Not Even if it was the World Cup-- [Piter/OPEN]

He really did not understand why this was necessary. Instead of them making him waste his time in a 'class' he did virtually nothing in, why not simply waive the required credit altogether? Honestly. They even forced him to wear the stupid gym uniform and change his clothes in a locker room full of disgusting urchins--and the fact that he always found a back corner to hide in as he did so did not make it any better. The principle of it all was what mattered.

And now, as always, he sat in the bleachers, reading, as the rest of the class divided up into small teams and played soccer. Most boys his age probably would have been somewhat embarrassed about having to sit out, but he didn't particularly care. It wasn't as if he'd ever gone to any great lengths to convince people that he wasn't physically weak. He did, however, always take care to cover up. Even on relatively balmy afternoons such as this one, he still wore the track jacket usually reserved for winter over his uniform. True, he was more sensitive to the cold, these days, but that wasn't the reason why. He didn't need a certain someone that he loathed to no end seeing how thin and mottled his arms had become, or how his skin was stretched over his bones, how his collar and rib cage protruded like some starved alleyway cat.

He was still out to ruin Viktor's life, so he didn't need to seem like he'd been beaten in the process. A little tuberculosis wasn't going to stop him.

As he flipped another page of The Return of Martin Guerre (he would have to make a point to find one of the French students and confirm the accuracy, sometime), he caught, in his peripheral vision, the sight of one of the balls rolling to a halt only a few feet away from him. He didn't even bother to glance up until a voice called out,

"Hey! Kick it here!"

...Really? He looked up with the blankest expression he could muster (not difficult, since it was his default face, anyways), as if to convey through thinly pressed lips just how unamused he was. They were well out of luck if they imagined that he was going to touch that thing.

((Story of my life minus the part about wanting to ruin my brother. :I /DOCTOR'S NOTE. ALWAYS.

_{By the way, do they have their canon histories, or are they...re-interpreted, or something? :\ I could make up a reason for why he has TB, but I wasn't sure if I needed to. And he doesn't need an AU reason to hate Viktor. He always hates Viktor. /shot}))

Kiril always found it cute how students thought a doctor's note would save them from his class. He wasn't about to ease up unless they were dying, and even then--their weaknesses weren't his problem. He would have loved to fail every little failed abortion that crawled through the gym doors. But their parents paid well, and they expected their little mistakes to pass.

The barrel-chested Bulgarian pursed his lips over a cigar, letting the smoke seep and rise from his nose as if he were a seething volcano. His eyes narrowed on the anorexic ethiopian child on the bleachers. This cunt again.

He strode over, punctuating his journey with an eerily casual lean against the bleachers. He put out the spent cigar on the back of his hairy hand, and flicked it. At the student.

"Going to get in the game, Twiggy, or are we going to use you as a ragdoll for the wrestling club?"

Good lord, not this again. Yet another reason why he shouldn't have even been in this class, to begin with.

Managing to snort with a healthy (or perhaps unhealthy) amount of disdain, despite having to parry the cigarette midair with his book in a rather undignified manner, he fixed the instructor with a massively unconcerned look. Could this man snap him in half like a toothpick? Probably. Did he have any qualms about sending some snotty Russian kid to the nurse's office on a stretcher? Probably not. Did Piter care? Never.

"As much as I respect your position as an 'instructor', sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline," he responded crisply, in a mildly monotone voice. "I apologize if there is not much joy to be had in your life beyond endangering the lives of minors, but being grievously injured over a game of football isn't high on my list of priorities, you understand."

No points for participation.

Very poor choice of words.

"Then I expect to see your tight ass after class."

He stomped up the bleachers, tearing the book from the boy's hands. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate good literature--for in fact, he did, just as much as he appreciated a good game of chess--but the little Russian wasn't going to see that worn copy again unless he complied. He had skipped over purgatory for the lowest level of Hell. Wrestling club with Viktor.

"Don't stand us up, Petia~"

...Oh dear.

The young Russian pursed his lips, extraordinarily displeased. What a terrible situation this was. Normally, he would certainly have not even bothered--he had a million books at home, losing one was no incentive to get killed. But that copy happened to be from the library. And while he did, indeed, have a million books at home, that was not the case here. Dying might have been better than having his library card revoked.

What to do? He might have actually been willing to go in himself--he could deal with a few broken bones for the sake of library access--except for the fact that he knew who they'd inevitably bring in to do the breaking. Snowballs would extinguish the sun before he'd allow himself to be humiliated by Viktor, let alone lose to him. What to do? He couldn't have someone else fight for him; something told him that that would do little to pacify the insane gym teacher. But how else could he possibly win?

...Bring a gun, perhaps? Where would he find one?

For all his brains, he could think of few options that would help his case in the slightest. As the bell rang and the students began lining up to go back inside, he stood up with a sigh and conceded that perhaps the best thing to do was go and talk to the nurse.

And perhaps see Motya, while he was at it.

((Hold on, gonna crash the thread with Nico real quick before I bring Piter back-- XD))

Arash hurried after the ball. It was always his mission to seem athletically adept, to seem strong, to be powerful. And he physically exhausted himself in the gym, on the field, or on the wrestling team. Especially on the wrestling team, for it was there that so much of his ambition lay. So it must have been a gift from God that the gym teacher was the wrestling coach, it gave Arash a chance to prove himself further, to exhaust himself longer. The Wrestling Coach had started the year with a distaste for Muslims, Arash knew. Arash - who was an occasionally devout Muslim (and ocassionally a really shitty Muslim), always struggled to get on his good side. He often collapsed, but when he caught just a glance from the gym teacher - the exhaustion was worth it.

"Hey, get in the game, twiggy," Arash called out, mimicking the insult of the gym teacher. The young Iranian was not particularly charming to his peers. He could be charming, yes, but as he grew older and older, he lost more and more of the charm he was endowed with at youth. However, the term 'twiggy' was not one that Arash should have been throwing around. He was in one of the smallest weight classes in wrestling. He was short in stature, and thin in body. It made him insecure - but being small was not a disadvantage in wresting, and Arash was a hell of a wrestler.

Sweat poured down Arash's face, and his legs shook, but he wiped the sweat away.

"Sir," he called out to the gym coach. "We're using the Russian for wrestling practice?" There was a flash of tea stained teeth at the Bulgarian.

((Arash was a lot nicer at this age, but he was developing a severe case of the douchebag.))

Saved by the bell. Lucky dicksquirt. No doubt off to find salvation at the nurse's office, as the weak and sickly were so fond of doing. If they thought a pair of choice tits would save them from their gym Teacher, they were fooling themselves...but the woman had distracted him before. Crafty vixen.

Kiril's gaze hitched on the Muslim boy. Arash's saving grace was not bing born Turkish.

"Fresh meat for my boyssss!" He boomed back, tossing the book to the Persian. The boy was eager. To please and to be noticed. He liked that.

The Bulgarian nodded in approval at the young Persian with a slick grin, then directed his attention to the rest of the class. "Hit the showers, you fucking little meatsacks."

Eyes back on the Muslim boy. "Arash. With me."

"We're going to the nurse's office."

((You know that kid Randall from the show Recess? That is who Arash reminds me of. 8|))

[[ MIGHT AS WELL STICK THIS IN ON THE OFF CHANCE I GET TO HARASS ARASH UNTIL KIRIL GETS BACK ]]

Viktor blinked at seeing the gym empty, looking around suspiciously as if someone would jump out of the bleachers when he wasn't looking... But that didn't seem like something that was going to happen. He'd already gotten changed, having had a free period the last lesson and spent it on his phone playing tetris but, of course, he'd say he spent it doing something more more productive like homework.

But to his credit the title of Tetris champion was currently in the hands of an American and he was not just going to stand for that... Not that he'd be allowed to compete against him, probably, but he'd still get immense satisfaction from beating his score by himself.

But now he was done with teris, sitting on the bleachers and waiting for anyone else to show up... Perhaps he'd gotten the day wrong. Or maybe it just didn't start this week. Both unlikely, but possible.

And what was he even going to do this year.

He was clearly not in the same weight class as any of the other members and sitting on them would probably kill them which isn't exactly sporting. He yawned, glancing down at his watch and frowning, just staring at the opposite wall and waiting for anyone to show up.