X Reader — Gakuen Hetalia
The bell rang, and the teacher, Mr. Wang (who everyone secretly called "China"), began a lecture about economic trade routes. You tried to focus, but your pen doodled a small pair of bushy eyebrows and a wobbly crown in the margin of your notebook.
He stared at your intertwined hands, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "You… you really don't mind the chaos?"
He wasn't sick. He wasn't on a trip. He was just… absent. And the silence he left behind was louder than Alfred’s shouting or Feliciano’s singing. You missed the way he’d grumble about the tea being too weak, the way he’d wave his wand when he thought no one was looking, the way he’d get flustered and turn pink if you caught him staring.
A snort of laughter escaped you before you could stop it. You quickly covered your mouth. gakuen hetalia x reader
That made him pause. He turned his head slightly, one emerald eye peeking out from behind his messy fringe. "…I didn't think you'd care for the company of a… of a stubborn, failed magician."
"Ve~ (Y/N), do you wanna share my lunch? I have so much pasta today!" Feliciano Vargas, the perpetually cheerful boy from the Italian region, was already leaning over his desk, waving a container of something that smelled divine.
"Quit shovin', you spaghetti-shaped idiot," Ludwig, the tall, stoic class representative with perfectly ironed sleeves, grumbled, effortlessly pulling Feliciano back into his own seat by the collar. He gave you a curt, almost imperceptible nod. It was his way of saying 'good morning.' The bell rang, and the teacher, Mr
Arthur Kirkland was slumped over a desk, his head resting on his crossed arms. His normally neat ash-blonde hair was a ruffled mess. He wasn't asleep. He was just staring at the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam.
"We'll buy him a hat," you replied.
Meanwhile, a blonde whirlwind was spinning by the chalkboard. "HAMBURGER! I mean, GOOD MORNING, CLASS!" Alfred F. Jones, the school’s energetic ace of the baseball team, was attempting to write the date in three different colors of chalk. He winked at you. "Yo (Y/N)! Ready for history? I bet I can get a higher score than you on the pop quiz." He stared at your intertwined hands, his throat
The final bell had yet to ring, but the energy in Classroom 2-A was already buzzing with the lazy anticipation of a Friday afternoon. You sat near the window, the spring breeze rustling the pages of your notebook. Around you, the world was loud.
He finally looked at you, full-on. "I tried a spell. A… a 'weather-clearer.' I was going to use it for the school festival so the outdoor stalls wouldn't get rained on. I practiced for a week. I set my curtains on fire. And then my mum's favorite rug. And then I accidentally turned my little brother's hair blue."
He squeezed your hand. And just like that, the empty seat beside you wasn't empty anymore. It was home.
That startled a real laugh out of him—a soft, breathy sound that made your heart stutter.
