Well, hello!

. . . I know what many of you are thinking. "Nightfall, you're back! But what are you doing here, writing fanfiction for another fandom when you haven't finished 'Utter Pandemonium' or 'The Last Flock Member'? And why have you been gone for nearly a year now?"

I'm terribly sorry about not being on FF for so long. I just finished my first year of high school, and it's been such a hectic whirlwind that I never found the time or the motivation to write fanfiction.

To be honest, I didn't think I was ever going to return to FF, and I was prepared to just let my profile fade away into oblivion. However, after a year (and listening to lots of music), I could not help but return.

I'll definitely get back to "Utter Pandemonium" and "The Last Flock Member" sometime, when I feel motivated to write the next chapter. For now, I just wrote this oneshot to get me back in the mood.

So, this one is Alfred/Arthur, and the plotline is inspired by The Smiths' song "This Charming Man." (Go listen to it—it's absolutely beautiful. I listened to the Death Cab cover while writing this.) Basically, Alfred, a cyclist struggling with life's complexities, finds himself stuck on a hillside, when a charming man named Arthur Kirkland in a luxury car offers him a lift. As they drive together, they end up conversing and flirting, and Alfred comes to terms with the difficulties in his life (marriage, sexuality, happiness, family complications).

In this oneshot, Alfred's cheerful personality has been somewhat oppressed by all of these problems, and it doesn't emerge until the end.

I'll stop rambling now. xD Hope you like the fic!

Damn, Alfred thought in dismay as he stared down at the punctured wheel of his bicycle.

Kneeling helplessly next to the incapacitated vehicle, the broad-shouldered young man would have been quite a comical sight, had anyone been around to witness it. As it was, he was completely alone, stranded on this desolate hillside with nary a person to assist him or mock him. The asphalt road he'd been pedaling a few moments ago before he'd been delayed by that accursed rock was devoid of both people and automobiles alike, and it did not seem as if there had been either in a very long time—its surface lacked the telltale presence of tire tracks. He wasn't quite sure himself whether to be relieved at this fact or not.

Accepting defeat, Alfred slumped down on the grass beside the bicycle and gripped his head in frustration. To have ridden all this way, only to be bested by that jagged boulder! There was absolutely no way he would return home before dark on foot, and when he arrived, his parents would be sure to berate him for his tardiness—calling him idiot, good-for-nothing, useless, dull-witted—and he could do without a dose of undeserved abuse tonight.

Yes, he was in no hurry at all to get home.

Besides, he had a much more severe dilemma waiting for him at home tonight than his parents. Alfred felt the heavy weight of the parcel inside his well-worn leather jacket and couldn't suppress the trickle of dread that coursed at once into his heart, tightening his chest.

No, he did not want to think about that.

Still . . . he would have to return home eventually. He could not remain on this isolated hillside forever, divided from the rest of the world and its problems, blessedly detached from reality. Sooner or later, he would have to force himself to get up from the grass, drag himself and his bicycle home . . . and face the truth.

At this thought, a black wave of despair engulfed Alfred, threatening to choke him.

He shut his eyes.

Later. Worry about that later.

He let himself fall backwards into the grass, eyes still closed. For a moment, he lay there, arms spread open to the sky, ignoring the dust on his back and in his disorderly dark blond hair, ignoring the glasses that were hanging askew off his nose. His brows were furrowed in frustration, and his hands reached out to clutch fistfuls of grass.

It would be lovely, he mused rather uncharacteristically, to grow roots into the hill, to lie here and remain among the stones piled, one on top of another, over the ground like so many little fallen bodies, entrenched to the soil; to sink within the grass, becoming enclosed and embraced and immersed and one with the earth, undisturbed for an eternity, until someone came one day and dug away at the hill, breaking up the earth with gentle blows of a shovel, uncovering the root-laden chamber where he would awaken from his stasis, pushing up and up through the newly-turned clay like a young shoot, emerging into a new world, a new man with a new life, a—

The sound of an engine jolted Alfred from his wishful reveries.

He flung himself into an upright sitting position and watched from the hilltop, wide-eyed, as an automobile purred along the winding road beneath him. There was no doubt that it was heading for the hill; the road did not lead anywhere else. There was also no doubt that whoever inside would be able to observe Alfred's stranded-by-the-wayside state.

How very humiliating.

Still, as the automobile neared the crest of the hill, Alfred couldn't help but gawk in awe. What a true Adonis of an automobile it was! All gleaming black-painted steel and chrome plating and sleek, streamlined design. He couldn't help staring as the automobile glided to a smooth halt beside him. Alfred would have happily given his right arm to be able to own such a beauty.

On second thought, he wouldn't, because he would actually need the use of his right arm to drive it.

The door opened, and Alfred braced himself, waiting for the inevitable: the occupant would toss a few derisive insults at him and then move on, taking that beautiful automobile with him.

What happened next, however, was rather unexpected. The door swung open fully, and the driver stepped out of the luxury car, took in the situation at a glance, and asked Alfred, "Are you all right?"

The first thing that Alfred observed about the man was that his voice bore strong inflections of a British accent. It lent him an elegant tone, causing him to sound even more like the upper-class citizen he undeniably was, but it fit him well.

The second thing—Alfred was somewhat uncomfortable to admit—was that the man was very handsome, in a charming sort of way. He was young, appearing to be only slightly older than Alfred himself. He had a slender build, his slight limbs clothed fashionably in a pinstriped suit, a perfectly fastened tie flowing from his starched collar. His hair was a brighter blond than Alfred's, and was slicked back from his forehead. Startlingly green eyes narrowed on either side of the bridge of a straight nose, and a Cupid's bow traced the delicate shape of his solemn mouth. The only flaw Alfred could find on this charming face was the man's impressively large eyebrows, but even those were combed tastefully into faultless arches. The effect was one of dignity rather than absurdity.

All of a sudden, staring at this dashing gentleman in his dapper clothes, Alfred felt ashamed of his own dusty unkemptness and worn, patched clothing, in sharp contrast.

"Uhm," he muttered, climbing quickly to his feet. He was taller than the other man. "I—I'm all right. Just . . . punctured wheel."

A third thing: he found himself inexplicably unable to speak in proper sentences in this man's presence.

"I see that," murmured the stranger, moving past Alfred to examine the fallen bicycle (Alfred felt another unexplainable wave of mortification). "That's unfortunate. Where are you headed?"

"The next town over," Alfred said. "I . . . live in one of the apartments there."

"That's quite a ways over," the gentleman noted. He gestured to his automobile. "I can offer you a lift, if you'd like."

Alfred's throat constricted suddenly. "Wh—excuse me?"

The other man frowned slightly at him. "It wouldn't be right to leave you here. It's terribly far to the next town, and I hate to think of you having to make the way on foot. I'll take you home."

Alfred hesitated for a moment. "I don't want to trouble you, or anything—"

"It would not be any trouble at all," the gentleman assured him. "Just put your bicycle in my trunk."

After a moment's deliberation, Alfred nodded, accepting the offer. Hefting up his bicycle, he lugged it easily across the grass to the back of the man's magnificent automobile and heaved it into the trunk. He then went to the front, opened the passenger side door, and slid into the seat.

The handsome motorist was already seated, waiting for him, elegant long fingers resting on the steering wheel. Alfred's breath shortened slightly on finding himself in such close proximity with him, and he pressed himself slightly closer to the window, not wanting to soil the other man's suit.

"All ready then?" the man asked him.

"Y-yes," Alfred replied. "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it." The man started up the engine, and the automobile purred off smoothly down the road.

Alfred, seized by a sudden urge, turned his head for a last glimpse of the hill, and watched it disappear from sight. He himself could not have said why he had done that.

There was a brief silence inside the automobile, giving Alfred time to recollect his thoughts. His head was spinning, dizzy at the recent turn of events. Not five minutes ago he had been lying on that hill, lost in misery and frustration, and now he was sitting inside a luxury car, with an enigmatic but handsome man driving him home.

He almost laughed aloud. How strange life was.

"What is your name?" the other man asked, breaking the silence.

"Alfred Jones. What's yours?"

"Arthur Kirkland." The man never once took his green eyes off of the road immediately ahead of them. "What do you do for a living, Mr. Jones?"

Alfred ran his finger along a tear in his trousers. "I'm just a pantry boy . . . I work at a pub downtown. I clean, fetch, serve, do odd jobs." He cleared his throat and tried to pass off the melancholy tone in his voice with a careless laugh. "Whatever the pub owner tells me to do. The pay is sufficient. What do you do, Mr. Kirkland?"

The other man hesitated a moment before responding. "I . . . I'm a scholar. I am currently in my final year of university, studying literature and history." His voice was carefully neutral, and Alfred understood that he did not wish to boast about his education, while Alfred himself could obviously not afford it.

"That sounds interesting." Alfred focused his gaze straight ahead of him, and his next words were quiet. "If my family had had the money . . . I would have liked to study mathematics and science. Perhaps become an inventor or a physicist. I don't mind my job at the moment, though," he added quickly, forcing out another laugh.

It was then that Alfred wondered when his laughter had stopped being genuine. When had his smiles stopped being expressions of joy, and began serving as a disguise for his misery? When had his happiness faded and become obsolete?

Mr. Kirkland glanced at his passenger, who had fallen silent. His voice was very gentle when he spoke. "Is it not sad that something as essential as education must revolve around money?"

Alfred nodded, tight-lipped, not trusting his voice to remain stable. Instead, he busied himself with surveying the lush interior of the automobile. It was all he could do not to reach down and stroke the smooth leather of his seat in admiration. "Your automobile, it's a Studebaker, isn't it?" he asked abruptly.

His companion gave a slow nod of his head. "You're an automobile enthusiast, I see."

"Yes." It went unsaid that Alfred could never afford such a vehicle, or indeed any of the fine automobiles that he admired and coveted, so that vein of conversation trailed off. Instead, Alfred attempted to ask something more personal, wanting to know more about his handsome driver. "You didn't grow up around here, did you?"

A wry expression curled Mr. Kirkland's lips. "You could tell from the accent, couldn't you? Yes. I was born and bred in England . . . I have spent nearly my entire life there. I came here to America to study only a few years ago."

"Did you come by yourself? Or . . ."

"Yes, I came by myself. My mother and my younger brother, Peter, are still in England. We write to each other regularly."

"It must have been difficult to get used to living here," Alfred mused.

"It wasn't so terrible. My studies have kept me busy enough, so I haven't had much time to be homesick. The summers here were somewhat difficult to become accustomed to in the beginning, as I remember—I wasn't at all used to the heat. Or the way they brew tea here; it's absolutely disgusting, though most people prefer to drink that demon tonic you Americans call coffee." The impressively large eyebrows met together in the middle of the man's forehead in a scowl, and it occurred to Alfred how endearing it looked. "Now, though, America is as comfortable to me as a second home."

"You don't look as if you've been living in discomfort, either," Alfred noted wryly. From his stylish pinstriped suit to his well-shined leather shoes, everything about Arthur Kirkland exuded wealth, privilege, and affluence. No doubt he was a distinguished member of some notable, highly exclusive society, where he would sit with other sophisticated, well-bred men and engage in intellectual conversation, and give eloquent orations about his most recent research, to hearty laudation and admiring wonder. Arthur Kirkland, the prestigious scholar.

Alfred felt a pang of some emotion that he couldn't explain, and didn't want to. He was never particularly the introspective sort, anyway, at least not until recently.

"Well, I suppose you could say that," Mr. Kirkland replied, somewhat hesitantly; again, Alfred understood that he did not wish to speak of his evidently more luxurious life for fear of discomfiting him. "My family is very kind to me, and gives me more than I could ever ask or hope for. Still, the world has its perils, and I think the foremost of those is named Francis Bonnefoy. He's a fellow student at the university. He came here from France to study, but he does little more than make blatantly perverted comments, flirt obscenely with the entire student body—and the professors—and attempt to touch people inappropriately. Frog-faced philanderer."

Alfred was startled into an unlikely laugh—a genuine one, this time.

Mr. Kirkland's face softened at the sound, and his mouth curved into a gentle smile.

"You know," he said quietly, "when I saw you sitting on that hillside a while ago, with that melancholy expression in your eyes . . . I knew that yours was not a face meant for frowning. Every time you've laughed thus far in our conversation, it was feigned. I was wondering what it would be like if you laughed, just once, for real."

"And why's that?" Alfred asked. He could feel the steady pounding of his heart beneath his ribs.

"Because I knew it would suit your face so well." Mr. Kirkland turned his head slightly, and Alfred fought not to lose himself in the man's alluring green gaze. "Mr. Jones, we've only known each other for little over a quarter of an hour, but I know that something is . . . not quite right in your life. Forgive me for being forward, but I hate to see you look so unhappy. If you want to talk, I can pull over."

His words were so soft.

Alfred did not answer for a long time. He sat in the passenger seat, next to the young man he barely knew and yet understood so well. Thoughts came unbidden to his head: when had he become so unhappy, that a man who was nearly a stranger could read the emotions written all over his face even though he'd tried so hard to conceal them?

Something inside of him unfolded and dissolved, and he felt a pressing ache in his chest. With a sudden fierceness, Alfred missed the simple joy and delight with which he had used to view the world. When had life's complexities stolen that from him?

He looked over at Mr. Kirkland, who was continuing to drive, patiently waiting for his answer.

"You really are a gentleman, aren't you?" Alfred let a smile crawl over his face (oh, it had been so long since anyone had cared about him). "I think I need someone to talk to, Mr. Kirkland. Are you really willing to listen?"

Mr. Kirkland's eyelids fluttered closed for a moment as he smiled, and he turned the wheel in his long fingers, pulling his Studebaker over to the side of the road and turning off the engine.

"Another thing," Alfred said, "do you think perhaps we can call each other by our first names? When you call me 'Mr. Jones' like that, it makes me think I'm in trouble with the pub owner again."

"Of course, Alfred," he said simply. He shifted in his seat so that he was properly facing Alfred, and waited.

Alfred did not turn to face him. His eyes focused on an unintelligible blur in the distance, and he released a slow breath.

"I suppose . . . I should just cut straight to the heart of it," he said. Reaching into his leather jacket, he pulled out the parcel that he'd ridden all the way over to the next town to obtain that morning. He unwrapped the paper that enveloped it, revealing the object inside to be a small box. He flicked the catch on the box, and the lid sprang open.

"What is that inside?" Arthur Kirkland leaned forward. "That isn't a . . . wedding ring?" He turned to Alfred with a look of disbelief.

Alfred nodded, his eyes closed. "It is. My parents ordered me to buy it this morning. That was why I was out today. You see . . . " He turned in his seat to face Arthur. "My parents want me to propose to this girl tomorrow evening. Her name is Natalia . . . she's the daughter of one of their friends, and apparently they've been discussing marriage for a while now. My mother told me that I'd never find a better marriage, considering what a disgraceful lay-about I am, and that I had better take this opportunity before the girl's parents change their minds."

"You . . . don't like this girl, do you?" Arthur ventured. "Have you ever met her?"

"Once or twice. At gatherings. We have never really spoken, but she seems nice enough." Alfred shrugged.

"You don't feel attracted to her, do you?" Arthur asked softly.

"How can I? My parents are ordering me to marry a girl I'm barely acquainted with, pledge to spend the rest of my life with someone I don't even know if I'll get along with. If we marry, I'm expected to raise a family with her. I just . . . when I thought of marriage, I wanted to be with someone whom I loved." He let out a frustrated sigh. "My parents tell me that it's ridiculous to think that I'll be able to marry someone based on mutual affection. I'm just tired of the way they seem to either control or criticize every aspect of my life. The girl is considered beautiful and she supposedly comes from a good family, which is better than I can ever hope to get, according to my mother."

"That is completely untrue," Arthur said sharply, and Alfred looked up, surprised at the hard edge in the gentleman's voice. "Your mother is wrong. The girl should consider herself fortunate that she'll be the one that you . . . that you marry. You are far better than you think you are, Alfred. What woman—or man—could resist you?"

Alfred's eyes flickered in shock behind his glasses, but he could not help the warm thudding that started up again beneath his ribs.

"There's some truth in what my mother says, Arthur," he said quietly. "I'm just an outspoken pantry boy from a poor home. I have nothing to offer anyone except for my humor and my laughter—and if I care for them, my love as well. I used to be as happy as a child, but even that has been taken away from me. I don't like Natalia, but what can I do? My parents are probably right; I should just marry her and make the best of it."

"Alfred, you fail to realize that there are those who would do much to win your humor and your laughter," Arthur said in a low voice. "And your love."

Alfred's breath came in stutters, and he swallowed. It was then that he realized how close their faces were, and the intensity in the other man's eyes.

"That's another thing," Alfred said, his voice barely a whisper. "I don't know if I'm even . . . I mean, I've never been . . . really interested . . . in . . . "

Arthur nodded; he understood.

"Alfred," he said, "if you do not love her, do not marry her. You deserve to be with someone you love, who will undoubtedly love you in return. Your parents don't understand how fortunate they are to have you for a son. Don't listen to them, and don't let them control you."

Alfred swallowed again and looked down at the wedding ring in his lap. "What should I do, Arthur?"

Arthur Kirkland lifted his eyes to the windshield, and he did not answer for several long moments. Alfred was beginning to think that he did not have a reply, when suddenly Arthur said:

"Return the ring."

Alfred was startled at the bluntness of the reply. "What?"

"I said, return the ring." Arthur met Alfred's eyes. "You should not have to commit to someone you don't know, someone you don't and can't love. You should not have to bear the weight of your parents' ill-aimed insults and misconceptions." Very gently, he reached out and closed the lid of the ring box. "Return it," he said again. "Wait until you are ready for marriage. No one should force you to do such a thing."

Alfred glanced at Arthur, indecision flickering on his face (should-I-or-should-I-not trust this man, who is older and cleverer than me, who knows so much more about these things . . .). Finally, he closed his eyes, breathed in, nodded.

Arthur nodded as well, and, starting up the engine once more, pulled the automobile back onto the road.

There was a moment of quiet, contemplative stillness between the pair, disturbed only by the sound of the Studebaker's wheels rolling against the gravel road.

Alfred leaned his forehead against the window and found himself returning to an old habit he had managed to suppress for very long: using humor to lighten a serious mood.

"It's interesting," he said, shooting his companion a glance. "You wouldn't be able to tell from the conversation we just had, but did you know I used to be quite arrogant?"

A short chuckle emerged from Arthur's lips.

"That is how I earned my reputation as the 'jumped-up pantry boy,'" Alfred continued. "I've been unusually quiet and obedient lately, though, and the pub owner could not figure out what was wrong with me when I wouldn't say more than five consecutive words to anyone for months. Neither could the rest of the staff. I used to try to take on the more important tasks, try to make myself a larger role in the pub business. I tried to be a hero." He smirked as he said the last sentence.

Arthur's smile was soft. "Be a hero, Alfred. Save yourself."

"I'd want to save everyone," Alfred said, his voice taking on a tone of eagerness that it had not in years. "That is why I want to be an inventor or scientist, Arthur! I could help make our world better. And help other people understand it, so they could make it better as well."

"Then you should."

"There is a problem, though, Arthur. I do not have the money or the education to become a scientist," Alfred said somberly. "With my background, I have no way of ever becoming one."

Arthur hesitated. "I think I may have a solution to that. Perhaps I could . . . bring you some of the mathematics and science textbooks from the university. You could study from them. I am not quite sure how it works, but perhaps you could take examinations for honors, and be validated to perform experiments and pursue research that way. You might even be able to take classes at a less expensive college. I'll ask the professors at the university."

"Would you really do that, Arthur?" Alfred's blue eyes shone with excitement. "Thank you! This is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me."

Arthur favored him with a smirk—one that was, Alfred thought, certainly charming. "So is the way you are when you are truly happy, Alfred? Overexcited and chattering incessantly?"

Alfred laughed, surprised at how easily and naturally the long-forgotten sound flowed from his throat. "I suppose so."

They drove peacefully for another long stretch of road, and Alfred turned his attention to the window. He had almost lost himself in the sight of the fields when Arthur cleared his throat next to him, recapturing his concentration.

"Alfred," he said, his sophisticated manner revealing glimmers of awkwardness, "there's to be . . . ah, a party tonight. Downtown, at one of the clubs that I usually frequent. There are sure to be quite a lot of university students hanging about there as well—we seem to all enjoy turning up a few pints now and again. Some of us more than others. Oh, blast all, I'm only rambling now. Just . . . I'd like to know if you would like to come with me to this party, Alfred."

Alfred found that his awkwardness made him somehow more charming, if that were possible.

He hesitated, though his pounding heart could have answered for him. "I—I don't know, Arthur. I don't think I have any proper clothing for something like that. As it is, I haven't got a stitch to wear."

Arthur cut a glance at his companion, almost shyly allowing his eyes to wander over the dark gold hair and the bright blue eyes behind the glasses; the full, curving mouth; the broad-shouldered, muscular figure.

"In all honesty, Alfred," he said, "I find it strange that someone as handsome as you would care about that."

Alfred sat there, stunned for a moment, before feeling a deep smile of amusement spread over his face.

Flirtation. So, was this the way Arthur Kirkland wanted to do things?

"I don't know." Alfred leaned his head back against the seat, allowing his eyes to linger over his driver in exactly the same way as he himself had done. He struggled not to smirk when he saw the embarrassed flush that was slowing spreading upward from Arthur's collar under the intense scrutiny. "I think you're rather charming yourself, Arthur Kirkland."

"You're an idiot, Alfred," Arthur replied with a smile on his face.

"Idiot"—it was a word that Alfred's parents had often hurled at him, a barbed insult meant to indicate that he was stupid, useless, unattractive. However, Alfred felt a pleasant feeling swell through him when he heard the way Arthur spoke it: with affection, as a term of endearment, not abuse.

They were driving through the city streets now, and Alfred watched familiar neighborhoods and storefronts flash past in the dim twilight, amazed at how everything had outwardly remained the same when he felt that his entire world had been turned on its axis.

"Where is your apartment, Alfred?" Arthur asked.

"Oh . . . it's just over on Lyon Avenue," Alfred answered. Inside, he felt a stab of disappointment that his time with Arthur was drawing to a close.

They drove in silence for the rest of the way. Alfred kept his eyes focused on the streetlamps that skipped past outside his window, but he was unable to quell the despondency that rose in him when he recognized the familiar street where his apartment building was.

"Here it is," he said quietly as Arthur pulled the Studebaker over in front of the building. He found that he had to clear his throat before he spoke. "Thank you, Arthur."

Arthur nodded, meeting his eyes, telling him without saying a word, you are most certainly welcome.

Alfred reluctantly slid out of the automobile, went to the trunk, and lugged his bicycle out. He wheeled it over to the steps of the building and chained it securely to the banister. He had to be careful, in case one of the street children took it into his head to steal a bicycle for a ride.

When Alfred straightened and turned around, he saw that Arthur had also gotten out of his automobile and was leaning against it. Silently he admired the man's slight, long-limbed figure as Arthur walked towards him.

"The party tonight," Arthur said. "I'll come to pick you up sometime around nine o'clock. The party is expected to end sometime before sunup, although if we factor in the possibility of having to drag an inebriated Francis home, it may take a little longer. Don't worry about your clothing." He hesitated, then said quietly, "You look perfect as you are."

"Arthur . . . thank you." Alfred felt the weight of the unworn wedding ring in his jacket pocket. "I . . . I won't be marrying anyone before I'm ready for it, I promise. I'll make my own decisions."

"Good to hear it." Arthur smiled at him, and Alfred felt absurdly pleased at the flush of relief on his face. "I'll see you later, then."

Alfred nodded, waiting for him to return to his Studebaker and drive off, but to his surprise, Arthur paused a moment longer, gazing up at him. Then, in a single gesture, he took Alfred's hand, raised it to his lips and gently kissed it.

Alfred's heart knocked lightly against his ribcage (such a charming gentleman), and his lips formed a smile of their own accord.

Arthur released Alfred's hand and stepped backwards. "I'll see you tonight, love."

"I'll see you, too," Alfred said, and lifted his (still-tingling) hand to wave farewell as Arthur climbed back into his automobile and drove off down the street.

Then he turned around, strode briskly up the steps of his apartment, opened the door, and went inside to face the music.

So, what did you think? (:

Personally, I've never written something like this—the romances that I write are usually very one-sided, and I hope I did all right.

The phrases that I borrowed/altered from The Smiths' wonderful song "This Charming Man" were:

"desolate hillside"
"jumped-up pantry boy"
"life's complexity"
"I haven't got a stitch to wear"
"return the ring"
"It's gruesome that someone so handsome should care." (I wrote: "I find it strange that someone as handsome as you would care about that.")
"He knows so much about these things." (I wrote: " . . . who knows so much more about these things . . .")

Please review and let me know what you liked or didn't like. There's always room for improvement.

Thank you so much! Hope you enjoyed reading it!