friday night arrives without a suitcase, sunday morning creeping like a nun;

[inuyashacooks]

title: Gakuen Disaster! [chapter 1/?]
main character(s)/pairing(s): ensemble; America/England, Spain/Romano, Germany/Italy
this chapter: England, America, Germany, Italy, France, Spain, Romano, Austria, Hungary, Prussia, Sweden, Finland, Egypt, Switzerland, Turkey, Greece, cameos by others; slight America/England, Spain/Romano, and Germany/Italy; implied Spain/France and Austria/Hungary
rating: PG-13
summary: You know when schools tout themselves as having a "broad and diverse campus" which "respects and considers" the opinions and beliefs of all its students? This is the failure that occurs when you carry that mentality a little too far. [GAKUEN AU]
this chapter: And so the disaster begins. England is not pleased to find out who his new roommate is. Meanwhile, Germany is condemned introduced to Italy by means of a newly-installed vending machine.



CHAPTER ONE
☆Rough Indeed, A Hypocrite Sweetness/ Amor, Like Iron On the Teeth and Harder

England was always a storm at the beginning of school; one smaller type of hurricane, would tear through things with rapid, precise method befitting of a Student Council President. First and foremost, he’d take his belongings to his room, observing what had changed over the summer. New flooring, ah, right; fresh paint one shade-off covering chipping spots on the walls. He didn’t pay much attention to anybody around him because he really didn’t care how anybody was, or any of that nonsense: it wasn’t as though he considered any of these morons his friends.

-Well, some of them were alright. “England!” Portugal called from some paces away, that little pip of excitement traceable like thin silver in his voice; “How are you? How was your summer?”

England whipped around, with a frown, impatient eyes, a little spark; “Fine, and yours?”

“Good, good!”

“Ah, then,” England answered, making a hand gesture, and turned away.

-Some people were passing by and some were going forward; people with boxes and trunks. Sweden passed by indifferently with a lamp in his hand. Cuba and Puerto Rico and D.R. were hanging around, suspiciously, making joker comments in Spanish as England walked by. England just rolled his eyes and kept on. There was just that atmosphere of happy chaos graying, falling down like secondary music.

Right, so; he was in room 36, and that wasn’t too far away. China stomped down the hall, talking, “THIS IS RIDICULOUS, ARU!”- presumably from the direction of his dorm. England watched him go with a measured interest. On one hand, he was hoping he would have a roommate who wouldn’t bother him too much; on the other hand, he was absolutely sure that he couldn’t have any worse roommate than last year. Honestly- France, of all frogs. In any case he knew that administration would reward him for last year’s suffering...he should be canonized for having put up with that...

The grayness filtering like dust through the window was broken by clear rays of light. Brightness crossed his eye...turned a corner, and he immediately got the feeling that something was quite wrong.

The first warning sign was that there was a crowd of people surrounding one of the doors in the hall. While asshattery like that wasn’t abnormal in this school, it just struck him oddly- like an omen, a bad premonition. His frown deepened; he pressed on.

...Then there was the realization that the cluster was not a group of students. It was...a group of hefty, older men. England’s eyebrows furrowed and he wondered just what was going on in the hall, and wait- 30, 31, 32...wasn’t this the hall where his room was?

...And wasn’t that his room?

“’Scuse-me,” one of the men said behind him, sounding obnoxiously bored. England looked behind him, muttered an, “oh,” and stepped aside. The man was...carrying a large TV. A very large TV, actually- there was another man carrying the other side.

Movers? Was this a goddamn joke? Who the Hell needed movers to move into a goddamn dorm?

“Yep! Right there’s good! Good job, guys! What’s next?”

England froze, all his blood turned to ice- the sudden whirling carnival numbness rocketed through his brain, it was like he was seeing everything with excruciating clarity; he knew that voice. That high-pitched, obnoxious voice.

He moved as though under a spell, hands feeling useless at his sides. God, maybe he was just counting wrong, maybe it was another room...and now he stood before the door.

Several standard items of furniture had been moved out and replaced with bigger, more obnoxious counterparts- a stereo system and a television, a new chair, an archaic-looking scale. Posters in primary colors, a blonde shock in the middle of the room. “Right!” America said, hands set on his hips, eyes positively fucking sparkling as he observed his work, “This looks about right! Now I can actually be comfortable in here! This room looks suitable for a HERO! Thanks guys!”

England shook his head, trying at once to banish all the exclamation points in America’s speech, and to deny, deny, that this was fucking happening. He dropped his things at the door; America’s eyes on him.

“ENGLAND!? I’m sharing a room with you!?” he asked, incredulously, and then he assumed his justice grin, “Oh well, I guess I’ll have to deal! Like what I’ve done, huh?”

And he said that as though there was nothing wrong; his smile didn’t even falter.

England couldn’t tell if it was red he was seeing or some other color equally violent. “Goddammit, not YOU!” he exclaimed, as though he was correcting some mistake of creation, “This is fucking ridiculous! What the Hell are you doing in my room, you- you obnoxious hamburger!” he shouted, fists balling indignantly.

“Hey, this is my room! And F.Y.I., I really don’t mind being called a hamburger!”

“Of course you wouldn’t- you’re just an idiotic hamburger!”

America sighed and rolled his eyes. “Ah, of course you’re acting like this about it. You know, I kinna knew you would,- but y’know, you shouldn’t yell so much, at your age you’ll have a heart attack-”

“You asshole! I’m two years fucking older than you! Although I shouldn’t expect you to be able to count, should I?” England snapped.

“Oh, here we go,” America replied, “Jeez, you would think that- you’d think that you’d try to make this easier and just-” his eyes were on England’s, no longer smiling; frown like rain- he pushed his glasses up- “just get over it.”

England’s teeth grit together- just get over it, the fucking idiot said. “You’re- intolerable!” he said, throwing his hands up; and then, turning swiftly, tore away.

He heard America clamor over unpacked things as he left; he heard the mercurial brightness of his voice, calling, whipping silver as he hung out of the door frame- “Where are you going now?”

England didn’t bother to turn around. “To try and see if I can’t get rid of you!”

“Sheesh! So mean! Don’t forget your walker!”

“Shut up, you overgrown child!”

“Old man!”

“Fat moron!”

England hadn’t noticed that people nearby had come out of their dorms, to see what all the noise was about; nor did he notice that the movers had all become suddenly uncomfortable, caught tarrying in explosion of words, machine-gun language (it was stupid, comedic, but it had the underlying feeling of a dark torrent; the full bruise of a shared history gone wrong)- he walked down the halls under a spell of tunnel-vision. Those rays of light shone by his eyes, made his vision dark in their brightness...

When the thought had passed his mind that his new roommate couldn’t be any worse than France had been last year, he had obviously not thought of America. America, with his stupid smile and ignorance and idiocy- America, the one person- yes, even over France- who he had sworn to always hate, and to never forgive.

“Oh, it can’t be all that bad,” France said, leaning back in his chair in that way of his that was so fuckin’ French that England wanted to punch him. “I think you’re just overreacting,” France continued, waving his fork at England and then popping his food in his mouth in an extremely superior way.

England leered at France, scowling. “Why is it that whenever I’m miserable you happen to be nearby?”

France smirked. “Who knows? Most likely it’s because I’m like an angel of goodwill, appearing wherever sorry caterpillar-eyebrowed orphans are having a bad time.”

“...Angel of goodwill! That’s fucking disturbing,” England spat. “And besides, you have no fucking idea whether or not it is ‘that bad.’ For your information, it’s fucking...” He sighed, agitated; chewed over his last thought with a crude bite of his dinner.

France rose his eyebrows. “Be that as it may,” he said, leaning over and taking England’s drink, “It’s not an excuse to spike your soda.”

“...How did you...”

“I have eyes everywhere, cheri.”

“...God, isn’t that illegal?”

“Hm? Why would it be illegal? Not at all, I’m the world’s big brother- I need to keep an eye out,” France reasoned.

England got up from his seat, taking his things with him (in his agitation, looking rather like a huffy little bird). “Shut up, frog. Besides, I’m done- I had to eat my entire meal in your disgusting presence. I’ll go throw up now.”

France got up, following suit; didn’t take his garbage but left it there because he was French like that. “Shall I walk you back to your room, Angleterre?” he asked, running his hand along England’s shoulders.

“Kindly-get-the-fuck-off-me,” England answered, pronounced behind his teeth- he turned around and smacked France’s hand away from him. “And don’t follow me, you fucking git, or else I’ll call the fucking police.”

France shrugged. “I’ll risk it!” he said, with a dashing wink.

“Shit, haven’t you got that moron Spain to distract you!”

“Not at the moment- if I did, why would I be with you, of all fleas?”

“Shut up!”

And so France followed England back to his dorm room; the halls were only half-lit, giving it the atmosphere of a luminous shell- shadows of trees- shadows at angles. They passed insults back and forth like it was tennis, not really giving any thought or energy to the exchange. France’s dorm room was actually sort of near to England’s (around that same corner, further down) and France insisted on seeing England to the door, not because he was a Gentleman Who Was Interested in England’s Safety but because he knew it would annoy England.

“Go to your own room, goddammit,” England said, punching France in the shoulder.

France’s expression was cross as he pushed England forward; England stumbled, tripped ahead. “I’m walking you to the door, mon chou, so that you may pretend somebody cares about you.”

“Well, I don’t need anybody to-” but England stopped mid-sentence, perking his head up. “Oi, what’s that?”

France paused; eyes drifted, as though to follow the sounds. He smiled, slowly. “It seems,” he said, directing his glance to England, “That it’s loud, obnoxious music.”

England paused, and then let out a loud, agitated sigh. “That had- had better not be coming from my fucking room.” They listened in silence- a loud thump of bassline and rush of rhythm, and a completely off-key, high voice singing along- a voice like what you’d hear if you could make a high-energy bomb out of a fucking star or something. England’s shoulders sank in complete dejection as it was confirmed that, yes, it was coming from his room.

“I think America, for all his talk, truly is my hero,” France said, with a broad smile; England looked up at him sharply. “I’ll have to send him a thank-you note. Well, ciao, Eyebrows! Sweet dreams!” And with a cloud of glitter and a showy gesture, he was gone down the hall.

England didn’t even have enough energy to retort. He stood outside his door, feeling caged by the bassline, feeling like he was the sole object of a song called “FUCK YOU, ENGLAND,” and it was playing just beyond the door. He strongly considered paying whoever was dorming with Japan to let him dorm with Japan instead- Japan, polite, quiet, easy to get along with (well, European students found it easy to get along with him, anyway). But then he remembered that Brazil was dorming with Japan, and America and Brazil dorming together would be an explosion of fucking cheer that nobody in this world needed. And to a degree, England was the responsible sort who would not allow that to happen.

So, collecting all his malice and bitterness, England twisted the doorknob and burst into the room, and as soon as he did he was assaulted by a rising horn line and a beat like lightning crashing through his ears- then a fucking chorus- England covered his ears. “What the fuck are you listening to!?” he shouted, just a decible over the music.

America was sitting on the floor between the two beds, looking over some homework, or magazines, or something; he looked up, bright and happy, and upon seeing England his expression wilted like a dead flower. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. He reached for the remote and lowered the volume a bit.

“Well, who the fuck else were you expecting?” England snapped. He walked into the room like an animal out of its habitat- worrying that there would be traps and things set in the room (France had done that last year- that day with the pie-in-the-face was really too much).

America was about to give a response, but paused- the voice, the lyric, out and over the speakers:

“Hot ho, you’s out control, if you think I’m pussyfootin’ t’ the pussy you’re a dope-head/ Don’t front like a rich centerfold, you ain’t hot enough for me t’ ditch my Polo wintercoat!”

England rolled his eyes. “Of course you’re listening to rap music, you fucking git.”

America frowned. “Sheeeesh, you’re just too old to understand! What’re you like, a hundred?” he paused, then motioned to the pulsing speakers. “This is where the sound comes out of-”

“Don’t treat me like I’m the stupid one, you fucking moron,” England said, kicking America in the side.

America looked up, frowning at England; then he reached out and grabbed England’s leg, so that his balance slipped- he fell to the floor, sort of sitting on his side. “Don’t kick me! Jeez, I’m sorry I don’t like things like knitting and shit.”

England grit his teeth; shifted a little bit, the strongly defiant look never leaving his eyes (America wondered how he had so much energy, that he could always fight him like this; always fighting, that made America tired). Then he got up, dusting off his uniform. “There is nothing wrong with knitting,” he bit out. He set his hands on his hips, looking down at America disapprovingly. “Anyway, shut this garbage off- I’m going to sleep.”

“Pffft, why would I? What, are you just too English for music?” America asked, with a laugh.

“What! Don’t be stupid. Shut it off,” England said, with a very measured expression, with the tone of a prefect or a commanding officer.

“Of course not!” America said, jumping up, laughing brightly; one long easy movement, he was up on his feet- he smiled unabashedly to England- some bright touch of cold or silver. It did nothing but twist England’s stomach in revulsion, to think that America could smile that way, even after all this distance and silence.

“Well, you fucking idiot, if that’s on, I won’t be able to sleep,” England said, averting his eyes from America’s; he crossed the room, sat on the foot of his bed.

“Really?” America asked, with a slight smile across his features; “I don’t mind noise, not at all!”

“Of course not, you’re ridiculous.”

“I mean, I’ll shut it off though,” America went on, “Because I know that, like, at your age, it’s hard on your sensitive old-people ears.” He looked at England; England grit his teeth, and America just shrugged. “Your ears are only finely tuned to the sound of bingo and the wild call of buffet happy hour-”

A snap of sound or light: “Sod off then, moron! I don’t care! Fuck you and your horrible music,” England answered; and the effect of the words- the tone of them- was stranger than what he’d actually said. He’d said it with a sudden violence of feeling, as though it was something he’d been holding back (feeling, surging red from up a well)- said it with a half-hearted anger and a tone of finality. The suddenness of it put America out, changed the charge from bright to blue. England turned away, movements blithe; he paused.

America sighed and shrugged, seeing that as the end. He sat back down by his trinkets and magazines, and leaned his head back against his bed, watching England out the corner of his eye.

England took off his blazer, folded it and hung it over a nearby chair. He started to unbutton his shirt, but then turned wildly around to America, expression paled- as though the act of taking off his shirt was an estimable danger that he had just narrowly passed. America watched him in confusion as he looked about the room, like scanning for a place to hide.

And a place to hide it was; he crossed the room in his usual stormy fashion (all the gray violent whips of rain in his arms, the lightning in his eyes) and opened the closet door. He looked at it, measuring space; and then he promptly stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

America paused; and then he couldn’t help but just let out a laugh, eyes glued on the closet door. “What are you doing?” he asked, on a wave of laughter.

“Changing, you fucking idiot!” came the muffled reply; sound of movement, and then- “I’m not going to change in front of you!”

America laughed, shaking his head. “Man.”

England emerged from his makeshift dressing room rather haughtily (as haughty as one could be in his pajamas), and then crawled into bed, throwing the covers over his head, a shield against the assault of sound. He under the sheets, light barely filtering through, and America on the floor, steadily working his way through a big cup of coffee, looking over
his things on the floor. All artificial lights, and there was the echo, the sound of distance buzzing between them. For all their quips, exchanged insults, yelling and laughing, they weren’t close. It was sad as plastic, fake, the thief’s imitation of knowledge. They knew each other before, a long time ago. It wasn’t like this.

It seemed comical because of the circumstances, because of the way the scene arranged itself. Loud R&B music over the stereo, a pervading buzz of light, one kid on the floor sorting through myriad things, the other under the covers like an indignant child. Two children, sulking as though it was the end of the world- a joke, yeah, but to laugh would have just cracked ya bones, because this stale tension couldn’t be cut.

It wasn’t an ideal way to start the school year. Well, anyway, it was normal for them. They hadn’t had to deal with this last year, or the year before- always in different classes, not in the same year, never having to see each other. After a couple of minutes, England was just about drifting off to the weird-ass lullaby of “Girl I got that dope dick, now come
’ere, lemme dope you,” and America was looking at a brightly-colored glossy page as though it was a deck of cards, the gambler’s future. Stale lights, and they were apart but they both thought the same thing (though, for each of them, the thought was different in its tones and cadences)- when did he get this way? what happened to him?

The heat of the sun and dust mingled lazily together, could choke a sleepy mind. Almost everybody in the room seemed to be in a pop inertia, a state of brain degeneration. This was a couple of days after classes had started, and it had already taken on that familiar feeling- slow and painfully predictable.

It was Western Europe Class. The way the regional classes worked was this: regardless of what year you were in (Freshman, Junior, etc.), you were grouped with students from the same region as you. There you learned about the region, its history, the way the countries therein interacted with each other, and (and this was always the part taught at the end of the year) “how to make the world a better place.” Nobody paid much attention to the classes, and in some cases students didn’t get along precisely because they were in the same region (e.g., France and England in Western Europe Class, Russia and Everyone in Eastern Europe Class), but it was an okay enough system.

The regional classes were always pretty much the same. It’d be a drawling lecture from the front, sun and sleep pounding in your brain, and all the students sitting around idly ’cause they figured they knew better than the lesson (this was the case especially in Western Europe Class; everybody in Western Europe Class was arrogant).

In particular, this was West Europe Class: half-thinking blazers, glazed-over eyes. Check one teacher up front, monotone voice, book in one hand and chalk in the other. A general haze of inattentiveness, save for two students: England, always sitting near the front, leaning slightly, intently forward, eyes sharp and chin resting in hand, very scholastic looking on the outside but you could tell from his eyes that he planned to use these lessons for some whiplash wicked plans; and Germany, always sitting toward the back, eyes alert and posture rigid straight, tapping his pen on his desk in a brainfluid rhythm.

Also toward the back were France, Spain, and Romano, always sitting together and conversing freely for pretty much the entire class, as though it was a cafe. Usually halfway through the class one of four eventualities would happen among this group, as Germany observed: one- France’s hands would wander along Spain’s body with mysterious intent and Romano would throw a fit; two- France would drift off and write love-notes and then proceed to close his eyes and throw said note at any random desk while Spain and Romano carried on a conversation (always sounding secret and hushed, strawberry smiles and one-sided war); three, they would all get detention; or four, a miraculous mysterious combination of all preceding three.

Sitting closer to the front were usually Austria and Hungary. Austria would appear diligent but Germany knew him much better than that: for the first five minutes he would concentrate on the lesson, and then his attention would drift entirely (you could tell by the spacey look in his eyes). Hungary, on the other hand, should have been in the Eastern Europe Class, but had through some miracle (read: connections) managed to earn a spot in this class (because nobody wanted to be in Eastern Europe Class). She would try to be attentive, but Germany noticed that at some point during every class she would either start looking at Austria with
an expression that Germany didn’t understand (like being on the outside, looking in), or she would try to steal glances at France and Spain’s weirdness by ever-so-casually dropping her pen in that direction about 20 times.

Aside from them, it was more of a quiet rebellion. Portugal would stare dreamily in England’s direction or discreetly throw things at Spain. Switzerland would take down the notes and interpret them for Liechtenstein, to the point of giving his own private lesson, and then get dangerously annoyed when told to stop talking. A couple of other kids would just drift on, or be listening to music or doodling or making paper planes or something.

Despite the general disconnectedness of the class, though, paying attention was usually easy. France, Spain, and Romano were easy to ignore, and France didn’t harass Germany too much. Prussia only elected to come to class once in a while (“I’m too fucking awesome for school, brosky”), and even then, his chaos was easily subdued if Germany yelled at him well enough. So it was generally easy to concentrate in this class.

Except, if it was so easy to concentrate, why was he having so much damn difficulty?

Words jumbled in his mind; he’d look down at his paper and then realize he’d written nothing, and then have to scribble the notes furiously before the teacher erased them from the blackboard. All his thoughts were interrupted by- a distinct high whining tone, and phrases repeated, complaints on loop.

For what must have been the fourth time during the period, Germany sighed heavily (like letting off static; fumes, crowded electricity going nowhere) and folded his hands...closed his eyes, and then he heard the words again:

“Ve, I’m hungry!...Hey Romano...Romanoooo- do you have a snack?”

It was other Italy brother.

And. He. Was. Always. Hungry.

Germany was more comfortable sitting in the back because firstly, he was farsighted and it was easier for him to see the blackboard that way, and secondly, if he sat in the back and not in the front, it would give Austria less of an opportunity to mooch off him for notes and pens and other things that Austria was forgetful of. Sitting in the back meant that he was sitting close to France, Spain, and Romano because they all never wanted to pay attention and the back was the best place to do just that. In turn, that meant that Germany was sitting close to Italy. Oftentimes, he and Italy would sit directly next to each other, making Germany the private audience to a forty-five minute showing of the “Ve Ve I’m Hungry!” variety special.

Germany closed his notebook slowly, painfully, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate for the rest of the class. He looked over to Italy, sitting next to him. He was now sprawled over his desk, leaning and reaching to get France’s attention:

“Hey hey, France! France!” he whispered rather loudly.

“Hmm? Ah, Italy! Qu’est-ce qui se paaaasse?” France replied, not bothering to even pretend to whisper, flashing a smile and practically dangling off the back of his chair.

“Do you have anything to eat? Gum? Tater tots?”

“Oh, no, sorry, petit. How about I treat you to lunch to make up for it?”

“Okay!”

Germany let out a barely audible scoffing sound in irritation. He knew that he could very easily move to the front and be done with all the complaining, but it actually starting to bother him now. Why was this kid always hungry? Didn’t he eat anything for breakfast? Or if he was that hungry, and knew he was always hungry around the same time, why didn’t he bring something to eat himself? His brain had even embarked
on the ridiculous notion that Italy had a really horrible home situation and they beat him up and didn’t let him eat- but then he remembered, dammit, Italy dormed, like everybody else dormed. So what was the problem then? His questions went unanswered; Germany tested out myriad possibilities in his mind, but none of them seemed to make sense...

Well, it was good that class was almost over. In an unusual turn of events, Prussia showed up, wearing his own personal uniform, shirt undone, hair uncombed, just generally looking like a juvenile mess. He opened the door without knocking, and walked by the front of the room whistling an obnoxious tune; England shot him an irritated look and Prussia just nodded at him. “Yo, what the fuck’s up?”

The teacher glanced at Prussia with an impassive expression. “Well, Mr. Beilschmidt, it was nice of you to show up to class today.”

“Yeah, I thought it’d be pretty awesome of me,” Prussia answered haughtily.

“Oh sit the bloody Hell down,” England cut in, giving his desk an impatient tap.

“Sit down or I’ll make you sit down,” Switzerland chipped in from his desk.

“You idiot,” Austria added, quite constructively.

So Prussia took his seat, directly in front of Germany and next to France and Spain, and the class rode out on a note of washed-away, stupid simplicity. The teacher barely managed to finish the lecture when the bell shrieked out. Everyone got up slowly, collected themselves and started off. France strung an arm around Italy and whisked him off in a dashing, flashy manner. Germany collected his things and he and Prussia walked out together.

“Holy crap that was so boring Weesssst,” Prussia whined, throwing his head back.

“...you were there for five minutes,” Germany answered, deadpan.

“Five minutes too long! Let’s go fuck shit up,” Prussia suggested, slinging an arm around Germany.

Germany sighed, shrugged out of Prussia’s grasp. “No, I’m going to my next class now...you should head to class, too.”

“Pff-fff-fft,” Prussia replied, with a condescending laugh. “I don’t have class.”

“I’m sure,” Germany answered, opening the door for both of them; and then they walked outside- in a small half-closed corridor, leading from the main building to the annex. Germany gave Prussia a sparing glance. “Regardless, be careful how many classes you miss- you came too close to repeating Junior year, so just watch for that, okay?”

“Psh, alright, alright, Mom,” Prussia said, suddenly disquieted; then he reached over and stole Germany’s glasses from their place in the pocket of his blazer- put them on before Germany could protest, saying, “Look at me, I’m West, I’m too fuckin’ serious and I have stupid hair-”

“Knock it off,” Germany bit, curtly, reaching over to get his glasses, but Prussia evaded him slimly.

“-and I’m an underage drinker-”

“S-so are you! And don’t say that so loud!” Germany answered, flustered, words drowned out by Prussia’s cackling. Germany managed to get back his glasses while Prussia was distracted by his own self-absorption; but for some reason, as he took them, something caught his eye over Prussia’s head...something red, white, and glowing electrically. A vending machine? A maintenance man was hooking it up around the back...

“They’re installing vending machines now?” Germany asked, nodding toward it.

Prussia paused and then looked over his shoulder, grinning. “Oh yeah! I forgot t’ say, that’s why I was late- it’s fucking awesome!” He walked over toward it, dragging Germany along as he went. “Look at this- so much shit! Soon as they send us our allowance I’mma buy like the whole fuckin’ thing...”

Prussia prattled on, chattered away about how he was going to wreak havoc on the vending machine, while Germany skimmed over the selection- eyes still serious, as though he was taking notes. It was oddly varied, to the point of being almost random. He contemplated it for a few more seconds before they started off again.

“That’s pretty awesome, huh?”

“Hmm,” Germany agreed.

And another morning in Western Europe Class, another lesson settling like a cloud of dust on the mind. England was participating in a class discussion that pretty much only included himself. Switzerland had accidentally sat down next to Austria but was too proud to move his chair, so they sat in ineffable silence, thick as cold metal.

Both France and Spain were mysteriously very tired, but very happy- and Romano’s lightning eyes snapped at the sight, the implication. So he and Spain carried on yet another one-sided argument: Romano hissed insults toward Spain’s desk, but Spain just laughed and cooed and give Romano promising, cool touches- to which Romano responded with “You bastard,” not pulling away. France meanwhile took a nap in his seat (head tipped back all the way, mouth wide open, snoring unabashedly). Business as usual, so Germany was rather content in his place, taking down notes and listening to England’s diatribe at sporadic intervals.

England was going on and on about how Charlemagne was such a bastard, pretty much taking full advantage of France’s nap in order to rape French history with his very steely, very precise English rhetoric. Germany wondered absently how long they’d been here, and it was when his eyes drifted up toward the clock that he heard the first utterances of “Romano!...Romanoooo...ve, Romano...” whispered loudly across the desks.

Italy was sprawled across his desk, halfway out of his seat, reaching to tap Romano on the shoulder...but Romano didn’t hear- he was in the waves of what seemed to be only a cheerful speech on Spain’s part but was actually the hypnotic sun in his smile- and besides, Italy couldn’t reach Romano’s shoulder. He fell back in his seat dejectedly...Then, feeling a hollow rattling in his stomach, started to cup his hands around his mouth to wake up France- but he felt somebody touch his shoulder quietly, and so he turned around, expression curious.

Germany and Italy exchanged a puzzled glance for a moment; Italy tipped his head questioningly, but then he noticed Germany’s hand stretched out toward him...he was holding out a chocolate bar. Wrapped very simply, a cheesy slogan in white writing on the covering. Germany’s face was indifferent, impassive, even a bit annoyed, but Italy saw beyond that.

And taking the chocolate bar without question, Italy flashed a smile of certain brilliance that left a hollow cold in Germany’s mind, blank and pulling strong waves like a magnet...it didn’t flash like that kid America’s, not tacky and cheerful...but just very- warm...his eyes, usually lazy, were suddenly high as honey, and...

Italy unwrapped the chocolate bar with haste and tossed the wrapper on the floor. Germany blinked, feeling something in his brain trigger like a time bomb or a color gun, and suddenly he was wondering what had just knocked his thoughts off-course. And then a cold feeling washed over him, because he suddenly got the feeling that he had just signed a strange agreement that he could never get out of, and that he was really done for.

Already he was feeling the terms of that tacit contract. The next day, passing by the vending machines on his way to class, he figured that it would be too annoying to hear Italy whining, so Germany elected to buy something for him again. The day after that, he wasn’t sure if Italy’d be bright enough to buy something on his own or if he’d have enough money, so he bought something for him. And Thursday after that, and Friday after that, and Monday, too...

Tuesday, he was walking with Austria and Hungary; he’d initially had the intent of walking Austria to his class because Austria couldn’t do anything himself, and then Hungary joined the group. They walked together to the annex- Austria and Hungary had a World Religions class there; Germany had Math- and after those classes, they went to West Europe Class together.

You could feel the day in the passage connecting the annex to the main building- fluorescent fall with all its brightness sinking into your eyes, nose- white light hitting off the dying grass. In the morning light the face beyond the mask was visible. Austria was as usual immaculate (some people- read: Prussia- preferred to refer to it as “fab-u-lousss”), fresh as morning dew with a cool, apathetic expression on his face. Hungary and Germany looked fine except they were a little dead in the eyes, Hungary because it was too damn early, and Germany because he had to walk Austria everywhere.

Passing the vending machine, Germany remembered that he hadn’t bought anything for Italy today. “Hold on a second- sorry,” he said, going over to the machine. Austria and Hungary watched him curiously. “Go ahead, if I’m holding you up.”

A cross frown shadowed Austria’s mouth; he pushed his glasses up. “Germany, if you’re hungry, you should make sure you eat a decent breakfast- not fill yourself with garbage.”

Germany turned to Austria with an irritated expression. “It’s not for me,” he answered.

Austria rose an eyebrow; Hungary giggled. “Oh? You got a girlfriend, Germany?”

Germany turned around to look at her, thoughts suddenly blanked. He was about to say something when- out of nowhere- he felt somebody rush by him and punch him in the stomach. His attention snapped up immediately (always quick-reflexed, always alert); Prussia was next to him, sudden as turning on the light. “Better not eat too much, brosef!” he said with a grin, “You might end up lookin’ like a goddamn Teddy Graham!”

Germany knocked Prussia off him and tried to reach out to catch him by the collar, but, as usual, Prussia was just that much too quick for him (just by one slim margin of time); he ran off chanting “Kesesesesese!”

“Hey! Where are you going?” Germany called.

“Your mom’s house!”

Germany’s mouth flatlined; to stir him out of his reverie, Austria said, “I’m truly sorry for you.”

Germany said something like “it’s nothing,” and they started off again; but Prussia’s and Hungary’s words, though disconnected, had cleared his mind completely. It was suddenly like Germany was seeing the situation with Italy correctly, and now he felt stupid. This was just stupid- he and Italy hadn’t spoken to each other at all, except for Italy’s “thank you!” and Germany’s nodded response; they didn’t even know each other. He wasn’t even paying him back for it, and Germany started to mentally calculate how much he had spent in his head because he was precise like that. Seriously, if this kid was too short-sighted to get his own food, he’d either have to deal with it or start paying Germany back (in this reasoning, Germany again completely missed the point: the point was that it wasn’t his problem to begin with and he should just remove himself from the situation).

So, in class, he just handed Italy the usual chocolate bar and didn’t say anything more (even though, after he had left the class, he’d realized there was a certain look on Italy’s face- like he wanted to speak, or something). He decided not to think of it; surely Italy’d find out there was a vending machine, so that was that.

The dorm arrangements were a funny thing. Sometimes you got a perfect match, like France and Spain (which, albeit perfect for them, was undesirable for the rest of humanity, especially at night- but there, we have a digression, a story later to be told); sometimes, you got a horrible match, like England and America. And still other times you got the pair that seemed to have been picked by administration at a blind grab-bag party.

That was Egypt and Germany. Not that Germany particularly minded sharing a room with Egypt. Egypt was quiet and easy to get along with because he always seemed to be in a state of observance (like a cat, or something)- simply put he didn’t much do anything, therefore he didn’t garner a positive or negative reaction from Germany. When they’d first started to share a dorm, Germany had asked him, “Do you talk?...At all?” but he quickly grew used to the silence.

This morning, Egypt was sitting on his bed cross-legged, uniform blazer at his side; he was doing that thing that he did sometimes where he would just watch Germany, and there was something reproachful about it that made Germany nervous. It was like a cop looking at you when you’re already on their shitlist. He managed not to be bothered by it and, ready for breakfast, started out the door...

Only to find someone already standing on the other side. Posture of lazy sun, auburn hair and one spinning curl, movements full of scattered energy- it was Italy. Germany frowned in confusion- why was he in front of his door? Was that just a coincidence? Or was he looking for Egypt?

He’d go with the latter. “Egypt is in the room,” he said, gesturing in back of him.

Italy moved past him, near him, and looked inside. “Yeah- he is!” he said, with an enthusiastic nod, as though affirming some witty insight.

Germany blinked. What...?

“Bongiorno! How are you?” Italy asked, touching Germany’s shoulder mysteriously.

Germany paused; he shifted at the touch, posture rigid. “...I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Right! I woke up this morning and I was like, it’s a great day out! Sunny! It’s good! I figured we should go to breakfast together today, Germany,” Italy answered, making another mysterious gesture; and then, without warning, he took Germany’s wrist and literally started to pull him out of the room. “We should get to know each other, right? I’m Italia Veneziano- I’m uh- I guess I’m just silly and I love pasta! And girls- and the sun. I’m also hungry. Ve, and how about you Germany?”

“...-I-...eh...I’m Germany...just Germany and...” Germany couldn’t think of anything better to say; his words were tangled on his tongue and he couldn’t translate speech from his own brain. “..And I’m also hungry.” He coughed into his hand, a bit formally, and tried to tug his arm away from Italy.

But Italy didn’t give; he looked up to Germany and smiled brightly. “Ah, I’m hungry too! You know, Germany, I think you’re really a nice guy. I always thought you were kind of stuffy and uptight and scary, but you seem- oh Greece, good morning!” Italy said, interrupting himself to wave to Greece. Greece gave a lazy nod back. “-’Kay, bye! Anyway, you’re not as bad as you seem.”

Stuffy- uptight- scary- bad as he seemed? What did that even mean, was that even- Germany’s frown grew deeper. “-Why would you- please, I can walk on my own,” Germany said, tugging his hand away from Italy’s.

Italy looked up at Germany, as if Germany had just said something completely crazy- then he looked down to where his hand was clasped over Germany’s. “Ah! Mi dispiace,” Italy said, with a lilting laugh, holding up his hands. “Ah, look at the sun! What a nice day!” he continued, and strung his arm through Germany’s like that was preferable to holding hands.

“Wha-what are you doing!?” Germany barked, breaking from Italy quickly.

“Huh? What do you mean?” Italy asked, poking Germany’s arm; then he smiled. “Germany’s all red! Haha!”

At which point everyone in the hall turned around to Germany and Italy. And that included France.

“I- I- don’t say that so loud! And I’m- I’m not used to that! It’s not...” Germany tried to continue- but at Italy’s lazy, expression (uncaring sun across his face), he couldn’t think of anything to say. What would even get through to this guy? Germany sighed. “Just- don’t do stuff like that!” he said, clipping the words out curtly- an officer’s order.

“Ah, I see!” Italy answered, like that made any sense. “Okay, let’s go! I’m so hungry, veeee...”

And for some weird reason Germany didn’t feel like he had any choice; he followed Italy to the dining hall and had breakfast with him. And then after breakfast, they went to their first class together. And then after that, Italy went with him to West Europe Class (France looked toward them and smiled, slick, said “Ah, I would have never thought”). After that, Italy learned that Germany had third and fourth period without him and fell into such an inverted, blue-colored disappointment that Germany actually panicked. But no fear, because Italy was right there at lunch. The whole day was too sudden, a splash or burst of primary colors- Italy’s fast talking, random observations, clumsiness; Italy bothering him throughout an entire class; evil looks from Romano of all people, a Junior one year older than him who he’d never done anything to...too much, way too much.

Germany couldn’t sort it out in his head, whether or not he was okay with it; he couldn’t even tell what his own impression of Italy was, because he was overwhelmed, confused. Germany’s mind was highly methodical, linear, stuck and straight, so Italy’s behavior hit him too fast- chaotic, like the disruption of time into sunshine. He decided he would have to analyze it later (whatever “it” was), and folded the matter into a neat file for later reference.

It was later in the day- a quieter time, the sun was getting lower and the light was down from its buzzing. Italy was chattering about the important points of pasta because Germany had stupidly asked “What about pasta do you like so much?” as if he was asking about the pros and cons of a buying a new washer-dryer set. Italy had his blazer off, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up; Germany looked like one big right angle standing next to someone so lazy and slack. They were passing from the annex to the main building, and Italy’s eyes drifted to the vending machine.

“-Ah! That’s what I was going to say!” he exclaimed, interrupting himself mid-pasta-manifesto, “Don’t buy me the same thing next time?”

Germany paused- the request was...vaguely annoying to him. He frowned, sighed heavily. “Hey, don’t get used to me doing things for you- and besides,...” He paused again, mind suddenly on a new thought. “-You didn’t like it?”

“No, no! Of course I did! Grazie, thank you, I was always really hungry before I met you!” Italy said, waving his hands in nervous apology, not even stopping to think of how little sense that made. “It just gets boring, that’s all!”

“...Okay- hey, wait! Listen, you,” Germany said- his tone was frank, the cadence of his words staccato short. He turned Italy around by the shoulder so they faced each other. The expression on Germany’s face, stern, almost comically so; the expression on Italy’s, vaguely panicked at the sudden stop. “If you know where I’m buying this stuff- the candy, that is- why don’t you buy some yourself?”

Italy paused; twiddled his thumbs. “...Uh...because you do it for me...Sir?” he tried.

Germany shook his head. “Unacceptable,” he said, and it was curious to Italy that someone his own age should use a word like that. Germany sighed again- a burned gray, vaguely angry sound- and took Italy by the hand, tugging him over to the machine. “Here,” he said, “Buy something so I don’t have to do it later.”

“Oh. Okay!” Italy said, with a nod; he rifled through his pocket, and then looked back to Germany with a determined smile. “Can I have a dollar, Captain?”

“Here,” Germany said, handing Italy a bill, not even realizing that 1) the point was to save his money, and 2) it was extremely strange that his reaction had been so immediate.

“Grazie!” Italy answered. He slipped the bill in the slot, but the machine spat it back out scornfully twice because it was old and sorta crumpled. It processed it eventually, and, having paid, Italy stood before the vending machine, leisurely perusing the selection.

...Too leisurely for Germany’s tastes. “...Well?” Germany asked, folding his arms.

“Ve, I can’t really decide,” Italy hummed, “Twix? Or maybe chips? There’s so much! Did you ever notice how much is in this thing?”

“...Yes.”

“It’s so hard to decide!” Italy chimed; then he peered closer, pressed his nose against the glass. “I wonder if I could trick it into giving me a Twix and a Snickers bar,” he said.

And it was then that Germany’s patience snapped, and he shot his hand out to press any random button that would end this Ve-Ve-Indecisiveness. Italy looked at Germany curiously (Germany seemed to be reeling with some sort of nausea); but then a metal clamoring like a steel body swallowing, and Italy crouched down to retrieve his prize. He came back up, brushing his hair out of his face with a brisk, excited expression. “Wow! M&Ms! Good choice, Germany!”

Germany gave a weak nod and, as they walked back to the main building, tried not to think of how much he had just fucking failed. He distracted himself from said failure by asking candidly, without any real curiosity, what Italy was interested in. Italy started talking, but then Germany said “Besides pasta and girls,” and Italy had to rethink his answer. Well, he said, there was art and painting and movies and music and fashion, and he also liked espresso, biscotti, pizza, cars...Cars were of mutual interest, so they talked about that over dinner.

Germany felt a foreign compulsion to walk Italy back to his dorm room, so he did- surprisingly, Switzerland answered the door in pink pajamas, yelling, “Bring your damn key with you!” Ah, so Italy was always this way. Germany managed to leave with only some minor trouble (“Sleepover?- No, I have to- is that even allowed?”) and went back to his dorm, feeling stressed and tired and wholly confused.

He did a load of schoolwork to sort out his thoughts (the kind of work that Austria deemed “unnecessary” and that Prussia dubbed “fuckin’ retarded”); he washed up, took a shower...ran into France, Prussia, and Spain on his way back from the bathroom and was accosted. Then he came back to the room and found Egypt already there- looking at him like he knew something dark and cosmic that Germany didn’t know- the look of a fortune-teller. Germany frowned subconsciously- maybe he knew what it was all about...he decided to forget about it and got to sleep.

-Next morning, Italy was at his dorm room door, hands behind his back as he sung an early song. And just like that, Germany had become Italy’s automatic New Best Friend.

A quiet calm through the halls, a blue kind of buzz. England finished up some work early and decided to go down to the dining hall for dinner...feeling quite mindlessly alone, nobody coming and nobody going except Turkey, who passed him without greeting, whistling some Ayhan Asan song; with a certain inverted swagger, grinning cheap and cheeky like he was walking away from the scene of the crime. England frowned subconsciously but decided not to pay any attention- he probably only looked that way because he’d just finished harassing Greece.

Empty noise, electricity, stupidity. Nobody was really doing much, just hanging out. England ate alone and France attempted to start a food fight with him. Portugal asked him if he wasn’t lonely; England said, “No, I’m fine, thank you,” and Portugal walked away, romantic designs thwarted yet again. Japan was eating with Brazil and Taiwan; he passed England a couple of concerned glances (or what England could discern as concerned, anyway; you couldn’t tell, sometimes, with Japan). England’s eyes scanned around the room, and it registered that America was nowhere to be found- but why should he even fucking care? He dug an angry spoon into his custard and told himself again that he didn’t- solidified his anger, carved into it like it was made of stone.

-No matter. It was either raining or not raining outside, but whether that was true was irrelevant; all the rain was piling into the halls, a song like static. Some people were sitting around in the common room- Spain, Romano, France, Finland, and Sweden. England stopped in to make himself some tea, swift on the margin between conversation and indistinctness.

“-seen Turkey? I didn’t see Greece either.”

Finland lifted his head thoughtfully. “I think I saw them both a while back, I was passing the principal’s office because I had to give something to one of my teachers which was late but you know those things happen, anyway, they were both sitting in the principal’s office-”

“Both of them?” France asked, shadily.

“Yeah, they were sitting on one of the benches and Turkey said something about Greece drawing a mustache on his mask, and the principal was chewing them out- ”

“I win!” Spain suddenly said with electric fervor, jumping up from his place. “I knew it! Look, I won, Romano!”

“Ugh- shitty bastard,” Romano gritted out, twisting slightly in his seat to get something out of his pockets.

“Already? I thought they would last longer than that,” France mused; he paused, got out his wallet from his back pocket. “I have little to no faith in those two anymore; they have betrayed my optimistic expectations. Your prize, mon cher,” he said, waving some bills toward Spain.

“You had any faith in them to begin with?” England snorted, blowing cool air off the top of his tea.

“Not that much, no.”

“Thank you!” Spain said, taking his money with a bright grin.

“-Wait, you guys made bets on them?” Finland asked, with a slight laugh, nervous eyes.

“But of course! Those two are unaware that their ti feuds are simply for our monetary benefit,” France said, with something that seemed like a condescending chuckle.

Finland shook his head. “You guys,” he sighed; then he noticed Sweden shifting his balance beside him, and looked up.

“’Ere y’go,” Sweden said, holding out some money to Spain. Finland paled, with a surprised laugh; he recognized the expression on Sweden’s face as one of placidity, but to everybody else it looked like one of mysterious taut resentfulness, and the balance in the atmosphere shifted. England looked over to Spain with a crooked grin that seemed a bit forgiving (happy, on one hand, to have Spain at the mercy of Sweden, stupid flamenco dancing dolt; and, on the other hand, feeling a very Christian pity).

Romano muttered something in Italian with a panicked expression on his face, turning a bit, curving his posture a bit, as though to guard himself from Sweden. Spain laughed nervously, waving his hands and shaking his head. “Ah, no, that’s okay! You- you can keep it!”

“No,” Sweden clipped out, “I ’nsist.”

Spain gave another nervous chuckle and reached out for his money, like he was taking it from a rabid dog. However, much to everyone’s surprise, Sweden didn’t extract his rabid Swedish revenge, and the atmosphere seemed to sigh, the tension seemed to dissipate into a white calm.

“Well, you know, with those two,” France began, running his hand through his hair, “Such closeness- such hatred- is sure to mask another feeling that may be just as close as animosity.” His mouth crooked up into a shifty, subtle smile.

England rolled his eyes. “Oh, come off it- everything’s a goddamn poem to you, everything’s a goddamn mirror,” he said. He leaned against the counter, took a sip of his tea.

“What do you mean?” Spain asked, looking up to France. It sufficed to say that perhaps Spain was the only one in the room who was interested in France’s opinions.

“Well! What I mean is- what is the opposite of love?”

“Hate,” England called back, as though bored- like this was a movie he’d seen before.

France shook his head. “Pas du tout- the opposite of love is indifference,” he said, folding his arms; the look in his eyes with a certain knowing glint. “Because, in both love and hatred, some extreme type of caring is involved- some extreme concern. But to not even concern yourself with someone- that’s true distance!” he finished, making a short gesture.

Spain paused, thoughtfully; Romano seemed to take the words with a thief’s eyes, to hide them, clandestine, on the low. Finland smiled. “That’s actually really interesting,” he said, leaning forward, “You know, it could-”

“Oh, don’t encourage him,” England interrupted. He made an impatient sound; dumped the rest of his tea in the sink. “This brie-eating moron would only like to romanticize the story of Turkey and Greece. There’s nothing romantic in it, and nothing to analyze. The story is that Greece is an overly-sensitive prat, and Turkey’s an illiterate barbarian, and they just happen to live close to each other. That’s all.”

France’s laugh was like the last push of the lance- like a spark, and it made England immediately suspicious, a caught animal. “Oh, poor England,” he said, “You could learn something from me- perhaps it’s not just Turkey and Greece I’m speaking of.”

There was an uncertain pause; nobody quite knew what France was insinuating, but he sure as Hell was insinuating something. But there wasn’t much time to think about it, because, quick as a flash, England had darted over to France and given him a swift kick in the shin, and it erupted into a fistfight quicker than anyone could discern.

“LISTEN YOU FROG,” England said, teeth gritted, “You might want to think of taking the goddamn beret off your brain before you go and make stupid observations!”

“Aie! Not the hair, not the hair!”

“Hey, let’s wait a second here, don’t-” Spain had gotten out, getting up from his chair with concern- he attempted to peel England off of France-

“Don’t touch me, you goddamn salsa git!”

“Que!? Listen here-”

“Oh, belt up, Mister Invincible Armada!”

-And then Romano bolted up, his chair clattering with a violent noise. “Oi! Next word comes outta your gaddamn scone-eating mouth better be a fuckin’ apology!”

“Oh, and what’ll you do about it, macaroni boy?”

“-Shit, I never said I’d do anything,” Romano snapped, as though that was an actual comeback, and tucked himself away behind Spain. “Why dontchyou open your fucking ears...” he continued, and then went into a series of incoherent grumbles.

Sweden and Finland had ducked out of the room around the beginning of the fight; careful to miss the danger and all that jazz. France gave England a punch in the jaw, bruising blue stars in the back of England’s mind; but England retaliated with a smack on the face- Spain had been trying to pry England off France but now he was just pretty much cheering for France, and Romano was cursing them all- “You dumb fuckers!”-

And then, from the open door:

“What is going on in here?”

They turned; there were Austria and Germany- Austria looking on in distaste, Germany with an eyebrow raised. “You morons,” Austria added.

There was a pause; nobody really had an answer for that...the fighting halted; France and England’s hands dropped. Spain blinked. Romano’s frown deepened. England flushed red. “Well, you idiots, I’ll be off now,” he said with a nervous laugh, and straightened out his uniform. “I’ll, eh, well, good night,” he continued- he turned back, shot France, Spain, and Romano a dirty look, and blustered off down the hall, with their conversation trailing behind him, an echo in his ears-

“Oh, Austria! I won!”

“-You won...?- oh, really, now,” Austria said, sounding huffy and fussy, “I honestly can’t believe those two, sometimes. Well, how much do I owe you?”-

And off into pathways and annals. England was steadily flustered, a tick of irritation like a metronome coursing through his thoughts- but he thought he’d just forget it- but he thought it’d be best to brush it off After all, it happened all the time, it wasn’t like anything out of the ordinary had been said...perhaps he’d just go to sleep...

The wind outside seemed bright-colored beyond the darkness of the windows. Blue light, now. He turned off, back around that corner; he could hear music, vaguely, a little down the hall, and he started to feel a little defeated...

Closer to his room. He could hear it clearly- “But sex was on my mind for the whole damn route/ My mind was in a frenzy and a horny state/ But I couldn’t drop rhymes ’cause you couldn’t relate- you couldn’t relate.. ” A cool sound; a little bit like lounge electric- a guitar that spun this trapped feeling...

America was probably being stupid just beyond that closed door. But he didn’t feel like opening it- or dealing with it all...chords that slipped off like water. He was much too tired.

Stupid France- stupid America...England folded his arms, he could feel himself frown, all gray tumbling down. He couldn’t go in there and deal with all the arguing; so instead, he just slipped off, a little, leaned against the wall and didn’t think of much. The bassline shook and vibrated like low seismic waves, from the speakers, through the walls-

Through his pristine uniform blazer and to his bones. A naked branch shook outside, and he could feel that this school year was going to just be Hell- by God, did it have to be this overly cheerful, obnoxiously assertive, completely retarded McDonald’s-eating moron?

Yes, apparently, it had to be, and this was affirmed by the fact that, the next morning, England was jolted out of sleep by the sting of an atomic chord, blaring into his ears- and then the drums. By now he had bolted upright, looking around like what he was hearing might be gunfire. His nerves were rattled- he searched frantically for the source of the noise-

And his eyes rested on the blonde flash of America’s hair- through the ray of window light- as he danced around like a complete idiot, wearing nothing but his boxers- singing in his grating voice, “Blonde hair, good lookin’, tryina get me hooked-”

“What the fucking Hell!?” England shouted.

America whirled around to England, as though surprised his roommate would actually wake up if he played Chuck Berry at top volume at seven in the morning. “Oh, morning, England!” he shouted back over a guitar solo; he flashed a thumbs-up. “This is the best way to wake up in the morning, right!? You don’t need to thank me!”

And then he turned around and went back to his weird combination of dancing and getting dressed. “You should get up for classes already you lazy bum! Early bird gets the worm, right!?”

England shoved his face into his pillow and earnestly wished that he was dead.

NOTES;;

ahahahahahaha, this chapter was finished back in like november/december when i showed it to tupelo_thief, but i only put it up now XD

so basically the point of this whole story is to have it be as pointless and random as possible, with VERY LITTLE plot holding it together. very ossim.

ah and the title comes from Francois Villon's Ballade: A Samye.

songs mentioned were: Handcuff 'Em by 88-keys, Every Girl by Young Money, Electric Relaxation by A Tribe Called Quest, and Too Much Monkey Business by Chuck Berry. ah and that Ayhan Asan song vaguely mentioned? it's definitely Canim Cigerim, because that's how i fuckin roll.

thanks for reading! :D