1.

Bla Bla Bla, c'est pas important

'But you're a different colour.'

'Am I?' François asked, placing his fingertips gently against his cheeks. The budding stubble hissed as his fingers slid down his cheek. 'And is that a bad thing?'

Across from him, Alfred shrugged.

'Why did you mention it, then?'

Another shrug.

François smiled. Orange autumn sunlight filtered in through the blinds. They illuminated his brown eyes, highlighting the flecks of gold. Patience swam in his gaze. Alfred didn't seem to notice or care. He looked away from him.

'It's different from most of the people's I've seen here.' Alfred said.

He ran a hand over his pale forearm in demonstration. On his ring finger he wore a ring, the gold paint chipping off of the plastic. He occasionally ran his thumb along it or twisted it in his hands. He never took it off. Also, he never answered any of the questions clinging to it like fog.

François leaned forwards, placing his hands on the desk. 'You're a new student here. I know of your past. I'm not going to ask you about it. I think you've had enough trauma as it is. So, instead, I want you to ask me the questions.'

'That's fine.'

'What do you want to ask? About the school? About our disciplinary system?'

Alfred stared at him, scowling. 'Dis-dissiplanary?' He asked. 'What's that?'

'It's how we punish bad behaviour.' François said with a nod.

'Oh.'

'Do you want to know about it?'

'Not really.'

The poetry teacher in the 'ghetto' part of the city, could only press his lips together and nod. His dark hair, almost black, was tied back with a simple, flimsy white string. Alfred eyed it occasionally. He asked nothing. He mentioned nothing.

François grew bored of the silence. There were things to do, people to see. He also had to contact that author, Arthur Kirkland, about their business deal. François nearly forgot about Alfred before him until Alfred sat up suddenly, squinting. His eyes turned into blue slits.

'Can you see what that says?' François asked, pointing at the poster on the other side of the wall.

Alfred pulled his eyes away from the window, where he had seen a flicker of movement. His shoulders relaxed when he noticed the bird escaped from the canopy of trees. He squinted at the poster.

'Tr… ree…'

Alfred continued to move towards the poster, blinking hard. He attempted to read it. François urged him to walk up to it. Alfred stood up and walked towards it. Once he could properly see the poster, he attempted to read it. His voice began more confident. He read slowly, but he could read: most importantly.

'Try and you shall succeed. Dig your namely deeply enough in the sand, and even the ocean cannot ef—ef—f…?'

'Efface.' François gently interjected.

'Efface.' Alfred wet his lips, placing his hands behind his back. He was fifteen years old. Long scars were carved against the back of his flesh, hiding beneath the sleeves of his freshly cleaned sheets. His adoptive parents were kind.

'Go on.' François said.

'Efface it.'

'Now, read it all.'

Alfred read it all fluently, testing it a few times. The corner of his lips twitched in the danger of a smile. He looked at François who gave him an approving nod.

'Now all we need to do is give you some glasses. You can't seem to see well.'

Alfred pointed to his ear. 'But I already have a hearing aide.' The cream-coloured device stuck out of his ear, a thin wire curling around it and under his shirt. The battery was hooked to his belt loop.

'Glasses are for your eyes. Spectacles.'

Alfred raised his eyebrows. 'So I can see better?'

'Yes.'

'Oh.'

'Do you not understand what it's for?' François asked, surprise gripping his voice.

'No, I understand but…'

Alfred shifted uncomfortably.

'—but when I was there the people with glasses were the bosses. And the kids who came with glasses weren't allowed to do what we did because they could break. So I was afraid to need them. I thought the world was supposed to look fuzzy. Even when I look through glass and I see it better I still think it's not right.'

'Well, we're beyond that. You're safe now. I know you don't understand that yet, but soon you will. Give it time.'

Alfred said nothing.

'Do you want to play with your friends?' François asked.

Alfred shrugged.

'I'll ask you to come in the morning before school next week. First thing. Will you come?'

Alfred nodded stiffly.

'Good. Don't forget about it.'

Alfred left once he was dismissed. He didn't seem relieved or disappointed. He walked away without looking back. His shoes squeaked against the ground, his steps muffled. The door shut.

François leaned back in his desk. He placed his hands against his face. Tiny black and pale lines covered his brown skin, shifting as he moved his hands.

He wanted to be a teacher. His passion for poetry couldn't be stifled. To mix them was his dream. And here he was, with a teaching degree in both and a paying job to utilise it. He had to be happy. It, in retrospect, turned out the exact way he wanted it to.

No, not exact. It turned out pretty close, though.

The school he was teaching at was nowhere near the circle of schools he had wanted. He had dreamed of standing in the middle of a spiralling array of seats. The university students would file in, ready to listen to his advanced poetry lessons. The students would want to be there. They would do their work. He could grade harshly. He could make jokes.

Even teaching at a normal high school would have been fine.

This, what he had now, was not fine. He was in the poorer part of the country. He lived uptown. He had to make a commute to drive to these students who didn't care. He had to hear the giggly girls in the back laugh.

'Blah blah blah!' They would hiss.

He would try to ignore it. Tell himself these kids weren't going anywhere anyway.

And then he had to wonder why he got stuck here. Was it the colour of his skin? His heritage? His name was French, just like anyone else. When he applied they didn't see his face. Maybe they innately knew. François had been denied some schools, set aside in others, and eventually he was becoming desperate for a job. This opened up. What could go wrong? He thought vainly.

A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts.

François sat up, walking to the door. The steady raps continued impatiently. 'Come in.' François said.

The door swung open. François grinned.

'I'm taking you to lunch so we can discuss this. Do you have time?' Arthur asked.

The man's relentlessly green eyes pinned onto François'. His hair stuck up in every direction, refusing to be tamed. He wore a leather jacket over a black shirt and tight jeans. He spoke to François in broken French and, ultimately, resorted to English. François didn't mind either way.

'I have time.'

They walked away from the dumpy grey building. In the court Alfred was sitting on one side, panting slightly after a fast game of football. The black and white ball sped past on the cement, passing between legs. Hollers raced out from throats, followed by insults. Someone spotted François and the vulgarities lessened. Like a tidal wave, once François was out of sight, it rose up again.

Arthur walked in front of François. His notebook was stuck to his side, tucking between his elbow and his ribcage. His steps were measured, but brisk. He didn't like this part of town.

Once outside on the streets and a bit down, where a bunch of shops flourished, he relaxed visibly.

'It isn't so bad.' François said.

'Maybe to you. If you haven't forgotten, I'm from the posh part of London and I simply haven't gotten used to towns where the graffiti is actually legible and means something.'

Arthur pointed to a sprawling of green graffiti painted across the white-washed wall of a hardware store.

'YOUR RIGHT GOVERMENT! WE DONT MATTER!' It said.

'I said legible, not grammatically correct.' Arthur added. Going on a muted rant of the difference between 'your' and 'you're'.

François chuckled softly.

'I'm guessing you want to have some coffee? Not a shot of beer?' Arthur teased.

'Coffee sounds just fine.'

Arthur took him to a cheaper coffee shop. François payed upfront. He knew Arthur hadn't published a bestseller in two years. His money was running out. Although Arthur complained, he didn't seemed convinced of his own retorts.

They sat and chatted idly. Arthur alternated from snarky comments to distant, vague comments. What a hard face to read, François thought. They had three cups of coffee and, finally, Arthur set his notebook on the table. He rubbed his eyes and sighed deeply, as if his head throbbed in pain.

'Look through it. If you find a good story you can use it for class. I dumbed down the language.'

'Dumbed it down? That sounds insulting.'

'Like you weren't thinking the same bloody thing.'

François bit his lip. He had only once cast a stray, contemptuous glare at the school. Arthur picked it up faster than sand soaks up water. He knew in that moment that François gentle side had its limits. It didn't stretch across the entire country of his existence.

Arthur showed him two stories. Crimson Butterflies which as a story about a young woman who misses her bus and runs after a stranger in a dress decorated in red insects. 'That story can teach the symbolism of colours and how "crimson" differs from "red".' Arthur added. The other was called Storm which revolved around a young man who was half robot, an android, and how he faced a bout of prejudice in his schools.

To this story Arthur only nodded briskly. The message was clear. François took the two copies, Arthur's own were at his cramped little apartment, and stuffed them in his pocket.

'Do they like you?' Arthur asked, leaning forwards, resting his chin against his palm. He watched as François picked up his wallet to pay for the stories. Fifteen euros each. Arthur accepted it thankfully.

'Who likes me? The students?'

'Yes.'

'I suppose.' François looked at the foggy window. A couple in front of it sat, smoking up a storm. The man flexed his biceps, showing of the tattoo of a dragon. The woman in return showed her kew nose piercings.

'Do they…?' Arthur asked, clenching his teeth. He expressed a derogatory term, mouthing it silently.

François started in surprise. 'Why? Most of them have my same ethnicity. Sometimes they mock me and call me a fairy.'

'I see.'

'What about you, dear foreigner?'

'I don't really like this place much. Hell, I don't like any place much.' Arthur said.

From his tone of voice, François knew better than to prod him for further answers. Arthur clammed up, hiding his pearls of knowledge and emotions. Nothing else could be found from there.

'Maybe,' François began, growing excited, 'Maybe you could come by and give a lecture at my school. We have a little funding. Not enough for trips but enough to get you over there. Suck it up for a little bit and earn some money. Give these kids a chance.'

'Maybe.' Arthur echoed.

A trail of cigarette smoke wafted up the red ceiling. Bicycles clattered outside, bouncing against cobbled stones.

'You know,' Arthur said when the silence went on too long, 'They should have given me a key to heaven when I decided to write.'

I do not own Hetalia

This is race-bent!France.

Many of the events portrayed here are based off of actual events. What those are will become evident soon.