A/N: In honor of my own completely crazy History class, I give you this fic. Enjoy. I suck at writing scuffles, but enjoy anyway!

Day One: Monday

Last period history class at Hetalia High School was never something easily forgotten.

With such a drastic array of students, who all mixed about as well as two toxic acids to form something highly flammable and deadly if inhaled, it was a wonder the room had not yet exploded due to the utter chaos that happened every single day, from the second one set foot inside the door. Alfred F. Jones, in the front row, drew hamburgers all over his book with completely indecent enthusiasm and did nothing but shoot spitballs at the trash can no matter what their poor teacher, Mr. Dinwiddy, did to stop him. Moving the trash can did not help, and nor did taking away his notebook or straw. It was a matter of legendary mystery to all who knew Alfred how he had ever managed to attain such an endless supply of straws from the lunch cafeteria without being arrested for robbery.

Beside Alfred sat the ever-stoic Ludwig Beilschmidt, an impossibly serious boy with obsessive-compulsive disorder who always had to have everything on his desk aligned just so, and who actually attempted to take notes of what Mr. Dinwiddy wrote down on the board, no matter what the chaos going on around him. He was the reason the boys behind and beside him—his brother, Gilbert Beilschmidt, and his best friend, Feliciano Vargas—were passing this class.

Beside Gilbert sat quiet Matthew Williams, so shy he was hardly ever noticed and nearly identical to Alfred. Like Ludwig, he also attempted to take notes, but was always soon distracted when Gilbert challenged him to a game of footsie across the aisle. Behind Matthew lurked the school creep, a boy called Ivan Braginski who was very tall, and made to look very puffy from the floor-length coat he always wore, and who made strange kol-ing noises when he was about to bash someone's face in. His sister, Naytalia, who sat next to him, was no better.

However, the real bane of this class sat in the very back two desks in the middle, as far away from the exasperated Mr. Dinwiddy as possible; their bickering was constant, to the point that even if the two were on opposite sides of the classroom they would find ways to insult each other, and it would always end in a shouting match so loud it could easily put the blast of an oncoming train to shame. Mr. Dinwiddy had long ago decided it was better just to place them next to each other so they could argue as they pleased without having to yell their foul remarks across the room, and to keep them as far away from the front of the room as possible so he wouldn't have to hear it, and had done so trying not to wonder why the two still seemed so inseparable if all they did was argue. They had to be together, or the frustration would only build. It left Mr. Dinwiddy utterly bewildered, but he had long since decided that anything the two boys did was simply far beyond his comprehension, and had let it lie at that. Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland were just impossible to figure out, anyway.

Arthur was a short, skinny Briton with a very short temper and absolutely monstrous eyebrows, whose personality fell somewhere between gentlemanly and snappishly irritable. As Francis so gracefully put it, Arthur was like a woman with PMS on most days, who got angry at the drop of a hat and bit off the head of anyone who annoyed him in the least. It was a wonder that Francis, being at the top of the annoyance list, was still completely intact with no permanent damage or missing limbs to degrade his good looks even slightly.

Francis, very unlike Arthur, was tall, blue-eyed, and handsome, with perfectly wavy blond hair and a smooth demeanor to match. It was common knowledge that he had gone to bed with nearly every girl in the school (with the exceptions of Naytalia Braginski, Elizaveta Hedevary, who was nearly as creepy as Naytalia, and Lili Zwingli, whose brother Vash would murder Francis if he ever got anywhere close), and there were many juicy rumors of a few very special boys as well. While he was one of the most popular boys in school, Arthur was one of the biggest loners.

Today, in the back row of Mr. Dinwiddy's history class, Francis was trying valiantly to get a conversation out of Arthur.

"So, how has your day been, cher?" he asked, leaning closer to Arthur across the aisle, only to be smacked away none too gently.

"Terrible, and don't call me that," Arthur snapped shortly, glaring daggers at the frog as he turned back to his notes on the Seven Years' War. Francis, however, was unperturbed. He leaned back leisurely in his chair, stifling a yawn.

"Aah, sorry to hear that," he murmured. "And you are a dear—or would you rather me call you lapin?"

Arthur slammed his pencil down. "Don't fucking call me anything!" he hissed, reaching across the aisle to smack Francis again. The rather loud sound of it didn't even make anyone look up, save for Mr. Dinwiddy, who was clearly calculating the milliseconds until class would be over and these two would no longer be at risk of blowing his room to bits.

Francis smirked, carefully removing himself from Arthur's hitting range. "Lapin, if you hit me much harder I'm going to be all black and blue for the dance next Tuesday!"

"You'd better bloody hope I don't give you a black eye!" Arthur muttered, though it was completely uncharacteristic of him not to go on a rampage and start trying to punch Francis to oblivion at about this point.

For a few moments they actually sat in silence; the room seemed dead, and Alfred F. Jones actually paused in his shooting of spitballs to look back and see what was going on. But then Arthur was talking again, and everyone knew that nothing had suddenly caused a massive spontaneous combustion of the world.

"I suppose you've already got a date," he muttered, scribbling down the date of something that Francis knew he should have already learned but couldn't bring himself to feel too bothered about.

"Actually, non," Francis replied, almost civilly, surprising even himself. He stretched lazily, running a hand through his silky hair and hearing Arthur growl with frustration from next to him. "The girls all wait for me."

Arthur snorted something inaudible in response, disheveled hair falling into his eyes as he bent over his notes. Francis smirked, leaning over to run a hand through the Brit's hair and immediately catch his fingers on a terrible knot. Arthur snarled, jerking his head up to glare at Francis with a gaze piercing enough to melt holes in a solid brick wall, but Francis merely met it with a sigh.

"Your hair is always such a disaster," he said, deliberately running his fingers through it again, trying to tug out the enormous knot. Arthur looked ready to throttle him, making him smile even more widely. "You know, you should really let me cut it for you. Then you might even be able to get a date."

Arthur growled, smacking the frog's hand out of his hair and slamming down his pencil once again. "Francis, you bloody asshole, you are not one to talk," he snarled.

Francis smirked, carefully leaning back out of hitting range. "Oh? Arthur, cher, I think we both know how beautiful mon hair is, non?"

Arthur's glare turned feral, and immediately Francis knew he'd made a bad move.

"Really? I'm not seeing beautiful hair, you fucking frog. All I see is a bleached-blond rat's nest on top of your slimy amphibian head."

The entire class went dead silent as Francis gasped angrily, staring at the cruelly victorious look on Arthur's face, brilliant green eyes glinting with ferocious rage. And then Francis spoke, in a deadly quiet voice that was almost enough to make Ludwig Beilschmidt flinch.

"You're saying my hair isn't naturally blond?" he whispered, fury rising with every word. If there was one thing he would not stand for, it was jealous bitches making spiteful comments about his wonderful hair. And in this case, Arthur most certainly fell into the bitch category.

"Yes, I'm saying it's not naturally blond." Arthur's smug smirk radiated the evilness of the lowest possible level of villainy, taunting Francis, green eyes just daring him to make a move in retaliation.

"If you think my hair is a rat's nest, cher, you should really look in the mirror once in a while," Francis shot back nastily, crossing his arms. "Just look at yours—always so ugly, sticking up all over the place! Maybe you wouldn't look so terrible if you would let me cut it—"

"Says the fop who would gladly recruit me into the national Blokes Who Look Like Girls Foundation," Arthur snapped.

Francis was ready to explode. "Girly? Girly?! At least I know the meaning of the words personal hygiene!"

"Oh really? You call that girly perfumey shit you spray on yourself everyday hygenic? It smells disgusting!"

"At least I smell better than you, you con!"

"So a good smell is one that restricts my ability to breathe properly?!" Arthur fumed, standing from the desk and glaring at Francis, positively boiling with white-hot rage.

"Maybe I should wear it more often, if it would choke you to death for me," Francis growled, standing up also, itching to simply grab Arthur's throat and squeeze.

Arthur's fists clenched as Francis forced him back against the wall. "I'll bet I can kill you before your bloody perfume gets me," he snarled, before lunging at Francis and slamming him to the ground.

Arthur twisted away from the hands at his throat, grabbing Francis's neck and punching him in the ear, feeling the Frenchman reach around him to twist his arm back. The leg of a desk connected with his back, but he took no notice as Francis tried to roll over on top of him, and instead took the chance to lunge for the Frenchman's throat. His fingers connected with hot skin, and he wrapped them around Francis's neck and squeezed.

Francis threw him off, pinning him to the floor with a knee to his stomach.

"Still not choking," Arthur hissed, smacking Francis full in the face.

"Still not dead," Francis shot back, kicking Arthur in the gut again.

"Boys! Boys! Control yourselves!"

Neither Francis nor Arthur took the slightest notice of Mr. Dinwiddy's pleas for order, and neither did the rest of the class. Elizaveta Hedevary and Kiku Honda were both watching the two roll together on the floor, both hiding what looked like uncontrollable smiles beneath their hands. Ludwig Beilschmidt sighed and rose from his seat, striding to the back of the classroom to try and help Mr. Dinwiddy break up the fight, but to no avail. Gilbert and Alfred were both laughing hysterically, Matthew was blushing, and Feliciano watched in confusion. Ivan was koling, smiling dangerously. Naytalia crouched in her chair like a predator ready to strike, grinning at the two boys fighting on the floor. It could be safely assumed that Mr. Dinwiddy would never regain control of the class within the last twenty minutes until the bell; notebooks, pens, and pencils were all being shoved into backpacks, and feet lifted from the floor to ensure their safety from Francis and Arthur's fury.

Francis's hands were clawing at his legs, and Arthur seized his neck once again, rolling over to sit on the Frenchman's chest as he slammed the back of his head into the floor. Francis growled, shoving Arthur down to the floor and flipping on top of him again, shoving his legs open, aiming a knee for his groin but missing when Arthur rolled over beneath him. Francis growled and grabbed him, hauling him back.

Arthur struggled to get the Frenchman off of him, from where he was pinned by the arms around his shoulders, back trapped against Francis's stomach. He retched himself from the frog's grip, almost landing a punch that would break his perfect face, but suddenly someone seized him by the shoulders and dragged him away from Francis.

Arthur growled, struggling, desperate to get revenge on that Frenchman for holding him in what he had suddenly realized had been a very compromising position. No way was he being fucked doggie-style by Francis. No way was he ever being fucked by Francis.

He wanted to pound his face in.

"Francis, you bloody bitch!" he yelled, struggling to break free from Mr. Dinwiddy's grip on his shoulders. "I'll pound you all the way to hell!"

"In that case we'll be going together," Francis snarled from where Ludwig Beilschmidt was currently holding him back. He finally sighed, forcing himself to calm down enough to not lunge at Arthur the second Ludwig's hold on him relented, and nodded at the tall German boy to let him know he was alright again. Arthur had been dragged to the other side of the classroom, and had finally stopped fighting to break free and murder Francis, although his green eyes still flashed dangerously, simmering with anger.

The classroom was deadly silent as all eyes turned on Francis and Arthur, glaring at each other across the room, just barely holding back from putting each other in the Emergency Room. As soon as the bell rang, everyone, including Mr. Dinwiddy, rushed out of the classroom, save for Francis and Arthur.

As soon as the lights turned out, Arthur stalked up to Francis, glared at him for a moment, and smacked him across the face with all his strength. Francis straightened up, not even missing a beat, and slammed his knee into his groin.

Arthur gasped, crumpling, and Francis picked up his backpack, flipped his hair, and strode wordlessly out the door.

A/N: It gets much better, trust me... *Wink-wink* And is anyone else getting squeal-worthy sexual tension vibes?