da?" Ivan growled, grabbing the Pole's hair and jerking his head. The Russian maneuvered Feliks's head so that water streamed into his mouth, overflowing, and down his neck, dampening his dress shirt. Through tears of anger, Feliks could not swallow and spluttered helplessly. Oh, God, if he didn't get to breathe soon…! "This is what you are calling the irony! You will suck the water, you are enjoying this, da?"

Ivan let go just in time. With a jerk of his powerful wrist, he sent the boy's head crashing against the side of the drinking fountain, where blood mingled with water and dripped over the sides.

"This is teaching you not to do the flirting at Toris!"

Feliks looked up, through the stream of red flowing down his forehead, to see Ivan stride off, the Baltics in tow. It seemed for a moment as though Toris would look back at him. But that was silly. Of course, it didn't happen.

MP3 cords dangled around his neck. Feliks picked one up, surprised to hear that the music was still playing unfettered. Hah! I can, like, drop this thing by accident, like, ONCE, and it breaks, but it can like totally withstand Ivan the Terrible?

"Sucking too hard on your lollipop, oh, love's gonna get you down!"

Feliks switched the song quickly, to a lovely a capella women's choir hymn. Sometimes it was better not to relate to your music at all. Sometimes it was better to hear praises rather than complaints. Sometimes it was better if your music was completely irrelevant. Ah, the joys of Latin!

In the bathroom, he washed the matted blood out of his own hair. Feliks really could have done with some disinfectant, but he didn't dare go the nurse – she would want to know how he'd gotten hurt, and then who'd done it, and then Feliks would have to tell (he totally wasn't a liar) and then the shit would hit the fan.

It was fine to be beaten up by Ivan. Well, no, it wasn't fine – but it was to be expected. Ivan was bigger, stronger, and more jerkass-y than anyone else Feliks knew. What was wrong, the jarring note in a fluid scale, what was so inexcusable – was that Toris had watched. No – Toris couldn't even do that. He sat on the sidelines while his childhood friend was humiliated, refusing even to raise his eyes and face the damage that Feliks was suffering at the hands of Toris's new BFF.

"I taught him how to sing Exultent in Rege," Feliks sighed to himself. "Great, great Catholic values, Liet. Way to stand up for the meek."

Feliks winced as he cleaned the wound on his temple, using only soap and (hard) water. He prayed that there was no blood caked onto the back of his head, as he could not turn far enough in the boy's room's tiny mirror to see. He didn't feel comfortable asking Feliciano to help him – they were friends, yes, but it wasn't right to let that ever-cheerful Italian see him in a vulnerable state. Speaking of, where was Feliciano? He hadn't seen the other since third period maths. Probably skipped school because tomatoes were in season.

The Pole turned to his reflection once more. He didn't carry hair product in his bag, unfortunately, so he'd have to make do with only a quick comb-through. Pep-talk time.

He glared at himself in the mirror.

"I am stronger than a bully."

He turned to the side and tried to assume a muscle-man pose.

"I am Feliks!"

He pouted at himself and batted his eyelashes.

"I am Polska!"

He curtsied, pretending he was wearing skirts.

"I am very pleased to meet you, kind sir."

He winked, letting his tongue slide ever so slightly out between his lips.

"I am to escort you to your room, honorable guest, and provide you with the services."

Feliks straightened, parting his hair for the last time. It would have to do, even in its inexcusably ratty state. At least his shoes were cute. He applied one last coat of spice-flavored lip gloss, and turned on his (very fashionable) purple heel to go find Feliciano and tell him the most wonderful gossip he'd heard. It was about one Gilbert Weillschmidt and a certain pianist's objectively attractive mother.

Feliciano was not in the lunchroom. However, freshly baked cinnamon rolls were, so Feliks had to postpone his search for the Italian until he had fully investigated the baked goods. Once he had ascertained that he could make better ones, Polish-style, he resumed the investigation. He started by asking that one kid from English class – oh, God, what was his name? – if he'd seen the Italian.

That one kid from English class was eyeing the school lunch suspiciously. "It's not poutine, eh, but I guess it'll have to do…"

"Hey, um…" Feliks paused. It would come to him. It just had to! It didn't. "You there! With the glasses and the downtrodden expression!"

"Hello, Feliks. My name's Matthew."

"Right. I, like, totes don't care. I have to find Feliciano! I have, like, super-duper important news for him!" Feliks lowered his voice confidentially, but not so confidentially that the whole lunch room couldn't hear him. "It's about Gilbert W. asking Roderich's mother to, like, do the nasty with him."

"Eh?" Martin's (that was his name, right?) eyes widened "Is that so?"

"But have you seen Feliciano?"

Markus (it was Markus, wasn't it?) shook his silky head. "No. I think he went home sick, or something? In fourth period he said he had to go to the nurse's office, so Ludwig took him…"

"Thanks!" Feliks bent down to give Mike a European goodbye. The masses surely would have twittered, but thankfully Mohammed was invisible so no one except the recipient noticed the light kiss on the cheek. The recipient, however, noticed it very much, and blushed deeply.

"Feliciano…" He was most definitely not in the nurse's office. "Come out, come out, wherever you are…" Feliks snorted. You're one to talk, Feliks ma boy.

The nurse wouldn't lie to him, right? After all, she liked Feliks. He was her last resort when her eyeliner went askew – after all, her hands were unsteady. She needed to impress a certain heavy-browed Brit who often came to her office complaining of a cold. She was under the (very mistaken) impression that he faked the colds in order to see her. No. The nurse was being truthful.

So where the hell was Feliciano? It wasn't like him to skip class unless he'd totally forgotten that he had to go.

During desperate times like these, Feliks depended on advice from his hair-clip lending cousin, Elizaveta.

"Dear Feliks," she might have told him once. Then again, she might not have. On the other hand, she was a little shadier than she originally appeared. "If you're looking for a show, I know a place you can go. They go hardcore, and there's glitter on the floor."

Of course! The arts-and-crafts room! Feliciano did love drawing. He'd probably totally forgotten about school and gone to the arts room in order to practice his painting!

2010

FIFA World Cup: German and Italy never faced off. Thank God. The Hetalia fans would've been louder than the vuvuzelas.

"Feliciano! Are you alright?" Ludwig's usually stoic face was twisted in concern, his large hand gentle on the petite Italian's shoulder.

"Ve~? I'm not sick." Feliciano tilted his head happily. "Let's go and paint in the art room!"

"You can't just skip class!" The German's brow furrowed in frustration. Not anger. Never anger, not with Feliciano. He spun the Italian to face him, as if the force of his glare could knock some sense into that silly, silly boy. Unfortunately, the centrifugal motion seemed to make Feliciano giddy.

"Ludwig…?" Feliciano's mouth curled happily, his eyes shut, as ever, in some blissful dream. A delicate pink blush decorated his smiling cheeks. Suddenly that blush looked a little less innocent. Ludwig felt his insides curl in something that might have been anticipation. "Would you…model for me?"

Elizaveta was right. There was glitter on the floor, as well as other art supplies and body parts and unmentionable things. And it was hardcore. Feliks turned away from the little second-story window that looked into the art room, disgusted, and shimmied back down the tree. Not before he'd snapped a couple pictures for his cousin, of course. He didn't think he'd be able to look at them long enough to send them to her, though – who'd want to see their best-replacement-friend getting it on with their second-worst-enemy?

"Get out of the way ," Ludwig had said once with a casual fist to Feliks's face. "Don't you have a choir boy to be sodomizing?"

That sauerkraut-obsessed, beer-guzzling, totally un-fabulous bastard! He is such a fucking hypocrite! Feliks thought now, pummeling the base of the tree with self-righteous gusto. He has the gall to like totally condemn me for wearing a skirt (which is NOT a sin by the way) and then go and…!

Feliks settled for expressing his anger by sending a text to his once-friend, the treacherous Feliciano. Though if he had judged the situation correctly, it would be quite a while yet for his text to be returned.

Dear Voyeuristic Cousin Elizaveta,

The German and the Italian. Like, in the art room. With a paintbrush.

Love, Feliks

Dear Hyperbole-Prone Feliks,

Pics or it didn't happen.

Love, Elizaveta

Dear St. Elizaveta Aquinas,

Unfortunately, totally pics AND it happened.

Love, Feliks

[IMG_HOLYSHIT and IMG_OHGODMYEYES and IMG_THATSFUCKEDUP sent to SomloiGaluska69]

Dear My Best Friend Forever Feliks,

ILU!

Love, love, love, Elizaveta

P.S. I will make you paprikás to express my gratitude.

In the end, he couldn't send an angry text to Feliciano. What was he supposed to say? That loving someone you shouldn't was wrong? That Feliciano was desecrating the name of the Church as well as the art room? That you shouldn't skip class to do the nasty with your sort-of-friend's second-worst-enemy? That, to be honest, he couldn't stand the texture of panna cotta?

They were all hypocrites.

They would turn their back on their values and convictions as soon as abandon their best friends. They were fickle, adolescent fair-weather friends. Feliks's temple throbbed, that Russian wound opening again to trickle a tiny trail of blood down his face. That morning, that water fountain incident…that was the last straw. It was time to stop dwelling on his former best friend, stop hoping that Liet would come to his senses…obviously Liet was a poisonous friend, a back-stabber, a cruel human being who had no empathy and was not worthy of Feliks's time.

Next Up! Angst and snowballs, vodka, and a kiss.