It was drizzling as the man in the trench coat made his way across the school's parking lot. The sun was setting behind the thick gray clouds, not a soul was in sight.

"Dammit, Jim," he muttered to himself. "You had to leave the papers when it was raining, didn't you?" He hustled to the door, keys jangling in his palm. The doors opened with a clank, and he quickly stepped into the dark hall, shaking the water off of his coat.

He unlocked the door to room E39 quickly, not bothering to turn on the light. He just needed to grab the debate papers on his desk. His team would be so disappointed if he didn't have their cases ready...

As he reached his desk, he heard a faint noise behind him. Almost like someone was clearing their throat. Jim whipped around, and saw something he would never forget.

"Hello, Mr. Cleavland," Arthur greeted, nodding his head.

Jim pressed his lips into a thin, neutral expression. "Good Afternoon, Arthur."

Arthur smiled, a demented sort of smirk, and shook the blonde bangs out of his eyes. "So, you're probably wondering why I'm duct taped to the ceiling."

Jim let his mouth fall agape. His neck was starting to cramp up from the odd angle. "Yeah, something like that."

…

About a week ago, a young man by the name of Arthur Kirkland was assigned to a debate case. This wasn't an odd situation at all. After all, he was on the debate team, and he had been assigned many cases before. Even if the form of the debate—policy, was a bit different from his usual Lincoln-Douglass style, it wasn't the most strangely named crayon in the box.

"But Alfred?"

Mr. Cleavland sighed. "Arthur, he is a very experienced member of this team and this is your first policy case, I think you'll do well together."

"No we won't!" Arthur replied, apparently shaken. "Look, coach, I get that you want me to branch out. I get that it's good for me to learn other styles and work with other people every so often."

Mr. Cleavland opened his mouth, probably to agree, but Arthur cut him off. "But Alfred and I just don't get along. We never have. Please, just don't, coach."

The teacher sighed again (it was a common reaction to Arthur Kirkland) and looked around the room. It wasn't packed with the thirty or so usual students for an English class, but the twelve debate-team-members managed to make it look filled to the brim. Papers were spread haphazardly on desks, backpacks sat gutted on empty chairs, books fell open on the floor, and the noise level rivaled a flock of angry seagulls.

"Arthur, I'm sorry, but there's just no one else I can pair you with. You're both perfectly capable of acting professional about this, so please just try."

Arthur deflated, his shoulders drooping under his white polo. "This is going to end badly," he whispered, too softly for his teacher to hear. He turned on his heel, dejectedly facing his brand new "partner."

Alfred F. Jones sat across the room, through the throng of loose-papery-destruction, and he was staring right back at Arthur. His smirk told it all, their whole story. Well, that and his glasses, which were still broken at the side from the time Arthur had punched him in freshman year. For some reason, he never repaired them.

Yes, Alfred F. Jones had been annoying Arthur since the moment they both arrived on campus. He'd pick on his eyebrows, mock his accent, and he'd still never let go the whole "rubber vs. eraser" indecent.

Alfred F. Jones, was in summary, a huge dick.

A ruddy brilliant dick capable of going to nationals, but a dick all the same.

…

"Artie-farty, hey there," Alfred greeted cleanly, as Arthur slumped into the desk diagonal to him. "I take it you couldn't ditch me?"

"Shut it, you prat," Arthur retorted, closing his eyes and leaning into the bar of his rickety public-funded tax-paid desk. "Can we please just be professional about this? It's only a week, just one week, and we can throw the debate and never see each other again."

"Throw the debate?!" Alfred exclaimed. Arthur cracked an eyelid to take in his shocked expression. It was refreshing after all the smirks. "There is no way in hell I'm throwing a debate, Artie-Farty! Even with you! I have an A+ perfect record and you're not bringing me down to your level!"

Arthur straightened up at lightning speed, the glare he commonly wore slapping back into place. "My level? I'll have you know I've only ever lost one debate, just one, and it was because you bloody cheated-"

"It's not my fault I overheard you rehearsing your main points!"

Arthur snorted. "It makes me wonder how many other opponents you've 'overheard'."

Alfred's face clouded. "I am not a cheater. First of all, that was the beginning of freshman year, it was my first official debate, I had no idea which rooms they put you in, and I normally never go out of my room anyway-"

Arthur leaned forward. "Is that so? Please, oh mighty Alfart, enlighten me as to why you left your kingly rooms that eventful day."

Alfred paused. Just for a moment, he faltered. Arthur wasn't supposed to see it, he could tell, because right after Alfred did it his eyes widened in fear and shock. But Arthur barely had time to raise an eyebrow at the behavior before his enemy's expression was wiped clean.

"Well I had to piss."

Arthur made to refute, it was a clear lie, if Alfred's body language was anything to judge by. But for some odd reason he closed his mouth and relaxed back into his cheap desk.

"How eloquent of you," was all he chose to say.

…

Three days into the alleged "partnership" things had escalated to a full-on war. The debate team was no stranger to rivalries and arguing (that was, after all, their specialty) but this was something new. This was something bloody.

It started with a few scathing remarks. Then Alfred was "accidentally" locked in the bathroom. Once he was retrieved, Arthur's notes made a mysterious disappearing act.

Soon, the members of the debate team started taking sides. Well, all except for Vash, but he never took sides.

"Hey, Arther," Elizabeta whispered, her heavy accent making Arthur's name sound gruff and nasal. "Visten, I fink I have a theory about Alfred's motives."

Arthur matched his pace with hers. They were walking away from debate, towards the student parking lot. No one was paying them any attention.

"Because he's a complete arse and he's always hated me? Gee, thanks. Never would have figured that one out."

"No," Elizabeta assured, her bangs falling darkly in her eyes. "In fact, zhat seems to be zhe exact opposite reason."

Arthur stopped walking, almost forgetting to hold onto the binder he was carrying. "What?"

…

"I dunno, Alfart, can't you just let it go?" Gilbert asked, shading his eyes against the blazing hot sun as he tried to locate his keys. (Weren't they in his pocket an hour ago?)

Alfred stared across the parking lot to where Arthur was talking to Elizabeta. He couldn't see their facial expressions, but he felt as if they were discussing future pranks to pull on him. Great. Elizabeta was famous for her cruelty in prankwars.

"Don't call me Alfart. And no, I can't just let it go." Alfred mocked the faint German accent in the last bit, but Gilbert didn't seem to notice.

"You don't seem to mind your little Artie calling you that. Are you really that head-over-heels for him? Any nickname will do?"

"I don't like Arthur, Gil. He's a loud-mouthed, stuck up, know-it-all, can't-take-a-joke, asshole."

Gilbert finally found his keys, and quickly unlocked his car. The beep carried across the near-empty parking lot, and Alfred saw Arthur's head whip towards them. He tensed.

Gilbert picked up on the small movement and burst into a wide grin.

"Me thinks the lady doth protest too much!" He sang, opening the door.

Alfred growled, and shoved Gilbert into the driver's seat. "Shut up, Shakespeare. It's none of your business anyway."

Gilbert laughed, his eyes following Alfred as he walked around to the passenger seat. "Whatever, man. I just don't get why you like him. I mean I get that he's attractive but he's not exactly the happiest person, y'know?"

Alfred slouched into the seat and slammed the door behind him. "I just do, okay?"

…

As easy as it would have been for everyone involved, Alfred didn't "just" like Arthur. He had been completely whipped by him. It started on the day they met. It was nothing out of the ordinary, just plain physical attraction. They were teenagers, he was horny, there wasn't much to it.

And then Alfred actually got to know him.

Arthur ducked his head when he laughed—but only if it was genuine. When he was nervous, he pushed his hair behind his ears. He hated coffee. He took tea with two sugars. His favorite color was pink but he wouldn't ever tell anyone because his older brother had tormented him about it for years. So instead he told people it was green—which was his second favorite.

In sophomore year he failed his driver's exam twice before actually receiving a license. He also came close to failing Algebra II. In Junior year he got detention for fighting someone who was picking on a lesbian couple. He also simultaneously came out in Junior year.

Alfred F. Jones was completely and utterly obsessed with Arthur Kirkland, and the only way he seemed to get attention was if he extracted it, coldly, immaturely, and with the utmost care to never go too far.

Which is why, for as much as Arthur disliked Al, he could never force himself to hate him.

…

The war continued on the fourth day. Since competitions were starting the debate team had started meeting up every day after school, and things were starting to get tense. The vein in Ludwig's forehead was pulsing.

"Oh yeah? Well your contentions are about as strong as a tower of toothpicks, so you can shut the hell up!"

And, as usual, in the heart of it all was Alfred and Arthur, fighting over something that had no meaning to sane human beings but was apparently life or death to them. The boys were trapped in a never-ending tube of fighting, even Gilbert could see it. They were both afraid to say anything but hurtful words and biting taunts—because if they said anything else then their real feelings would be exposed. So they grasped frightfully onto the only sort of "relationship" available, and stuck to glares and pointed fingers. Because that was better than nothing at all.

"Ve have got to do somezing about this," Elizabeta whispered, to no one in particular.

Unfortunately for her, Gilbert was the only one to pick up on her monologue. "Hate to agree with ya, Lizzy, but you're right. They're killing me with this. And Ludwig, too." Gilbert cast a glance at his brother, who was starting to make low growling noises again. Gilbert sighed.

"Visten, Gilbert. I have a proposition for you," Eliza spoke, keeping her eyes glued to the two arguing blondes. (They were just about done, judging by Arthur's wild eyes.)

"Ve, zhe both of us, vill call a truce for zhe time being. I need you help, tomorrow, day of debate."

Gilbert smirked. Elizabeta was famous for her pranks, but Gilbert was famous for pulling them off. "Another truce? Alright. You got me in. What's the details?"

…

It was raining outside. A real thunderstorm, with all the menacing lighting flashes and growling booms. The sun was blocked out completely, and all twelve members of the debate team were cramped the bus to Frezno High School.

"It's supposed to clear up," Arthur muttered, staring down at his cell phone. "But it doesn't look like any time soon..."

Alfred, who was strategically sitting in the seat in front of the English boy, snorted. He turned, placing his arms over the back of his seat. "Well, we'll be inside, at least."

Arthur felt his heart pound in his chest.

Okay, okay, cliché, he knows. But he couldn't help himself. Alfred was, let's face it, extremely attractive. But he was also very intelligent, and, if that wasn't enough, capable of holding his own against Arthur's insults, and even injecting some humor into them. If that didn't spell perfect match, Arthur didn't know what did.

"You seem oddly happy," Arthur commented carefully. If he said too much, the reverie of peace would be broken, the world would realize what they were doing and force them back into reality. But if he said too little, the conversation would die.

A delicate balance.

Alfred shrugged. "Y'know I think we actually stand a chance in this debate, Artie." Alfred's gaze lingered, driving home his soft tone and softer words. "I mean, I'm debating, after all, and I'm the best."

The mood shattered safely, and Arthur rolled his eyes with a smile.

Balance, balance, balance.

…

Alfred had been peeing for twenty minutes, and he still wasn't back yet. Arthur checked his watch again and tapped his foot against the thin ugly carpet. The manila folder was clutched in one sweaty hand, and he was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the small room. Where were the judges? His opponents? Surely, he was in the right room? Usually they'd be here right now, but no one was around at all...

The lights flickered off.

Arthur squeaked, but clamped a hand over his mouth. His green eyes grew wide, searching in the dark for something, anything at all.

A thick hand grabbed his upper arm and squeezed. Arthur shrieked, but another meaty hand replaced the one missing from his mouth.

"Arthur! Shut up! It's me, Gilbert!"

"G-Gil? What the fuck! Let me go, you arse!"

"Sorry, can't do that. Eliza, hand me the duct tape."

"Sorry, Arther, but vis is for your own good."

…

Jim sat back in his chair, and pushed the hair out of his face. He was almost perfectly dry now, and he could barely hear the faint patter of rain on the windowsill.

"They told me you were too sick to debate...Roderich filled in for you...but..."

Arthur shrugged as much as he could while duct taped to the ceiling. "Yeah. How'd it go, by the way? Did we win?"

Jim nodded. "Uh, yeah. Alfred was really off his game though. Kept looking at me with these eyes. Afterward he told me he got locked in the bathroom again and when he came out you were gone."

Arthur smiled.

"So anyway, go on with the story." Jim ushered, waving his hand in a 'continue' motion.

"That's it. That was the end," Arthur explained, raising an eyebrow.

"What?" The coach exclaimed. "But that doesn't make any sense! Why would they tape you to the roof? What's the whole point of that plan? And whatever happened with you and Alfred?"

Arthur tried to shrug again. "Mr. Cleavland, this is Eliza and Gil we're talking about here, they're not exactly normal people. They sometimes just pull pranks."

Jim frowned. "B-bu..."

"Alfred? He was at the debate, coach. This is real life, what, do you expect him to come charging in to take me down and confess that I am his one true love?"

Jim deflated, glancing around the darkened room. "Huh. I guess you're right."

"So coach, can you get me down?"

"Oh, shit! Sorry, Arthur!"

As the debate sponsor got Arthur down from the ceiling, which wasn't easy, by the way, he couldn't help but think that there was more to the story.

Wow. Hey guys. So this was requested by someone on tumblr who goes by the name of fakelemonadestand2. And it took me FORVER to write it so I'm very sorry! However, I might have something to make it up to you!

-I'm thinking about continuing this, but I need some help. Does anyone have theories as to why Gil and Eliza put Arthur on the ceiling? Throw them at me!

-Should I write a little past-thing about how Art and Al's relationship came to be?

Also, I have a few things to say:

I always like to imagine Eliza as having a thick, deep Hungarian voice, whereas Gil is barely accented, and more like he's been living in the states all his life but grew up in a German-speaking home. Which is why I wrote their dialogue like I did.

If you have any questions about debate terminology, lay 'em on me!

Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!

-Mallory