Greetings, everyone!

That's right - I've started yet another Hetalia story. I know, I know, I'm exceedingly masochistic and need to slow down and focus on finishing fics before making more, but these blasted plot bunnies are poking me with burning hot metal poles and making me their slave. Therefore, I must write, write, wriiite! (Plus it takes my mind off of certain things, so.)

What? No, there's nothing wrong with me. Of course those bunnies are real! Why are you looking at me like that? They're real, damn it! GAH! You don't understand! This is way too much pressure!

Aside from how insane and Tweek-like I am currently acting, I had to write this. I wrote a miniature form of this fic for my America a little while ago and the idea has refused to leave me be, and subsequently it has resulted in me typing away more stories rather than essays. (Just kidding on this note however, as I have been suffocated in essays and homework and, more recently, coursework already, and so I have been very busy.) This is result of my procrastination, and I hope you enjoy it.

O-o-O-o-O

Title: Ab Imo Pectore

Rating: M (see warnings)

Genre(s): Romance, drama, angst, hurt/comfort, potentially mentions of others.

Warnings: Homosexuality and homoerotic situations, domestic abuse, sexual content, substance abuse (alcoholism and mentions of drugs), possibly more.

Main pairing: USxUKxUS.

Side pairing(s): unrequited?France/England, various others. Some pairings have smaller roles than others.

Extended summary: Arthur Kirkland, a twenty three year old English Literature and Language teacher, graduated at the age of twenty and worked at a high school in London for a couple of years before certain events involving his family lead to him being transferred to the United States. Soon after his arrival, he runs into an obnoxious French man demanding to know his name, and is soon caught up in the man's loving promises and sweet nothings...

With experience in the fields of love, lust, and betrayal, a student of Arthur's begins noticing certain eccentricities in his teacher's behaviour... Alfred F. Jones is intrigued.

O-o-O-o-O

[Dedicated to Suzume Chiyu.]

Thank you.

O-o-O-o-O

i. Act one, scene one

The pure blue sky seemed to taunt him as he staggered down the pavement, panting and sweating uncomfortably in his excessive layers of clothes. He tugged senselessly at his collar and huffed, blinking quickly as he swayed slightly, the heat getting to his head and momentarily disorientating him. He shut his eyes and leaned against a brick wall covered in incomprehensible graffiti, regaining his composure and brushing off the sudden bout of dizziness. Finally, he managed to shake it off, and he peeled himself off of the wall and dragged himself down the pavement, dodging various other pedestrians and inwardly cursing at the loud drivers honking their horns and screaming in their road rage.

He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced at the sweat that he collected on his fingertips. Fairly disgusted, he wiped the mositure on his trousers and tried to ignore the tickling feeling of sweat drippling down his face and the intense heat burning into his flesh as the sun beat down on him, utterly unyielding and merciless. Longing for London rain and brisk British days, he was torn between reminiscing in his sudden nostalgia and allowing his thoughts to derail. His past made him uncomfortable, even when not discussing it openly, and so, instead, he decided to analyse, in his head, the novel he was currently reading prior to his interview.

The United States was new to him, an entirely foreign place in which, despite sharing a common language, seemed explicitly diverse from his homeland. When his siblings had kindly informed him about how Americans shared taxis and actually started conversations with you rather than leaving you to bask in your sorrow as you read about the recent economic slump, he felt as if they were telling him horror stories. It was to be expected really; his siblings had always been fond of tormenting him in one way or another. As if they would stop just because he was going to leave the country for a long time.

They really didn't care about him at all. But he was accustomed to it, and lived up to people's expectations of him being an uptight, sadistic demon of a man. Just as Hamlet had said, one defect can diminish the rest of one's virtues as people only ever focus on the negative aspects of people and society. If people wanted to remain ignorant and only read the cover and subsequently judge him based on rumours and tales, then so be it. It would be his own private autobiography that no one else would ever have the pleasure - or the misfortune - to share with him. They will never experience his journey, nor would they feel all of the torrents of emotion he had been swept up in when certain things had happened to him. Certain things that were best left unsaid, lest people steer clear of him even more. It was better to be pegged as insane than viewed as a murderer.

His steam of thoughts was abruptly cut off when he collided with someone painfully, his hurt shoulder being knocked into, and he staggered back, dropping his briefcase and falling back against a lamp post, clutching his shoulder tightly and clenching his eyes shut. He tried to remain still until the rivlets of pain stopped pulsating through his system, and then remembered to breathe. He could hear a voice, but he ignored it in favour of recollecting his brother, Liam, instructing him to breathe. In, out. In, out. In, out.

Daylight filtered back into his vision as he opened his eyes once more, only to jump back and knock his head against the post when he met concerned and inquisitive blue eyes. He stared back at the other man, remaining still and waiting for him to ask if he would say some typical English words.

And then the man spoke, voice a low timbre and evidently not American. "I am sorry to startle you, monsieur," he apologised smoothly, brows knitted slightly as he surveyed the Brit. Arthur just scowled back defensively, used to people thinking of him as an escaped mental patient or something. But then man just chuckled. "Ah, you are pouting. I am sure you are quite well, in that case," he said, straightening up and smiling a cocky half-smile down at the slouching Englishman.

Not responding, he leaned down and grabbed his briefcase. Keeping up appearances, he gave a stiff nod, before moving to speedily walk around the French obstruction, only to freeze when his wrist was grasped. He didn't turn around but remained tense as the other man's skin made contact with his own, and he swallowed thickly.

"Are you not going to at least inform me of your name? You did barge into me, after all," he said, sounding increasingly obnoxious by the moment.

"Excuse me," he replied icily, emerald eyes glinting as he glared defiantly into self-assured blue. "But it seemed to me like you were the one who ran into me. If anything, you owe me an apology. However, I shall not insist upon it. In spite of that, I do not feel I am indebted to you in any way, and therefore I shall not provide you with my name, monsieur." He nodded and slipped his hand out of the shocked man's grip and began walking down the pavement, keeping an inner mantra to keep his held held high to maintain a confident manner about him. He may have some self-esteem issues, but he was a bloody good actor.

However, the God he had once believed in seemed to hold a grudge against him, for the French twat suddenly appeared beside him, striding with the utmost carefree confidence about him that he himself could only wish to possess. Huffing quietly to myself, he increased his pace slightly, only for the other bloke to do the same.

Grinding his teeth together, he hissed, "What do you want?"

"Your name, mon cher," the bastard replied genially, smiling languidly, completely arrogant and self-absorbed and safe in the knowledge that he'd get names, phone numbers, addresses...

"Yours first," the shorter man demanded gruffly, tightening his hold on his brief case, but knowing he probably wouldn't use it. He couldn't hurt people. Hurting people was bad. But it was okay to be hurt.

"Fiesty," French Guy said, chortling, and then smirked slightly again. "I like that. Very well. I am Francis Bonnefoy," he murmured, exaggerating his introduction by bowing and moving to kiss the Brit's hand, but he drew back hastily and took a step back, glowering warningly. Seemingly slightly bemused, but unperturbed, the man straightened up and smiled. "Et toi, cher?"

He hesitated momentarily, but he knew he shouldn't do that. It was bad to display reluctance; it gave other people an advantage. "Arthur," he muttered, and then moved to skirt around Bonnefoy - what kind of name was that anyway? - but, once again, the man began to walk with him. He groaned and scowled darkly. "What?" he spat.

"Don't you have a surname?" Frenchie insisted on probing further, evidently. What a prick. Arthur was tempted to give him a good punch in the face (or a kick in the balls), but he didn't want to get a bad reputation before he even landed the job he was applying for.

Taking in a deep breath and counting to ten slowly in his head, Arthur set Francis a stoney scowl once more and hesitantly extended his hand. "Arthur Kirkland," he murmured crisply. "Nice to meet you, Frog - erm, Francis Bonnefoy."

Bonnefoy smiled a deceptively charming smile and shook the Brit's hand amiably, but the odd glint in his eye made Arthur think of some corrupt sort of businessman. Nonetheless, he upheld his passive disposition and dismissed his niggling worries. He had always been a bit of a paranoid person. His siblings had made sure to ingrain constant suspicions in him and force him to question everyone and anyone's motives, including his own.

Needless to say, he didn't even trust himself.

"I am pleased to meet you too, Arthur," Le Frog murmured lowly, and Arthur rolled his eyes. He just didn't want to bother with such irritating people. He was going to be babysitting high school kids, so why should he have to converse with adults who maintain the mentality of a toddler as well?

"Charming," he muttered, hastily drawing his hand back out of Francis's grasp as if he had touched something vile, and then reluctantly met half-mast blue eyes. He frowned, attempting to analyse the man's features or unconscious habits. He had taken Psychology as an A Level(1) at sixth form(2), and so he knew a little bit about the way people acted and what they do. But this man seemed so... disguised. The lack of clarity didn't perturb Arthur too much, however, as he was also accustomed to searching for deeper meanings that were hidden beneath the surface. Besides, it wasn't like he was going to see this strange man again. He was just another passing stranger who he would forget within a few days. That's the way life worked. He pulled himself out of his thought forcefully and nodded at Francis. "Well, I'd best be going now. Good day," he offered stiffly, maintaining civility despite how uncomfortable he felt.

"Hopefully I shall see you again soon, mon cher," came the quiet response, and Arthur shivered at the tone, turning around again and looking into his eyes as if assuring that the man was human. He received a mocking smile in return, and the French man turned away. "Take care, Arthur." And he resumed walking down the street as if he had never stopped, and as if he had never run into Arthur. A mere grey silhouette of a figure disappeared into the distance down the road, and Arthur felt heavy. He shook it off hastily, however, and reprimanded himself for his odd feelings. What was he, a woman?

Already banishing the strange encounter from his mind, he continued on his way, weaving in and out of many people who kept their heads down and didn't acknowledge him.

It just goes to show how insignificant we all are...

i. Act one, scene two

Bright luminescence shone through the glass windows and Arthur winced, turning away from the blinding illumination, blinking the light out of his vision and squinting as he skulked down the bland calcimine hallway. The only source of colour were displays that were most likely work of the students at the school. The Brit paused before some of the work presented, lips twitching at the use of bright hues of the colour spectrum and less tham amateurish drawings from the younger years. He made his way down the long hallway, his rather old and weary shoes occasionally squeaking against the scuffled floor, covered in footsteps and old chewing gum; he examined some older students' work. Their work consisted primarily of writing as opposed to the youngers' crudely drawn pictures, and he could see several essays pinned to the board. Disinterested in the scientific ones, he merely skimmed over those, apalled by the lack of grammar or structure, and searched instead for English work.

Upon noticing Of Mice and Men in the title of one of the pieces, he immediately began reading it. It held many valid points, along with some detailed analysis and original interpretations whilst constantly linking back to the title of the piece, a question about the themes of the book. The spelling wasn't magnificent, but the grammar was more than satisfactory, and he was surprised by the B grade the piece had. Sure, the spelling let the overall essay down slightly, but it was a fantastic piece of work that Arthur surmised deserved an A- at the very least. He noticed the name on it - Matthew Williams - and logged it away in his mind for future reference. If his job was completely secured, he would be sure to find the teacher responsible for the grade and give them a lecture about their derisory judgement.

Lifting his arm, he checked his watch and sighed. He was still fairly early in spite of his irksome encounter, but he didn't really have anything to do or anywhere to go. The familiarity of the whitewashed hallway and the ominous silence provoked him to move on and find some more people to surround himself with. He wasn't fond of being confined with others, but he hated being on his own in silence even more. So, thoughts drifting off to The Catcher in the Rye, he thoughtlessly glided along towards his destination.

As he mused over the novel and recollected the events of how the protagonist, Holden, became the 'fallen', and his sister resumes his old position of the 'catcher', he couldn't help but share Holden's bittersweet feelings. It was as if he was nearly on top of the world at one point and, so quickly, everything crumbled beneath him, and the person he had taken care of had assumed his position as he fell deeper into darkness and depression.

Arthur wished he couldn't empathise just as much as he did.

Wondering why he always managed to trap himself in the past and berating himself for even linking such a fine piece of literature with his own average, lacklustre life, he twisted the handle of an off-white door before him and lowered his gaze as the other occupants instantly glanced up to see who had entered. He heard a couple of snickers, followed by a few whispers, and he refrained from rolling his eyes. Who said that being an adult meant being mature? Honestly, he had met children more subtle than these candidates. If they beat him to the job, he would get drunk and do a hula dance, and then tape it and send it to his siblings to post all over the Internet.

...No. No matter how passionate he was about something, he would never allow his siblings to have anything to blackmail him with. At least, nothing more than they already had. Fucking baby photographs... Why did people like capturing memories so much? It just made it harder to escape from the past...

He decided to stand, just in case anyone else entered and sat next to him. He wasn't prepared to converse with strangers, and he hadn't had good experience in the past with them. Within the first few minutes of a conversation - provided they lasted that long with him babbling about the weather, books, old school music and some obscure references - he was more often than not pegged as mentally unstable, hence why he hardly ever brought up fairies. But even discussing books that dealt with 'fairy tale creatures' made him seem slightly mad, even if he defended himself by informing the ignorant people that the author of the Sherlock Holmes books was very superstitious himself. He just wasn't very good at relating to people, it seemed. And he was fine with that. He was a reclusive man by nature, and often isolated himself, even when surrounded by others. He wasn't exceedingly shy or subdued - although he could be in certain circumstances - but he was just uncomfortable being himself.

He had always been quite the actor.

Sighing and feeling quite bored with nothing to analyse in the room aside from people, he opened his bag and searched for his book, sticking his tongue out slightly as he rifled through various documents and notes. Finally, he felt the spine of the novel, and drew out Mishima's Confessions of a Mask(3). He leant against the wall, content, and began to read, happily lost amongst the lexical items washing over him as he imagined the deep emotional scenes occurring and putting himself in the protagonist's place as he joined him on his journey. He tuned out the other people in the room and simply focused on the story, unaware of his surroundings and losing track of time. Even as other candidates departed, looking either irritated or distraught, he didn't notice and proceeded with reading.

"Next," an irritated voice muttered, but it didn't reach Arthur's ears. He could scarcely hear a thing save for the noises his mind conjured up as characters progressed throughout the novel, thought patterns changing and actions growing more practiced and hesitant because they didn't want to make any mistakes. "Next," someone said again, sounding more agitated and snappish than before. However, the Englishman still didn't stir from his dazed concentration and his emerald eyes continued zipping heartily across the pages of his book, until it was suddenly snatched from his grasp.

Squawking indignantly, Arthur looked up and glared at the thief, the words immediately catching in his throat when he noticed stern cobalt eyes. "Ah..." he breathed, eyes widening as he stared at the man before him with something akin to awe. The other didn't notice, however; he was far too busy scrutinising Arthur's book, brows drawn together and lips pursed in a thin line.

"I do not like it when people ignore me," he murmured, voice still somehow clear and assuming despite how low it was. His eyes speedily glanced up from the pristine pages to meet Arthur's. "However, I must confess that I am an avid reader myself, and that I can understand what it is like to become caught up in such a novel." He shut the book swiftly and handed it over to the Brit in a fluid movement, Arthur almost scrambling for it so as not to drop it. He usually had more than satisfactory reflexes, but... "In any case, now that I have grasped your attention, sir, I would like to inform you that Julius will see you now." With that, he turned hastily on his heel and glided back over to his desk, but paused when Arthur spoke.

"Alfons...?" he murmured questioningly, almost not believing it, but unable to wholly dismiss the notion because who else had long blond hair and stern cobalt eyes? He hadn't seen the man in question for a very long time - approximately eighteen years, in fact - but he couldn't just let this situation slip away, just in case.

The taller man didn't turn at first; no, instead he appeared more overwrought than before and didn't end the tense atmosphere. Countless possibilites popped up in Arthur's mind, and he began berating himself for even opening his mouth. He wondered if the man thought he was some sort of mentally deranged lunatic. He wouldn't be too surprised, really, as that was what most people surmised.

"Have we met?" the man suddenly asked briskly, sounding very defensive to hide any anxiety he might have. He turned quickly, as if prepared to attack prior to the stranger who seemed to have known his name, and then paused again. He scanned Arthur's face, who was still too shocked to be eloquent, and then blinked slowly, shoulders dropping slightly and offering a less antagonistic position. "You are..."

"Arthur Kirkland," the Englishman breathed, and he knew he would kick himself later for acting so out of character. But, bloody hell, if this was actually Alfons - he still found it hard to digest - then he should be granted the right to be slightly inarticulate. He had last seen the bloke when he was five, afterall. Alfons was one of the children he stayed with when he was younger, along with his brothers and various other unwanted children.

Suddenly, broad but slender and pointed hands grasped his shoulders, and the larger man stared imploringly at him, scrutinising every last detail of the Brit with his perceptive hawk-like eyes. "Is that really you?" He seemed incredulous himself, and Arthur couldn't blame him. He never thought he would see any of the people from his past again, aside from his siblings. Seeing this - this man after his unexpected disappearance was just... disconcerting. Arthur briefly debated the man being a ghost; a hindered spirit burdened with deeds undone and was unable to pass on because, bloody hell, Alfons had been just one of the children who had suddenly vanished without a word.

He thought they were dead.

Arthur just gaped at him, staring with wide eyed wonder, and snapped his mouth shut when the man's lips twitched slightly, appearing vaguely amused in spite of the severity of the situation. "I..." Arthur began, throat dry and unable to form a response. He was usually a exceptional with communication, having an extensive vocabulary as well as finesse regarding charm and manners. He was simply caught off-guard and, honestly, who could blame him? He already felt in need of a strong drink and vowed to have one later.

"Of course it's you," Alfons breathed, shaking his head in disbelief in spite of his statement. "I'd recognise those fiery green eyes anywhere." He tightened his grip on Arthur's shoulders before pulling away, but the younger man wasn't perturbed or insulted by his behaviour as Alfons had always been a bit of an isolationist. He was comfortable around him because of that, as Arthur was also one to shut off his feelings and ignore others around him. "What is it, Arthur? You've never been one to be so silent," the taller man murmured jokingly, and Arthur noticed how silky and flowing his voice still was, if quite a bit deeper than it used to be. "As I recall, you were very much loud in your arguments with your siblings and other children."

The Brit blushed and stuttered slightly, floundering for a response. He had always admired Alfons as a child, and had never been able to speak to the man properly despite how similar they were. One of his brothers, Craig, had half-jokingly announced that Arthur had a crush on him. Needless to say, a fight broke out and Arthur was landed with a sprained right and a black eye. He gave as good as he got, however, managing to split his brother's lip and dislodge his right arm. He wouldn't say those were good days, but it wasn't often he could bust up his brother, so...

"In any case," the elder man said very suddenly, drawing Arthur out of his state of nostalgia. He seemed to be becoming an old man, what with how he reminisced these days. "It is very good to see you again, Arthur. But you are now free to go..." he trailed off as a loud bang filled the room, and the German twitched in irritation. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he seemed to be counting to ten in his head. However, it didn't appear to help as a scruffy looking brunet man danced over to him merrily and slung a muscled arm across his shoulders.

"Alfons, what on earth is taking you so long?" he demanded with a mischievous grin that suggested he didn't care as much as his words suggested. "You're usually very obsessive compulsive about order to the point of being autistic!" he exclaimed, laughing a boisterous laugh that made the blond men twitch in annoyance.

Alfons elbowed him in the stomach, but the larger man didn't seem to be bothered by it. "Julius, this is Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. I used to attend the same boarding school as he did," he explained, and suddenly the other man's brown eyes flickered with some sort of deeper feeling as he glanced at Arthur.

The Brit squirmed, uncomfortable underneath the eyes so seemingly full of depth in spite of the man's apparent idiocy, and fought to maintain eye contact as he was scrutinised. Alfons subtly nudged Julius, and the brunet offered a smile, just as big but not as loud and ingraciating as the prior. "Any friend of Alfons's is a friend of mine," he said, offering his hand to Arthur, who blinked at him stupidly for a moment before flushing and moving to shake his hand, only to be yanked towards the gruff man's chest. He yelped when heavy hands pat his back, and lurched away, scowling at the brunet man, who grinned back at him toothily.

"Julius," Alfons snapped, sounding both irritated and exasperated, as if this sort of behaviour happened far too often. Icy eyes zipped back to Arthur, and he sent him an almost apologetic look. "I apologise for him, Arthur. He can't control himself..." He shot a cold glare at the taller man, only to receive a bright grin in response. Alfons rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately, this will be the man interviewing you because, although he is... him, he's also qualified."

"Aww, Alfons!" Julius cried happily, looking positively delighted, but also slightly sadistic in a teasing manner. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said about me!"

"Don't be absurd, Julius," the blond replied with a false amiable tone, "I once said you looked like Hagrid." With that, he carefully grasped Arthur's arm and hauled him over to another room, Julius behind them with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.

The Brit glanced back at him as he squawked: "But I've shaved!"

Act one, scene three

He sat, legs crossed and posture stiff and absolutely correct, staring straight ahead as Julius's penetrating brown eyes bore into his emerald ones. He swallowed, brows drawn together as he willed himself not to tremble under the unwavering gaze of his potential employer. He clenched his fists on his legs, clutching the material of his trousers with his fingertips. Calm yourself, Arthur, he told himself firmly, keeping his eyes fixed on the dark ones before him. Permitting your fears to get the better of you will not allow you to prove yourself. Stiff upper lip, Arthur... Stiff upper lip.

"So, then," the man began, deep voice seeming to reverberate through the room and echo off of the walls. Arthur tensed, eyes growing wider as he waited for the man to finish his sentence. "You're Arthur..."

"Yes," he answered quickly, and then flushed slightly at the impromptu answer. He ducked his head and missed the amused smile that flickered across the older man's face.

Julius hummed, stroking his stubble thoughtfully, giving the impression of having a conflicting inner debate. He enjoyed how he could prolong the torture and make the young Brit tense, lick his lips, glance around and back again. He could see how hard the smaller man was trying to seem confident. How futile, he thought, more than a little entertained. But he knew that Alfons would falcon punch him for messing with the guy, especially since he seemed to care for Arthur. Still, that didn't mean he wanted to go easy on him... And so, offering a smile, he asked: "Who are you?"

Forest green eyes flickered back up, surprised by the question, and he tilted his head. Expecting the anticipated and popular answer of another unknown name, Julius himself was astonished by the response, "I don't know."

Blinking, he raised a brow. Leaning on his desk and sliding forwards to stare into the Englishman's strangely guarded, suspicious, but ambiguous and inviting eyes, he tilted his head. "You don't know," he repeated, more of a statement than a question. He offered a smile, although it was more strained and curious this time. "Please elaborate, Mr. Kirkland."

Arthur let out a small sigh, deflating a little before sitting up properly and assuming incriminate posture that Alfons would be awestruck by. Julius couldn't help but hide a small chuckle at the young man's theatrics. He was dramatic in his own neurotic name, it seemed. "Well," the Englishman said, voice just as difficult to distinguish as his eyes: enigmatical and rather cryptic. Behind all beauty hides more pain... "Nobody truly knows themselves... Indeed, I doubt that anyone can ever know another, but it seems to be even more difficult to comprehend oneself(4)." His eyes fluttered closed, and he seemed to be debating on his choice of words. Interest inspired, Julius readily awaited the man to start speaking again. "I believe..." he murmured softly, voice gentle and laced with melancholy, and suddenly Julius wondered if the guy was an actor. Or gay. "I believe that no one would really want to know themselves..." Bright eyes opened, and a poignant smile decorated his lips. "It would be frightening, don't you think?"

Frightening...? Julius pondered, staring in amazement at the Brit before him, bewilderment and intrigue glittering in his own chestnut eyes. "Hmm," he hummed, unlacing his fingers and standing up swiftly, taking pleasure when the blond sputtered and hastily lifted himself out of his own chair. How polite, he thought, Like a well trained dog. He smiled secretively, lips twitching even more when he noticed the suspiscion glinting in Arthur's eyes. "Then, Arthur," he said happily, "Please allow me to refer to you as my step-son!"

"...I beg your pardon?" Arthur screeched, almost falling over the back of the chair when the brunet man suddenly said that. What a strange thing to say! Really, what sort of man...? "Geh!" he cried when he was pushed aside, blinking away the swirling colours of the room to see long blond hair filling his vision.

"Julius," Alfons hissed, fists shaking angrily at his sides. "I am going to castrate you!" (5)

O-o-O-o-O

Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

This was going to be so much longer, but I'm going to Brussels (in Belgium) tomorrow with my Government and Politics class, and I wanted to get this up before then! But I promise I'll make up for it - the neck chapter is full of Prussia and hopefully America shall be introduced.

(1) An A Level is a qualification. You get an A Level from the ages of sixteen to eighteen. The first year (16-17) is an AS Level, and the second year (17-18) is an A2 Level. These are the qualifications you receive in English if you stay in education until the age of eighteen. My year was the last to have a choice whether they wished to stay or leave at sixteen. I chose to stay, evidently. But now it's fundamental to stay until you're eighteen here.

(2) Sixth form is sixteen to eighteen education. In the UK, sixth form is the equivalent of college, but college here isn't the same as college in America. American college = British university.

(3) Confessions of a Mask is a book... Wikipedia will explain it better than I, so just go there if you're curious. The title's a bit cliché but, hey, the content may outweigh that.

(4) I wasn't sure if it was "one's self" or "oneself"... Apparently, both terms are acceptable, but "oneself" is the oldest term, so I went for that...

(5) And thus, Rome/Germania is established. Because Arthur is so close to Alfons, Julius views him as his son. XD At least, that's what I've gone for. Writing Germania is fun. Eheh... I wasn't sure about his character. I see him as fairly similar to Arthur, but perhaps more mature and, although tsundere... I'm not sure if he should be a major tsundere who reacts violently, or a more mature tsundere. So, he may seem a bit bipolar. But then again, characters often seem to be a bit mental in my stories, ne?

I thought of so much for this... I wasn't sure if to write the story or not. I randomly wrote a mini snippet of something like this for my America about England being America's teacher, and Al discovers that he's being domestically abused...

Can I never write happy things? Bloody hell. Even Shakespeare wrote in the humour genre, and he's the writer of Hamlet!

Ah, speaking of which... There are reasons as to why my page breaks are depicting the acts and scenes. One reason is that it relates to literature, which is what England shall be teaching (because he'd obviously be good at it, and it's the only thing I am somewhat knowledgeable in), and a few other reasons. Reasons that your English teachers come up with and you think, "The author didn't intend for it to mean that - you're just reading way too deeply into things."

I am one of those teachers.

In a way.

I'm not your teacher.

But I mean... Oh, fizz crackers. Pop tarts. LEMON DROPS.

I'm such a BAMF~ Hehe.

Mouuu... I don't want to go to Brussels... I don't know anyone in Politics. The girls dislike me because I'm boring (and they've never tried talking to me), and if I converse with guys everyone will think I'm flirting. But I talked with my cousin, and he inspired me to ask one impassive guy, "So how do you look when you JIZZ IN YOUR PANTS?"

I want to make him smile. He just seems to emotionless. I know he isn't. Guu, stupid git. SMILE. I don't smile much, but I get uncomfortable when others don't...

But then again, I smile a lot with certain people. And I smile when I'm nervous. But I have crooked teeth despite having braces a few years ago. And my lips are always chapped and stuff 'cause I lick and bite them a lot. Raaawr.

Ahh... I really don't want to go on the trip tomorrow. I'm so ungrateful. But I don't want to leave. I won't have internet access. I know it's only two nights (ONLY? her mind repeats incredulously), but I don't get to talk to my America much, so... myu. Whatever. It won't be too long. But since the girls in my year are all staying together, I'll be with girls who are 17/18... I know it's only 1/2 years difference, but I'm scared. x.x If people my own age dislike me, why would anyone else want to acknowledge me... Ah, whatever, I have my DS and a Darren Shan book, so...

So...

I miss my America already. I'm getting way too worked up about this. I'm such a drama queen.

Uwaa...

Someone rescue me. ):