This chapter is titled 'Giggles' because that's all they fucking talk about -_-

Disclaimer: If I owned it, PruCan would be canon. Also, Brown is based off my old coach, except he moved to Simsbury, not Poland, which is worse. -_- Oh, and the "you ain't much" thing is taken from one of my camp's old lifeguards. (Believe me, it's true. He was some hot stuff.)

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Hmm…if I were a Matt, where would I be?

I know he has a car, so he has to be out at the senior lot somewhere – aha! I grin as I head towards the adorable Canadian. Ah, Matt. I've known him for a grand total of two days, and I already recognize his I-should-be-getting-fucked-by-giant-tentacles-right-now look.

…What? He's just so cute. He's got these huge purple eyes and wavy blonde hair that's probably even softer than it looks. He's more muscled than you'd think, but it doesn't show underneath his baggy clothes. He stutters and squeaks and trips over his own feet. Freaking adorable.

Of course he's been recruited to the cause of Awesome. I shall call him Matt and he shall be mine. Nah, I think I'm gonna call him Lieutenant Rock-Solid Deuce. It sounds cuter.

He's just standing there, biting his lip (adorably), looking lost and unsure. There is really only one thing for awesome to do.

"INCOMING!"

"A-Alfred? C-can't breathe-" he gasps out, struggling slightly. "Al-you're a dick-get off-"

Okay, that was uncalled for. I do my best impression of Mattie's douchebag of a brother. "HAI GUIZ I LIKE HAMBURGERS LOLOLOL I'M IN DENIAL THAT ARTIE HATES ME AHAHAHAHAHA HERO"

He twists around to see my beauty. "Gilbert?" I give myself an approving once-over in the reflection of his glasses. Yep, still sexy.

"Mattie!" I grin and release him, except for an arm over his shoulder to steer the Canadian towards my beautiful car. "Antonio's cat ran away and Francy-pants got his period, so you are allowed to enjoy my presence on this very fine afternoon!"

"O-okay – wait, what?!" He's stumbling beside me, looking confused as all hell. "Wait- Gilbert, why is there a Batman symbol on your hood?"

I giggle. Yeah, I giggled. I am such a badass, you don't even know. I am dangerously peppy today. Somebody should shoot me. "Impulse graffiti?"

"Don't you ever think about resale values?!"

Suddenly, a dark-haired blur zips in front of us, cursing loudly in Italian. It's followed by the ever-cheerful Antonio, singsonging "Loviii~ Oh, hola, Gilberto, Matteo. Vidiste mi tomatito?"

I point towards the tennis courts, where Lovino is piling up tennis balls with a grim determination. "Good luck, bro scout," I call after Antonio, who's skipping towards his doom and singing something about lollipops under his breath.

Matthew glances at me – god damn it, he's taller than me. Only by like half an inch, but still, that's demeaning. "H-his kitty ran away?"

I shrug. "In a manner of speaking. Come on, last one to the Batmobile's a Robin egg!"

"W-wait! I have homework and…" His voice trails off as he hurries after me. I stifle a smirk as I vault into the driver's seat and throw him my most wicked grin.

"What's the matter, Matthew Williams? Scared?" I rev the engine. He looks conflicted, but finally gets in shotgun, by way of the door. (Why would anyone use a door when the top's down? People are so weird sometimes.)

"What are we even doing?" he asks as I back out of Arthur's parking space. "Gil, I don't want to be in the mafia – oh, maple, you want me to be in the mafia, don't you–" He's getting more and more flustered by the second. I am greatly amused by this. "G-Gilbert, I don't want to be in the mafia!"

"Matt. Calm down." I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

"You are abducting me to join the mafia!"

I pull out of the senior lot. Antonio appears to be storming the tennis court, where Lovi's making an ungodly ruckus. "GET A ROOM, TOMATO CHILDREN," I holler at them, barely dodging an angry tennis ball that flies in my direction. Jeez, only Lovi could make a tennis ball seem angry. "Matt, chill out. I'm not in the mafia. Talk to Lovino's dad about that." I smile in what I hope is a reassuring manner.

"That's what you would say if you were in the mafia!" he protests.

Aw, shit, I can't help it – I chuckle. "Okay, Matt, you caught me. I'm in the mafia. You're my new lieutenant. We're going shooting." I jerk my head at the pile of squirt guns behind his seat. "Arm yourself wisely, my minion."

"I-I'm a what?!"

"Minion. Lieutenant. Lieutenant Rock-Solid Deuce, to be specific." I glance at his face and snicker. "Toni and Francis are Lieutenant Fluffy and Lieutenant Flaming. I'm Sergeant Two Chainz. We are the mafia and this whole damn high school is our bitch. You've been recruited. Salute, bro."

He salutes, unsurely. "If you're the sergeant, then who do you answer to?"

"Morgan Freeman. Oh, we're here!" I pull up next to the McDick's drive-thru window. "Yo, Brochelle." I grin at Michelle, the girl Francis is gonna be shooting with a squirt gun.

She smiles back. "Hi, Gilbert. You're supposed to order at the speaker back there."

"Oh, we're not here for food. Matt, pass me that Hulk super-soaker, would you? Thanks. Here, Shelly, can you stock this thing in there? Just tell the other worker people that if a sexy, beautiful, awesome, gorgeous, amazing Prussian albino runs up, toss this to him real quick. Also goes for this one–" I ruffle Matt's hair "–or Tonio or Francy-pants, kay?"

She takes the super-soaker and salutes. "Got it."

"You're the best, bro. Deuces, Shellfish, Sergeant Two Chainz and Lieutenant Rock-Solid Deuce OUT!" I flash something that I think is a gang sign at Matt as we roll away. "God, we are just so damn gangster." The kid looks torn between disbelief, laughter, and terror. "Yo, do I smell bad or did your face stick like that?"

"Y-you're insane, Gilbert!"

"That's Sergeant to you." He finally breaks and starts to giggle. "You laugh like a girl." I mean, not that I can talk. "All right, Lieutenant, where to next? Okay, you can stop laughing now, it wasn't that funny – aw, shit, this is about the gang sign, isn't it?" I groan and drop my head to the steering wheel. "Maaatttttt…"

Matt coughs a couple times and regains control. "U-um, Stop & Shop?"

"Yes!" I hit the steering wheel with my hands in excitement, setting off the horn. The driver next to me jumps a mile, but it's Arthur so it's okay. "TO STOP & SHOP!"

"U-um, could we get some beer while we're there?"

I glance curiously at my minion. His expression is as innocent as ever. "Lieutenant Rock-Solid Deuce, do you have a fake ID on you?"

He offers a hesitant smile. "We don't have to pay for it…"

Do you ever have that one really quiet person who suddenly says something crazy and you wonder why the hell they don't talk more? I just got that. I beam at him, ruffling his hair with one hand. "You're all right, kid."

"Gil, I'm taller than you."

"Fuck you."

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"A-and then he said 'But you look so much like me', and you know what I said?"

"What did you say, Lieutenant Rock-Solid Deuce?" I am intrigued. Fuck 'coming out of your shell', Matt's come out of a hole in the corner of a dark basement underneath a manor in Transylvania, and he didn't even do the Time Warp. When we were planting guns at the big fountain downtown, he cannonballed in when I was hiding the big one and got me completely soaked. I was so proud I nearly cried.

He waves his strawberry milkshake in the air. I hang out with Francis enough to know that ordering a strawberry milkshake is equal to twirling out of the closet covered in glitter and wearing rainbow skinny jeans. I doubt Matt does, though, so I'll let him off for now. Also because he's introduced me to the best café and milkshake bar in the state. "I said 'Fuck you'."

I bark a laugh. "Did you really?" I am now fully realizing that I am hanging out at a café. I'm turning either gay or hipster. Shit. Aw, fuck it, they have those badass straws that change color and I'm already half gay anyway. I still got a chocolate, though. Ain't no party like a milkshake party. Now we have to wait for boys to come to our yard…

"I did." He drains the rest of his Gay Juice. "Um, Mr. Waiter, another strawberry milkshake, please?" Matt turns back to me. "And you know what I told him next?"

"What did you tell him, Lieutenant Rock-Solid Deuce?" He's gonna be a crazy drunk, I can tell. I have a drunkdar. Oh man, I have got to get some alcohol into this kid and watch.

"I told him to mow my lawn WITH HIS TESTICLES." I choke violently on my chocolate milkshake. "And that SHOWED him!" He slams his fist down on the bar, and I barely catch my glass before it spills. "Also, I told him to go fuck a hippie and I threw something at him. I think it was a velociraptor but I'd been smoking with Dutch earlier so I could be wrong…"

Dutch is this tall kid from the Netherlands. Nobody knows his actual name because whenever anyone asks, he fixes them in their place with this intimidating hooded-eyes look and rumbles "You ain't much if you ain't Dutch". He's basically our school's pot industry. And he's friends with Matt? Hot damn. It's always the quiet ones.

"You showed him, bro scout."

He stares into his milkshake like he's reading tea leaves. "Sarge, when I was little, I had a cat and I named him Bessie. Do you have a pimp cane on you?"

Is this what being the most normal person in the room feels like? It's odd. "Matt, I think you've had a bit too much milkshake."

"I'M A GOOFY GOOBERRRRR~" He's giggling again. I mean, it's cute, but this kid is tweaking out on milkshakes. It's a little worrisome.

"Bro, I'm gonna bring you home now." I grunt as I attempt to drag him out of his seat. "Jeez, lose a few pounds." He's still chugging the strawberry. "LIEUTENANT ROCK-SOLID DEUCE!"

To my surprise, he immediately snaps to attention. "SIR!"

I glare up (okay, it's not THAT much up) at him. "Lieutenant, this improper conduct must cease! Proceed to the Batmobile, double time!" Matt marches out of the place like a fucking wind-up toy.

I drop a ten on the bar and follow, already formulating a Plan.

Matt got eggs at Stop & Shop (something about making pancakes), and our principal's house is maybe a minute away…

To: Ludwig Beilschmidt
From: Five Meters
Message: hey luddy-kins tell vati im not gonna be home for a while. partyin hard w/ this canadian kid i found. dont worry i'll blame collateral damage on roddy. love ya little bro

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Matthew

The embarrassment takes a full day to wear off.

I-I spazzed out, okay? I'd spent lunch with Dutch and my friend Manny at the smoker's pit, as always – I wasn't actually smoking, but I must've gotten buzzed secondhand, cause I'd been feeling stoned all afternoon. And I was sort of in shock about, you know, Gilbert. I can only count on a couple of people to remember me – Katuysha, Manny, and Dutch; not even my own family. A-and now he's coming straight out of left field and not only remembering me but paying attention to me – I freaked out.

I can't think about our afternoon adventure without blushing. It didn't help that Alfred will never let me forget how I'd stumbled in the front door at four in the afternoon, with an absurd smile as I waved goodbye to Gilbert – whom, my brother insisted, I'd been calling Gilly.

But I don't have much time to think about it, because the game is starting.

(…)

(…wait.)

(The game.)

(THE GAME.)

(FFFFUUU-)

I know how to play; everyone does. We've learned at camps, or from friends and relatives. Gil, Francis, and Antonio did the whole assignment thing by email, so it's all happened lightning-fast. All anyone needs to do is take a picture proving their shot and text it to one of the Bad Touch Trio's phones, and it's marked. The school itself is marked DMZ, because of the obvious issue of seeing your target in class, but the second anyone steps outside – that is, whenever they have a free period – they're fair game. The game starts officially on Friday morning, to give people the weekend to set up their traps.

I go to school on Friday expecting organized chaos, and am met with completely anarchy.

Even supposing that our eccentric high school with its abnormally large percentage of ethnically-diverse homosexuals could have ever been called calm in the first place…

Well, if you're ever desperate to motivate teenagers, the solution is green.

(Um, I mean money, not leaves, grass, Irish people, Arthur's cooking, etc.)

Within the space of a day, the senior class is transformed into an every-man-for-himself first-person shooter game.

Nobody is safe. Brightly colored plastic revolvers are the standard, but less-honest assassins resort to crooked measures like tiny one-shot pistols and promising their assigned person "I've already been shot, don't worry". The hallway falls into awed silence whenever a super soaker and its bearer pass by. Vash Zwingli, an ever-resourceful Swiss boy in my French class, is selling shields – light wire-and-plastic-wrap things, but he's making serious money off them.

After third period English, Alfred tells me that three hundred people are already out, which means around fifty. The weakest ones, those who haven't sufficiently armed themselves or are more susceptible to trickery, are probably all getting wiped out right from the start. After today, I'll have to stick inside. With locked doors. And windows.

At lunch, fifth period, Gilbert hijacks me on my way into the cafeteria. "Matt, I was looking for you! Come on, come on! This is HUGE!"

"Uh?" is the most comprehensible reply I can manage. He's tugging me towards the back of the caf, which opens onto a patio. It's empty, for obvious reasons – except for two boys standing in the middle. "I-is that Antonio and Lovino?"

Every human in the caf is pressed up against the glass, staring, even the lunch ladies. Gilbert wedges himself in next to Francis, and hisses "come on!" to me. I squeeze in, rather uncomfortable at the proximity to Gilbert on one side and a tall, blonde, Swedish lunch lady named Berwald on the other, but curious enough to watch the two seniors in the courtyard.

Antonio's holding a tiny red water pistol, one of the stealth ones, above his head. He's got a smug smile that looks disturbingly out of place on his kind face. Lovino is jumping as high as he can and slamming at the Spaniard's chest with his fists, but Antonio isn't even phased. The windows are all open, and we can hear every word as he teases, "No, mi Lovinito, not until you promise not to shoot me~"

"B-bastard!" Lovi sounds furious, with a slight hint of panic. "I have to win this! I–" With no warning whatsoever, he wraps his arms around Antonio's neck and kisses him.

A shared shriek of astonishment rises from the flabbergasted group in the cafeteria. (Well, mine is more of a quiet gasp. I don't really do shrieks.) The two boys don't seem to care. Toni's green eyes widen with surprise, and then settle into half-closed bliss. His hands creep down to rest on Lovino's hips, and Lovi leans into him – oh my goodness, is that tongue?

I'm beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable watching this, when all of a sudden, Lovino twists to the right and snatches his water pistol from Toni's hand. The Italian slides fully free of the other's grip, spins a full 360, and fires off a perfect shot, leaving a wet spot soaking the front of a stunned Antonio's green button-down. Before you can say "mafia training", he's dropped the pistol, snatched his phone from his pocket, snapped a picture, and turned to go, flashing two middle fingers over his shoulders and hips swaying with the distinct strut of a woman who knows she's won.

(Did you hear that? That was the sound of this going on every Facebook in the school. It was loud.)

I drop my head to let my hair hang down and shield my face, horribly embarrassed and sad for Antonio that so many people have borne witness to his rejection. It might not be his first, but I'm pretty sure Lovino's never used a kiss against him before.

But suddenly, a murmur through the crowd raises my head.

There's a kind of pathetic beauty in the way he's still following Lovino, even after this.

I cover my eyes in shame, and then open my fingers to peek through them. Antonio has caught Lovi's wrist, and the smaller boy is frozen, except for goosebumps crawling down his cheek and neck from where Antonio is breathing something into his ear.

Nobody except Lovino can hear what he's whispering, but the whole world can see the tears welling in Lovino's eyes when Antonio steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets, a sad, hopeless smile still fixed on his face. The whole world is watching when Lovino stutters, turns bright red, and grabs his Spanish boy by the shoulders, kissing him with a passion that the Mediterranean is famous for…

I gawk. So does the rest of the cafeteria.

Uh huh, we just got some Mediterranean sun up in this house, cause things are getting veeery hot in New Hampshire.

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Cricket, cricket.

No, really. That's my text tone. I thought I was quite clever when I set it; no teacher would ever try to find a cricket. The downside is that whenever a real cricket chirps, I think it's my phone. I pull out the phone anyway, holding it under the desk. Not that Mr. White, my math teacher, would notice in this uproar. He's fresh out of college and pretty clearly has a best friend in Feliks, a Polish boy who's almost as sassy and gay as White is. They, along with the rest of the class, have been going on about Antonio and Lovino's romance for the past half hour. I have a bad feeling that we have a new power couple.

From: Sergeant Two Chainz

…When did he add himself to my contacts?

Message: yo lieutenant RSD, meet me my locker asap after 8th. its right next to the ag wing. come armed, we r watering roderich to see if he grows

k sure but arent u on track? what abt practice?

practice is off indefinitely

wtf?! track is NEVER canceled

coach left

where is he?

poland

he moved 2 poland?

britney is banned in poland

oh k

That explains it. It's no secret how much Brown hates Britney Spears. Everyone avoids the track when they're practicing, because whenever a runner has a spare breath they're belting out Womanizer. Between that and the amount of general hellraisers on his team – Gilbert, Dutch, and this tall Danish kid named Mathias, to name a few – I don't really blame Brown for his flight.

I slip my phone back into my pocket and start doodling a Canadian flag on my desk. The end of the day can't come quickly enough.

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I have to stop at my locker to grab a water gun. Gilbert's locker is on the other side of the school from mine – Beilschmidt and Williams aren't exactly close. (Maybe we should find someone with a last name that begins with M, so we can be BMW.) He's digging through it, eyebrows furrowed. I pause at the end of the Ag wing, next to the giant horse they have there, unsure about how one disturbs someone.

I notice that his eyebrows are white, and then wonder why I'm surprised. I mean, I knew that all the hair on someone's body is the same color – it's how everyone knows that Dutch's sister Femke, a junior, is naturally blonde like I'm naturally a redhead. Yeah, I can see from here that the hair on his legs and arms are pure white. I wonder…?

I flush bright red as my brain catches up with my wandering thoughts and gives them a stern lecture.

Suddenly, Arthur Kirkland sprints by, tears glistening on his cheeks. A moment later, Francis skids around the corner, catches sight of the blonde, and chases after him, calling, "Mon cher, I do not understand, why are you angry?"

Gilbert glances up and dismisses them, before noticing me. "Sup, Matt."

H-he noticed me?

Suddenly I feel all giggly inside.

This has got to stop. I am Canadian. I lumberjacked in my spare time back in Canada. I am so manly that I sleep with a polar bear teddy bear. I am a MAN. Men do not get giggly feelings. Now would be a good time to change the subject.

I glance curiously after Arthur. "What's with him?"

Gilbert rolls his eyes. "Well, Francis took Arthur's phone and changed his own contact information. Only for his number, he put 867-5309 and Arthur thought it was some sort of joke, and flipped a shit because 'that's not funny'–" The German (er, Prussian, as he had informed me vehemently) treats me to a bad impression of a British accent "–and Francis was confused because he was trying to ask Arthur out, and it all went to hell. Those two are hopeless. The only way they'll make up is by screwing each other senseless."

I feel like I'm on Glee, and tell Gilbert so.

"…Now that you mention it. When did our lives turn into a TV show?"

I giggle at the idea before I catch myself. This giggling business has got to stop. "Oh, nobody would watch that sort of thing. It wouldn't be more than random scenes with fanfiction that had much more plot than the show itself–"

"They would watch it for my ass."

"Oh, please–"

"I'm serious! It could be called…Gilbutt!"

"People would only watch it to stare at the characters."

A smirk crawls across his face and clings there like a slime mold. "So…you're admitting the sexiness of my butt?"

"Wh-no!" I giggle again and then realize what I'm doing. Dammit, Matt, every time you giggle God kills a kitten! "Gilbert…"

"Ja?"

"Let's go shoot people."

He grins. "Just let me grab my man purse. Fix your face, Mattie, it's not actually a man purse." He finds it in his backpack. It's definitely a man purse. He withdraws a revolver, which I almost expect to be pearl handled. It's not, it's clear orange plastic. Gilbert is looking frighteningly excited, and notices my questioning glance. "See, Roderich's my cousin… Don't look at me like that, he's, like, a fourth or fifth, not first. He used to be hella fun to mess with at family reunions, but then he moved here and I got bored with it." He grins his shark-grin. "It'll be just like old times. So here's the plan…"

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"Roderich Edelstein," Gilbert drawls, leaning against the wall behind the dark-haired aristocrat. "How goes life?"

Roderich freezes and slowly turns, violet eyes a mix of distaste and fear. "Gilbert. Go away." He not-so-discreetly shuffles behind his fangirl, a sweet-looking girl with a pretty face who would just as soon beat your ass into the ground as look at you. "Elizabeta?"

The fangirl grins creepily, lifts her weapon of choice, a frying pan, and advances on Gilbert – but pauses when he leans forward and whispers something in her ear. Her green eyes light up and she steps back, mumbling under her breath, "Yaoi yaoi yaoi yaoi yaoi yaoi yaoi…"

Roderich gapes, having lost his only line of defense. His eyes are wide and frightened, and he trembles, poised to flee. "W-what did you say to her?!"

"I told her I'd do this." In a flash, he pins Roderich against the lockers, and, before the snob can protest, captures his lips in a forceful kiss. Roderich struggles mightily, but he can't escape. Meanwhile, Elizabeta has pulled a camera out of nowhere and is filming like there's no tomorrow.

Gilbert draws back, smirking. Before Roderich can shriek, he cuts him off. "Roderich. Horrible name."

"What's wrong with my name?" Roderich protests indignantly, completely sidetracked. I quietly step out of the science room behind him, having entered it through the other door to avoid detection.

Gilbert rolls his eyes. "It's so damn LONG. Three syllables, ugh. You need a nickname–"

"NO, I DON'T."

"Yes you do," the albino grins. "I hereby dub thee…HOT ROD." Just…one…moment, and…

"WHAT?!"

Roderich's squawk is cut off by the beautiful noise of a pump-action Super Soaker. Roderich glances up and in my direction for one perfect, slo-mo split second before the water hits him, knocking his glasses off with the spirit of a thousand neighborhood water fights. In a flash, Gilbert has his phone out and snaps a picture of Roderich, who has an uncanny resemblance to a wet cat – soaked, bedraggled, and livid. "Sorry, Hot Rod, gotta fly!" And then we're sprinting away, both laughing our heads off as we return to Gilbert's locker.

To: Churro; Froggy
From: Five Meters
Attachment: img_ [download]
Message: Matthew Williams kills Roderich Edelstein. We'd like to thank COD for teaching mad sneak attack skills…

And that was the first day of Assassins.

If only we know how little time we had left.

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A/N: Reviews give me warm and fuzzy feelings. I love all of you.

I have this headcanon that Canada is a pothead. He's also a gleek because every Canadian I know (besides Maddie dearest) is one, and it's okay that he's a boy gleek because I spent a week in England with one of those and it is actually not a joke.

Manny = Cuba (geddit, cause Manny Ramirez and drugs and – ah, forget it)

Dutch = Dutch is clearly Liechtenstein

This was so damn long you don't even know I was going to split it in two because I'm a rower and hearing '5k' makes me want to cry but I wanted to be nice to readers cause I haven't updated in like a year and asdfjsadfjk so I compromised and Katuysha is next chapter. Also because I had a draft and then I honest-to-god completely rewrote this in six hours and that's about as easy as a nun. dfjasldjflskadljf

I wrote "there's a kind of pathetic beauty in the way he's still following Lovino, even after this" and immediately thought of a tumblr romance

DO A BROTHA A FAVOR AND REVIEW, YO. SERGEANT TWO CHAINZ AND LIEUTENANT ROCK-SOLID DEUCE OUT. DOLLA DOLLA BILLZ