I have no excuse for this, other than I wanted to write it just to see how I'd do. OTL
Warnings: AU, slash, sexual content, questionable consent, teacher/student relations, OOCness
Pairing: Arthur/Matthew
Disclaimer: I don't deserve to own Hetalia
On Arthur's first day teaching at the Academy, he finds himself hopelessly lost in one of the many corridors of the prestigious school with only ten minutes before his first class of the year.
It had been difficult, landing a job at such a select preparatory school. Especially for someone as young as Arthur Kirkland. Fresh out of university, armed with a masters in English Literature and already studying towards his PhD, the sandy-haired man had expected to find a job as a substitute teacher for junior high students—work unsuited for someone of his education, but any experience would be worthwhile as he fervently believed, especially for someone of his background.
In and out of trouble as a teenager, Arthur had finally cleaned up his act after a stint in juvenile detention after a prank on a Spanish student had gone too far. He swore, in front of his sobbing mum, that he'd clean up the mess that was his life and trained himself to be the perfect gentleman. Even some of his oldest friends had difficulty believing that he—the somewhat socially challenged academic dressed in too much tweed who owned a sweater vest for every occasion— and the troubled youth of his past who wore too much leather and studs in his ears and flipped off any adult who dared look at him sideways were one and the same.
Of course, his on and off best friend, Francis—the wanker—wouldn't go so far as to say his attitude had completely adjusted. He accused him of still being the grumpy, foul-mouthed, quick-tempered little shite who had a penchant for seeing just how far he could push the establishment before it shoved back.
But Francis was French. Of course he'd have nothing kind to say about an Englishman.
"Oh blow me." Arthur swore, checking his watch with a frustrated scowl.
"Is that an invitation?" A soft voice chuckled from a few feet away.
He whirled around, catching sight of a student with pale blond hair smiling at him in amusement as he shut his locker and slung his messenger bag over his shoulders.
"Sorry, didn't mean to eavesdrop." The boy continued in that same soft tone, barely a note above a whisper. "Its just that you've been standing there swearing for the past two minutes and I'm fairly certain that shade of maroon cannot be healthy." Violet eyes twinkled as the boy stepped forward, holding his hand out charmingly. "Matthew Williams. Are you new here?"
Arthur stared at the offered hand, realizing that this student probably thought he was a student as well (curse his youth), before dragging his gaze over to the boy's face. "Arthur Kirkland. I teach English Literature." He grasped the hand firmly.
Immediately the boy's casual smile dropped and he nervously shook Arthur's hand, a bashful blush flitting across the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry." He stepped back, adjusting his navy blazer. "I thought you were a student, Mr. Kirkland." He averted his gaze, shifting anxiously. "I'm actually in your class. We can just walk there together." He glanced at Arthur then. "If you don't mind, sir."
"Not at all, lad." Arthur responded, green eyes locked on Matthew's face. The boy smiled faintly before walking off in a direction.
The two walked in silence until Matthew broke it suddenly. "That comment earlier…sir…I didn't realize you were a teacher…and it just slipped out!" He looked at Arthur, vague terror in his eyes. "I'm really sor—"
Arthur hid an amused smile. This Matthew Williams liked to apologize a lot. "Not need to work yourself up, Mr. Williams." He interrupted the boy who looked like he might start hyperventilating at any moment. "It was a mistake. We all make them."
The blond student looked somewhat relieved then. The silence reigned until they reached a nondescript wooden door, the sounds of the class chatting noisily even though it was shut.
"This is the classroom sir." Matthew said quietly. "If you enter from the side entrance and then take the first left, then there is no way you'll miss it."
"Thank you, Mr. Williams." Arthur said gratefully. "Now why don't you go in and I'll work on my grand entrance?"
Matthew smiled, a quick upward curving of his lips, eyes flickering towards his teacher for a moment before he opened the door and slipped into the room.
Arthur can't explain why, but he soon becomes hyper aware of Matthew Williams. The boy seems to be everywhere, flickering in and out of his sight as though teasing the green-eyed man.
The Brit catches sight of him play-shoving a boy who looks remarkably like him, scowling when the other pulls him into a headlock and digs his fingers into the other boy's ribs, eliciting giggled curses.
(He later learns that the other boy is Alfred Jones, Matthew's cousin and beloved hero of the baseball team. He also learns that the boy is a loudmouthed, disrespectful twit with no appreciation for the written word.)
Arthur sees Matthew joking at the lunch table, surrounded by burly teens who look like they could crush the slender blond under their size.
(He later finds out that those are Matthew's hockey teammates and that they are fiercely protective of their centre.)
He catches sight of the quiet student in the library, nose buried into a copy of Romeo and Juliet and ignorant of the world around him.
It is during this time that he can't help but gravitate to the student. Its rare to see a student indulge a literary pursuit without being forced and it makes him somewhat giddy to see a Shakespeare classic.
"How are you enjoying that so far?" He ventures quietly, a strange little thrill dancing up his spine when Matthew jerks back, glancing up with a guilty expression at being caught reading a quintessential romance.
When he sees that it's just his teacher, his distress eases and a shy smile creeps across his face. "I've actually already read it." He admitted, lowering his lashes slightly. "I like it."
Arthur can't help but smile a bit. "Interesting to hear that. It's a tragedy, my boy." He explains, perhaps a bit patronizingly but he wants to push this seemingly meek boy.
"But that's what makes it so beautiful." Matthew replied. "They weren't meant to be together. That they were too foolish and too young and too naïve. Love destroyed them because they succumbed to it." He locked eyes with Arthur. "Love is a beautiful tragedy itself."
Arthur swallows roughly, unable to tear away from that lilac gaze.
Arthur starts to believe he has a problem when he begins to notice small habits of the student.
Matthew bites his lower lip when in deep thought, teeth snagging that plump lip and worrying it until it turns scarlet.
Matthew twirls his pencil when the dryness of a lecture begins to get to him, pretty eyes drifting away to the window as he absently spins the pencil in his hand.
(Arthur often takes that as a sign that he needs to inject some fun into the lesson. This is how mock sword-fighting and barmy wives become commonplace in his classroom.)
Matthew rarely speaks up in class, but when he does Arthur knows because the boy's violet eyes widen and he leans back, face contemplative, before he hesitantly raises his hand to deliver an astute comment that garners a respectful silence from the rowdy class and a complement from their strict teacher.
Arthur thinks noticing these things is innocuous enough, but when Matthew's hand accidently brushes his when the boy comes up to his desk to ask a question, the older man begins to think that maybe its not…
The hockey coach asks him once to supervise practice.
"Just make sure they don't kill each other." The man had shrugged. "You don't even have to get on the ice, Berwald will take care of everything."
Berwald is one of the burly players Arthru saw sitting next to Matthew at lunch. The teen is tall with an icy pale blue gaze that crushes any arguments and a stern face that annihilates any misbehavior.
But even Berwald, the stony team captain, has a soft spot for Matthew. When the shorter boy skates playful circles around the giant, Berwald's face softens imperceptibly as Matthew, a bright A (one that gives him pride not one that causes shame) on his jersey, goes on about plays and drills until another forward leads him away silently so their captain can break up a fight between a somewhat unhinged Russian exchange student and a tiny Finnish boy with a mouth fouler than a sailor.
Arthur watches the team, but finds his attention drifting to Matthew whose face oscillates from determination and rage to joy as he glides across the ice, intent on checking a teen twice his size into the boards.
At the end of practice, Matthew takes off his helmet, laughing at something a wild-haired blond says to him, and shakes out his damp hair, tossing his head back, a satisfied grin in place.
He catches Arthur's eye and ducks his head a bit, expression turning sheepish under his teacher's attention.
Arthur knows he's in trouble when he's walking down the hallway after exiting the teacher's lounge, a thermos of tea in one hand and a well-loved copy of Dickens under his arm, and he sees Matthew and a smirking silver-haired boy joking in the hallway.
The other student, lacking his blazer and tie, is waving his arms about, clearly narrating an epic tale. His words prompt Matthew to start laughing, clutching his stomach as peals of laughter tumble out of his pink mouth.
The other student looks pleased with the reaction and Arthur can't stop the flicker of jealousy at seeing Matthew so free and casual with this arrogant seeming teen. He's dragged back to his memory of his first day when Matthew treated him with that same easiness before knowledge of Arthur's position gave him sense and manners.
He likes Matthew like this. He wants Matthew to be like this with him.
It's an entirely selfish thought, almost immoral and disgusting if he had to be honest with himself. It's dangerous and wrong…
But Matthew is so charming and brilliant that Arthur almost wants to believe it won't end in tragedy.
One day Matthew stays behind in class, his graded essay clenched in one fist.
"I don't understand what I did wrong." He muttered through a clenched jaw, flipping through his essay, eyes straining to find a mistake. "It's one of the best I've ever written."
Arthur says nothing, hands folded on his desk and prominent eyebrows laced thoughtfully together, as he patiently watches his student fumble for polite words despite the anger and hurt lacing his tone.
"You made a hefty claim, Matthew." The teacher interrupts, forcing Matthew to look up at him with pursed lips, eyes glinting. "And you weren't able to support it well enough."
Matthew looks like he wants to argue but thinks better of it, choosing to remain silent.
"Seeing as this essay was a large portion of your grade," Arthur pauses, voice kind. "I'd be happy to help you with the next one to insure that your marks do not slip further."
Matthew still looks upset, but the offer seems to calm him. "Thank you, Mr. Kirkland." He breathes, voice grateful.
Arthur does feel bad for tampering with the poor boy's grades, but he can't help but look forward to their time together.
Arthur schedules tutoring session three times a week after Matthew's hockey practice. The boy grudgingly agrees, not wanting to seem ungrateful lest his teacher revoke his offer of assistance.
The two sit at Arthur's desk, Matthew at the side and leaning close so Arthur can smell the faint cologne and catch a hint of collarbone from where Matthew threw on his button up sans tie. He can watch the way light glints off the student's eyelashes, nearly translucent next to the vivid violet of Matthew's eyes.
When Matthew is sitting this close to him, Arthur wants to reach out and trace the boy's milky cheek and press his thumb against those lips and knot his fingers in those curling tresses and take advantage of all that sweet, supple skin.
But he doesn't because the thought of actually touching and tainting sickens him. So instead he shows Matthew the proper method of argument and rhetoric and evidence and Matthew nods, captivated.
Nothing new comes about at Arthur's hands. Rather, it is Matthew who notes the copy of Wuthering Heights in Arthur's satchel.
"Now that is a tragic book." He says, smirking a little.
Thus sparks a discussion about the Bronte sisters and Arthur feels rather invigorated by the challenges Matthew issues and impressed by his wit when Matthew traps him in his own argument.
Matthew sits a little closer to him during the next session.
"When do I get to meet her?" Francis drawled, boredly sipping his wine.
"What are you going on about, git?" Arthur snapped, poking at the stew he was attempting to make. Surely it shouldn't resemble porridge?
"You should've let me cook." The Frenchman sniffs, adding something about idiot Englishmen. "Those poor ingredients. To suffer at the hands of an idiot. Tragic."
"Belt it." Arthur snarled, beating back his concoction with a wooden spoon. "Bastard."
The other blond rolled his eyes, hiding a smile behind his glass. "You have this glow, my friend. I think you're infatuated."
"I think you're a twit." Was the acidic reply.
"What does she teach?"
"She doesn't teach because she doesn't exist."
"He then?"
"There is no one!" Arthur finally bellows, frustrated by his failed cooking and flustered by the image of a familiar smiling blond comes to mind. "Not a single one."
Francis does not believe his old friend for a moment, but decides to show mercy for a moment. If Arthur was continuing to deny it, it only meant that he was fighting the attraction.
"You should just be honest." He throws out, dismissing mercy and enjoying the indignant shouts coming from the smoking kitchen.
When Arthur meets Matthew's eyes during lecture, the blond gifts him with a stunning smile that makes Arthur's heart pound painfully and causes him to temporarily forget how to speak.
He wonders if Matthew knows.
Arthur is about to pull out of the lot when he catches a glimpse of gold through the rain.
Matthew is leaning against the side of the building, hockey bag next to him, and he is shielded by the raging storm by a bit of roof.
Against his better judgment Arthur pulls up to the curb and opens the window, calling out, "You okay, lad?"
Matthew looks somewhat surprised and is quick to reassure him. "Yeah, just waiting for Al. My car's in the shop and he was supposed to come and pick me up."
Arthur knows he should take the other's words and just drive away, but Matthew looks so alone, barely a slip of a boy through the sheets of pounding rain.
"How long have you been waiting there?"
Annoyance and resignation war on Matthew's face and Arthur has his answer.
"Would you like a ride home?"
The student's eyes widen and he looks uncomfortable. "I'd hate to impose…"
"Pish posh." Arthur snorts, earning a small smile at his use of that British phrase. "You'll catch your death out there."
Matthew hesitates a little longer before saying slowly. "Alfred is the type to forget."
Arthur unlocks the door, watching quietly as Matthew moves towards the car.
When Matthew climbs into the small car, drawing his bag close to him and seemingly withdrawing in on himself so as to minimize the space he consumes, Arthur turns up the heat, convincing himself that he's just looking out for his student's wellbeing.
"Where to?"
Matthew gives him quick directions before becoming quiet.
The silence between them is heavy.
When Arthur stops at a traffic light, the rain falling around them darkly, Matthew speaks, voice softer than a whisper.
"Sir…this isn't okay…" The student is staring out the window, arms tight around his bag and he grips the fabric of it, knuckles white.
"I'm just helping my student out." Arthur says just as quietly, words heavy on his tongue. "I'd do the same for any one of you."
"But…sir…" Matthew is struggling to find the words and finally he gives up, shoulders sloping downwards. He looks like a crumpled flower and Arthur is entirely to blame. "It's not like that and you know it."
Arthur feels rage pool in his stomach and he wonders if Matthew is more perceptive than he had previously assumed.
"If you knew," he snapped, voice low and harsh. "then why would you get in the car?"
Matthew's breath hitches and the boy stiffens before his brow furrows in anger and the student moves suddenly, opening the door and darting out into the rain.
Arthur calls him back, but the younger disappears into the rain like some sort of ghost.
The next day, Matthew stays after class, eyes dark.
Arthur is ready to ignore him, after having spent the previous night in a haze of self-loathing and fury at his irresponsible behavior and foolishness. He puts away his papers neatly and is about to bid the student a good day when Matthew rushes forward and grabs his sleeve, face earnest and young and honest.
"Because its nice to be wanted." He whispers, swallowing, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion.
Arthur can feel the warmth radiating from the other and he can't deny the frisson of excitement at the reminder that this is wrong and stupid and he is the adult and he should stop all of this now.
But Matthew is pressing forward, sweet eyes hopeful and Arthur wonders if the boy is turned on by the danger of it all.
Arthur knows the door is shut so he doesn't think twice about grabbing Matthew and pushing him back and on top of the heavy oak desk. He leans down and steals a kiss, pulling Matthew closer and drinking in the other's mewls and whimpers. When he pulls away, the boy's lips are wet and bruised and Matthew is panting and utterly debauched and Arthur tightens his grip on the other and kisses him again, groaning when Matthew hesitantly treads his slender fingers through his choppy hair and presses back against his chest.
"Its not a fellow teacher, is it?" Francis asks suddenly, voice strangely calm.
Arthur doesn't answer.
It is Arthur who eventually points out that he and Matthew cannot continue in such a flagrant manner in the classroom and that eventually they will be caught.
He looks expectantly at Matthew who is resolutely staring at the wall as he pulls on his blazer and tries to tidy his hair into some semblance of order.
"Fine." The slender blond says after a long while.
Arthur gives him a peck on the lips, tugging a bit on his curls and Matthew smiles, his eyes not quite lighting up.
Matthew hovers in the entryway of his flat, school bag in hand and face nervous.
"Don't just stand there, love." Arthur smiles gently.
Matthew laughs nervously and takes the cup of tea Arthur offers him.
They continue their tutoring, like always. But then Arthur quiets, placing a heavy hand on Matthew's knee. The student looks at him, takes in the heated emerald eyes and shy smile and feels something tremble in him.
Matthew lets Arthur take him to bed. He lets the older man trail kisses down the planes of his chest. He moans when Arthur digs his nails into his side, uncaring of the vivid scarlet that bruises beneath that grip. He wraps his legs around Arthur's waist, gritting through the worst of it and keening melodiously through the rest. All he hears in the pounding of his heart in his ears and the rush of heat and white noise and when he wakes up, a cotton sheet is draped over him and Arthur is kissing the pale curve of his shoulder.
"Love you." Is the sleepy murmur and Matthew's heart clenches oddly.
"What's wrong with you dude?" Alfred demanded, grabbing Matthew's elbow. "You used to love that class."
Matthew just sighed, violet gaze unfocused. "I guess I didn't know what I was getting into."
I feel like I should be ashamed of myself. -sigh- I actually liked the idea of it, but this feels utterly depressing. And Arthur was kinda a creeper.
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