Welcome.

Warning: Bullying, and a car crash.

NO major character death.

Enjoy.

He slouches in his chair and pillows his cheek onto his shoulder for the thousandth time that day, blinking despondently and licking his chapped lips in an absent-minded manner. He's in the back of the classroom, which is fine by him, as he's not much into the constant, repetitive lull of mathematics.

His sky blue eyes watch their teacher write equation after equation onto the pristine white of the board, mapping out an intricate sum that he couldn't care less about. Those same sky blue eyes begin to fall behind his smudged lenses.

Then, they snap open again. No more falling asleep in class, he tells himself, thinking back to the recent ordeal in which he had water sprayed onto his neck by a snarling instructor.

Looking up at the board again reveals their teacher erasing the equation. He looks down at his paper, realizing that he hadn't copied any of that down.

Oh well.

Instead of slouching, Arthur weaves his fingers together and watches the other boy, who just so happens to look like a lazy sloth as his eyes flutter.

Arthur feels sorry for him, but he never bothers to make an effort for cases like him. Automatically, his hand works to jot down notes of their teacher's ramblings. He pauses and twiddles his mechanical pencil between his fingers, accidentally snapping it against the desk.

The boy of his interest, the bumbling foreigner, snaps awake as if someone had jolted him on the shoulder. His crystalline eyes fly to the board and to his paper, then, they darken as if they had lost hope.

This makes Arthur frown. He doesn't know the other boy's name yet, but he does know that he looks lonely, and scared. It interests him, even though just moments before he had said he couldn't care less about him.

It doesn't escape him, the way the boy's fingers often twitch, or the strange way in which his face twists into a nervous smile at the most inopportune of moments. His tan face, which isn't the most common thing considering their geographic location, is often filmed with an odd sheen of sweat, as if he doesn't feel quite right in his dark, modest uniform.

Arthur, as he writes equation after equation, thinks that the new boy is interesting, although he'll never tell a soul. He has a reputation to uphold, after all.

"Howdy." Alfred drawls in a boyish lilt, sounding as if he has never crossed the blurred line that is puberty. His thumbs are in his jeans, and his mouth is quirked up into a nervous smile. His back is slouched, as if he's once again sitting in math class, but Arthur can tell that instead of hopelessness, he feels uncomfortable. This same slouch causes a bit of what he thinks may be baby fat spill over the boy's faded denim jeans, creating a muffin-top that would normally be unattractive, but instead looks flattering on him.

"I'm Alfred." the new boy twangs. Arthur simpers. American, he had guessed, but with an odd sort of dialect.

The room is bathed in silence for a moment, before Alfred shuffles to a seat not in the back of the room, but the front. Their small class begins to chortle and murmur, before their instructor claps and shushes them.

Arthur keeps his smile, ignorant to the yammers of his fellow actors. Drama is his favorite class, by far, and a strange feeling wells up inside him, whispering that it just got even better.

A week later, Arthur thinks he sees something he shouldn't be seeing. His keys jingle and jostle as he turns the lock, testing the knob to be sure. After the student office is secure, he turns on his way, pocketing his insane amount of keys and striding down the dim hallway.

The only sound he hears is the clicking of his shoes against the tile, sharp, obvious, and clamoring. He adjusts his blazer and lets out a cool gust of air. One light flickers, and in his head, he complains about it. It's yellow and it's unappealing, dying the school an ugly, pissy color. This hue is only aided by the smell of body odor and perspiration, thanks to the surplus of teenagers meandering in its halls.

Speaking of sweaty teenagers, Arthur smiles once again at the thought of the way Alfred could lose his rickety accent for a monologue.

He exits the building, taking only a small second to get used to the brief chill. He and his pale complexion are accustomed to it. He treads around the corner, pocketing his bare hands and looking straight ahead of himself as if he's determined for something. However, in reality, he is merely lost in thought.

His smile falls away when he turns the corner, eyes falling upon a terrible sight, left foot stopping ahead of right, freezing him to that one spot. Arthur feels pain when his hand clenches into a fist around his keys, but it's a problem that's at the very, very back of his mind.

Arthur's tiny crush is ripped from his midsection and torn to shreds by the snarling words of his fellow overachievers, all in harsh stances with searing phrases, screaming yet silent at a poor, sniveling Alfred.

Arthur is disheartened, but he can only stand and watch, unconsciously zigzagging his pupils from bullies to victim, as if they were tennis balls. He swallows, and his bag falls from his left shoulder, plopping onto the pavement without a sound.

His comrades, all fluffed up with the badges of a great student, with keys like he had and with a positive reign over the student body, kicked, prodded, and jeered at the new kid with the crackling voice, the silly belt buckles, and the curling cowlick.

Arthur considers that he should do something. His heart begins to race, and he gets all choked up.

There's Alfred, the boy he admires from afar who he hasn't spoken a word to, then there's his friends, the ones he plans with and laughs with at that rectangular table in the office. They're the ones he always thinks of as decent, as on his level. The people he's proud to be around.

Yet here they are, the faces of their school, bruising the new kid for reasons Arthur can't even fathom. It makes him sick. His stomach turns, and when he sees a spurt of blood on Alfred's face, he makes his decision with solid haste.

His feet move of their own accord, and bravely he grabs one of the jeering boy's by the back of his collar. The boy notices far too quickly and turns, blinking when he sees Arthur.

At the look on the other boy's face, Arthur loses his resolve.

"Oi, Art!" the boy grins lazily.

Arthur gapes like a fish. From his peripheral vision, he sees Alfred begin to sit up, only to have his head bounce into the pavement once more thanks to the foot of a chubby student.

"... What's with the face? Mate, you look ridiculous." he says.

Arthur swallows and shuts his mouth. He feels his lip wobble in anxiousness, and his eyes flit to a bloodied Alfred.

"We're just teachin' this queer a lesson, s'all. Wanna help?"

Instantly, his eyes jump back up.

"Ha?" he breathes articulately.

"Yeah, little prick just came out today." the bully sneers. "See?" he points to Alfred's bag, lying a distance away. Atop it is a keychain, and even from a distance Arthur can see that it's a rubber insignia of two symbols for the male gender, linked together at their loops. Slowly, Arthur turns back to the commotion, only to see that the student he'd been conversing with went back to holding Alfred down.

Alfred's glassy eyes glare up at him through his blood, with the most ferocity Arthur has ever seen. The American boy's hand clenches into a fist so strong that his nails are grated into the concrete.

Arthur wonders if people can even be so two-faced. His feet act on their own, sprinting away and leaving his bag behind, set on finding a teacher. Not only can they be two-faced, but they can also be stupid. The jeering face of his once-friend is burned into his head, and he grits his teeth, letting his feet carry him far away.

His ears pick up one last thing as he pulls open the door, descending into that piss-yellow light again. By the time the authorities arrive, the bullies are gone, and Alfred is trying to stand on his own. Arthur stares at him from the crowd, but Alfred can't stare back through his swollen eye.

Not only that domineering face, but also a pained whimper from Alfred will be forever burned into his skull.

Alfred plays his part with serene grace. Arthur crosses one leg over the other, awestruck as the boy with the gauze over his nose recites the words without a script.

Their teacher is fond of individuality, and as such she often makes her students recite their individual parts without the entire cast.

They're meant to performin a month at some extravagant theater in a watery city. Alfred, with his black eye and all, will play a rather comedic part, while Arthur is stuck being stoic and serious for the entire performance.

Neither of them are very happy with their parts, but as they're both massive theater dorks, they make do.

While Alfred is on their makeshift stage, reciting his part and mispronouncing words (although he's just using the American pronunciation), making the audience laugh, he meets Arthur's eye. Perhaps it's a coincidence, as the first thing they had learned about was to maintain eye contact during a speech, but Arthur still feels his insides ignite with a fluorescent, fuzzy light. He smiles shyly, and Alfred looks away as if Arthur doesn't exist at all.

Instantly, Arthur's smile breaks into a million miniscule pieces, and his eyes trace the stage to the ground. He feels unwelcome in his own skin.

After another week, Alfred is healing nicely. Many of his scrapes have faded, and he no longer has a bandage atop the bridge of his nose. His eye only stings a very slight lavender, and he still carries his keychain on his bag. It jingles with his step, swinging back and forth as he walks through the sea of mocking faces, all swimming in those piss yellow hallways.

It means more to him than they do.

He enters the domain of his favorite class and adjusts in his seat, feeling odd without a desk but happy with where he is. He's the first one there, and he easily claims one of the very front seats so that he can clearly see the twinkling lights glimmering like miniature suns. It's elaborate, the way they have such a setup every day, but it works for them and improves performance. When he's up there, he feels like he's actually on stage with a lively audience monitoring his every move. It's almost exhilarating, and it makes it so that for one single moment he can forget his inhibitions, and just be.

As the class pours in, no one sits with him, as per usual. It billows him with a flurry of negative feelings, as he was well-liked back in the states. That is, until he hopped out of his very own metaphorical closet, and since then the world has clearly stated its opinion by repeatedly punching him in the gut.

He shifts in his seat. Maybe it's better this way. In no way does he fit in, what with his silly accent and tan skin.

The tiny crowd settles as their teacher smiles, and behind her control panel she dims the lights. It's a big assignment, to recite one's own lines on a small stage, and therefore their grades are being rewarded heavily.

Alfred's eyes alight when he sees the boy who always smiles at him climb onto the stage. He sits up a bit, trying to act as though he's not interested but failing miserably.

He had learned his name during one of the many school assemblies. Alfred had wanted to throw his shoe at that ragtag hateful group of student council, expressing unspoken lies about how great they were, but he had lost some of his anger when Arthur had spoken as well.

Alfred thinks that Arthur is the one that ran for a teacher instead of helping out his friends, and at this thought a little shimmer of hope awakens itself inside his chest. Maybe he's not so alone.

Steadily, as the minutes fly by, this same shimmer grows and glows. Arthur has a silvery voice that slithers through words like a trickling stream. His words themselves aren't all that breathtaking, but his voice, dressed in that colorful accent, makes Alfred want to melt.

But he knows that he shouldn't have thoughts like that, because while Alfred is reasonably sure that Arthur helped him that day, the fact remains that he still stays around the same group of neanderthals. He reasons that it's Arthur's duty, but he still can't help disliking it.

Still, as Arthur talks on stage, Alfred can't help but smile at him. He's so small that he doesn't fit the part in the slightest. The green-eyed boy has such a serious look on his face, as he always does, but Alfred feels that it's magnified by the way he furrows his eyebrows or walks about the stage. His green irises, like the beam of a lighthouse, rove across the auditorium. They travel horizontally, taking in all the smiling, or perhaps frowning faces, before falling on Alfred, who is beaming at him.

Arthur startles and tumbles over his lines, a red flush climbing across his cheeks like tendrils of ivy. His eyes zigzag from Alfred's smile to the now worried faces of the rest of his audience. He stops talking, and just sort of stares at everything in front of him.

Clearing his throat, he ignores its clogging and the fluttering in his stomach, instead choosing to act like Alfred isn't even there. He continues his lines in a rushed voice, walking despondently to keep himself focused.

Finally, once he's finished, he bows and begins to jog off the stage. He fails this task, however, when he trips over a wayward wire and falls flat onto his face.

He hears Alfred laughing in the crowd, but something inside him can tell that it's not a mocking gesture.

Alfred discovers something secret about Arthur two days later.

It happens when he's sprinting away from yet another group of rude monkeys who exist merely to make fun of something as insignificant as his sexuality, as if it affects them in the slightest. He bolts into his sanctuary, the theater, before realizing that if he's there he has nowhere to run but into a backstage room.

So he does, hastily and without grace. He stumbles over his feet, creating a clamor that is fed by the rain pounding on the roof. The door forces open at his hand the same time a roar of thunder cries out, rolling into the school and making a wave.

His eyes widen at the sight before him, and he blinks, momentarily forgetting his terror.

Arthur is sat in a simple wooden chair, knitting. From the window, a bolt of lightning alights his wide-eyed face.

They're both quiet for a moment, with stupefied expressions upon their faces, before Alfred snickers. Arthur raises his defenses, tensing his shoulders and opening his mouth, before their little rendezvous is interrupted.

"Get back here, Jones!" calls an obnoxious voice.

Alfred quickly shuts the door behind him and backs against it, breathing a sigh of relief. After a series of deep breaths, he smiles wanly at Arthur, who is too flustered to offer a grin in return.

They both panic when the door knob begins to jiggle wildly. Alfred tenses, and as if the reaction was second nature he forces his back against the door again.

"T-there's a lock." Arthur stammers, setting down his project as if it's his precious child. Alfred fumbles nervously, his breathing labored as his hands dance around the lock shakily. Before he can have a meltdown, Arthur is in front of him, twisting the lock.

They both watch it wiggle uselessly for a short while, before the sound of retreating footsteps echoes through their skulls. Arthur breathes out a sigh of relief at the same time as Alfred, and when they look at each other they realize just how close they are.

Alfred is backed against the door with his hand braced near its knob, while Arthur is a less than a foot away with his hand in almost the same spot. They both blink, and as Alfred stares at Arthur through his glasses, he realizes that not only is the other boy shorter than him, but that his peridot eyes, when poised up into Alfred's own, are feathered with stunning dashes of sunlight when the sun isn't even there.

He swallows his thoughts when Arthur jumps away from him, clearing his throat and smoothing imaginary dust particles off his blazer.

Alfred stares at him with his lips slightly parted before shaking his head.

"So." he says with a shrug and a masquerading smile. "Knitting."

Arthur sputters and tries to create a scapegoat for himself. "I hardly think that's important right now!" he folds his arms and closes his eyes, wincing for the mocking that is sure to come. There's nothing, though, only quiet, so after a while he feels ridiculous and opens his eyes, freeing his muscles from their tense position.

Only to find that Alfred is staring at his eyebrows.

He furrows them, and blows a warm breath from his nose, as if he is an angry bull.

"What's important then?" Alfred blurts quickly, bumbling for his own excuse.

Arthur clenches his jaw, but he calms his anger almost instantly. He wonders if it's polite to just go out and say it, but since Alfred is asking, he tells himself that there is no other option than to answer.

"The fact that you can't go anywhere in this school without someone wanting to kill you." he says breezily, and feels a little bad when Alfred blinks and looks taken aback.

"Oh. Huh." Alfred says, and he's sad that the happy feeling he'd been getting was lost. He was glad to be finally talking to Arthur. Little does he know, the feeling is mutual.

"... Yes." Arthur says slowly. "Why?" he asks, even though he knows the answer. The sneaky little demon inside him wants to confirm it.

Yet, Arthur doesn't realize the strain this puts on Alfred. The boy bites his lip and contemplates leaving the room, but he knows that his worst nightmare is outside. Or, perhaps, as he panics at Arthur's inquiring gaze, his worst nightmare is the lesser of two evils.

He looks away, and in his too warm uniform he feels his skin heat and grow moist. How he misses the dry climate of home.

Arthur grows tense when Alfred doesn't respond. He frowns and scolds himself, because he knows better than to ask invasive questions.

He reaches the conclusion that his need to know more about Alfred is a little obsessive.

"I... you must know, I'm only concerned." he murmurs. "It is my job to... be... concerned." he finishes lamely. Alfred quirks an eyebrow at him.

"You can tell me. I won't hate you." Arthur says.

I already like you too much for that to ever happen, yet I hardly know you. Why is that?

Arthur glances back at his project and swallows. He hears Alfred shuffle on his feet.

"I-uh..." the taller boy blurts. "I... was sort of expecting it to be more accepting here, that's all."

Arthur wonders if it would be acceptable to change the subject. He feels bad enough already. And it's true, he thinks, that by all rights and reasons Alfred is correct. It just so happens that he got unlucky.

"Accepting of?" he prods reluctantly.

"Of the fact that I'm gay."

"Ohh." Arthur tries to look oblivious.

There's a bit of quiet.

"Oh? That's it?" Alfred almost snaps. He's had enough people pester him today.

Arthur looks at him and shrugs. He finds himself wanting to say, me too, but he knows that he can't have that fact spreading like a rumor.

A heavy feeling worms its way into his chest, settling there and making its home. He wants to confide in Alfred, but he knows that he'll never be able to.

With a sad smile, he watches Alfred fiddle with his uniform tie before grinning a bit in obvious relief. The boy asks him about his knitting, and Arthur admits that he makes every costume for the plays every year.

Alfred is secretly amazed.

There's a week left until they're set to perform in some rainy town, and a slight panic has overtaken the drama department. Not only are they rushing to get everything done, but they're also quite worried about one factor in particular. The weather.

It's unusual to get as much snowfall as they're getting. The dapples of frozen water fall from the sky in a myriad of murky grays and pristine whites, aligning the always moist streets with a layer of harsh ice and powder.

The teacher informs them that all will go as planned, and that they will grit through the drive if it's still wintry. This lifts Alfred's spirit, and drags Arthur's down.

Arthur sits alone in his knitting room, making a thick, downy skirt. He can't help but have a bad feeling, about what, he doesn't know.

They're math partners.

Their teacher decides to be generous and allows his students help from each other, and, knowing that Alfred wouldn't be very lucky, Arthur smiles at the silly boy from across the room. Alfred smiles back, and when they sit next to each other, they garner a ridiculous amount of stares.

Arthur ignores it, and after Alfred notices this, so does he.

When Alfred reaches for his pencil, Arthur reaches for his own, and the tips of their fingers brush. It's like the feeling of a feather gliding across skin, and Alfred has the thundering realization that he really wants to hold Arthur's hand.

He doesn't, of course, but when their fingers dart away, he feels Arthur scoot just a bit closer. It makes him smile and flush, and it's an almost giddy feeling, one he doesn't know if he should get used to.

Arthur is quiet, but Alfred is fine with the fact that he can just be around someone without feeling a hateful aura. They've been talking for a few days, and steadily, they've grown a remarkably easy friendship.

They're painting an amateur landscape on a large canvas for a backdrop, and as they had both volunteered to stay after class, they're alone. Together. Neither of them can express how nervous or excited they are.

Arthur paints a stripe of green grass, and Alfred works on filling in the dark green of a mystical tree. He has to climb a red, stained ladder to reach the top, and even then he has to stay on his toes. One winding strip of teal later, he moves his elbow in just the wrong way to knock over a bucket of paint.

Arthur is suddenly interrupted from his ogling of the way Alfred's shirt rides up his stomach when he stretches by a heavy can hitting him, followed by a splash of lime green, melting coldly into his front. He blinks.

"Aw, shit." Alfred says, jumping down from the ladder, and Arthur is shocked because he's never heard that adorable bumpkin accent swear before. Alfred bolts to get a rag, and when he comes back Arthur has to breathe deeply because suddenly those hands are all over him.

A calloused hand grabs his shoulder and holds him still, while another hand wipes at his chest and stomach.

Arthur is disturbed by his sudden desire to grab Alfred and do the same to him. He looks away from guilty eyes that rove over him in concentration, but when the dry part of the cloth runs up his neck, he flushes darkly, furrows his eyebrows, and looks up at Alfred from behind his lashes. His lips crinkle, and his entire body quivers in nervousness.

They're alone. His heart starts to thrum.

"Shit, shit shit..." Alfred mutters stupidly. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Arthur says in an even tone, and at the sound of his voice Alfred blinks and pauses.

Swallowing and feeling vibrations flow through his veins, Arthur gathers his will and grabs Alfred's hand, fisted around a filthy cloth. He hears Alfred's breath hitch, and he simpers, suddenly feeling bashful. Arthur guides Alfred's hand forward, before gushing the cloth onto the boy's own cheek.

Alfred's face is stained a grimy green, and after a while, he smiles a strained smile, too. Arthur doesn't let go of his hand.

"There. Now you're covered, too." Arthur says quietly.

Alfred's heart is beating wildly, and he bites his lip, feeling the back of his neck tingle. He takes in the sight before him, of Arthur soaked in paint that matches his eyes, smudged across his form in an oddly flattering way. His eyes are peeping through blanketing eyelashes, looking like green little moons. Arthur, too, is biting his lip, and he's got a dusty flush powdering the apples of his cheeks. It's the first time Alfred sees him so close and really, really looks at him, and what he sees is the reason why he does what he does next.

Alfred drops the cloth but keeps Arthur's hand, entwining his fingers over Arthur's slender ones, before leaning down with slow precision to kiss him softly on his lips. Arthur's eyes close before he gets there, and Alfred smiles a shy smile. He stays still against him, not daring to make it anything but chaste, and so does Arthur, yet Alfred is reassured when he squeezes his hand. They're gentle and pliant with each other, and when he feels Arthur ghost his fingers across his knuckles, his chest squeezes, too.

Arthur is about to wrap him in his arms right when the theater door creaks open, sending an echoing screech throughout the entire building. Or perhaps it's just their hearts.

They dart away from each other, but it's too late, and they're stuck staring into the shocked face of their teacher. She smiles falsely and licks her lips nervously, before clasping her hands.

"Oh... sorry." she says. Her fingers twiddle. "Sorry, sorry." she murmurs as she leaves the room.

Alfred and Arthur stand in a puddle of paint, glancing at each other sidelong.

Arthur gives Alfred a pained look, and is about to apologize to him, before their teacher arrives again. The opening door scares them both, and when she beckons Arthur over, they simultaneously feel chills dance down their spines, like a flurry of nasty bugs swarming around and around. Arthur looks at Alfred one last time, biting his lip, before obediently following after.

He wants to vomit, but not because of the kiss.

Arthur talks in a sore voice now that the event has passed.

He can only cringe at the fact that everyone walks on eggshells around him. He feels like a sick child that they placed into a plastic bubble, as not only do they still torment Alfred, they also treat him like a disease that spreads into Arthur. It's truly strange how their luck seems to have twisted and constricted into something as vile as this, a thread so ugly and snarled.

The teacher had said nothing, but unbeknownst to them there had been students backstage, watching their display in awe and disgust. She had actually been saving them from further embarrassment.

Blue eyes are watched like a hawk as Arthur tends to him. He wants to make sure the boy doesn't fall asleep on him, that's all. Besides, the only reason he's worrying is because of the sprouting bump lying under his dusty fringe. He dabs at the poor boy's scratches with a wet cloth, pursing his lips all the while.

Arthur had sneaked him in, as he's always the first one to be home anyhow. Alfred sits on his bed like he doesn't belong, and, really, he doesn't. Arthur is standing in front of him bustling like a mother hen, worrying because the poor boy was beaten in the schoolyard once again.

Alfred smiles a grim smile up at Arthur's fussy face, and all he gets in return is a moody huff. A particularly ornery wound is prodded at, and he loses his smile.

"Never can catch a break, can you." Arthur murmurs. Alfred looks up at him again just in time to see a flash of vulnerability flit across his features. He has to blink to confirm that he saw it.

Slowly, Alfred shakes his head and looks away, not sure what to say. He hears a small puff of breath leave the other boy, and it's then that he realizes that this is the first thing Arthur has said to him since before they kissed.

Before he can become lost in thought, he feels Arthur's lithe fingers cover his hand like a shield. He looks up again, wincing because the action stings his wounds, but keeps contact with Arthur's eyes all the same.

"I'm sorry." Arthur says in a near whisper, and while Alfred wonders what he's apologizing for, he doesn't ask about it. All he does is part his lips and look at the other boy in wonder.

Arthur sighs and gazes down at him. He doesn't want the inevitable to happen, but he knows that it will. How cruel he knows he can be, and how twisted the world is. It won't give him a choice in the matter.

He has to break Alfred's heart, because he knows that he can't save both him and his own status. Arthur takes a moment to reconsider, before he succumbs to the fact that he has always been a remarkably selfish person.

So like a soothing breeze, he traces the pads of his fingers up the wounded boy's arm, across his shoulder and to his neck, comforting him there because he wants to act as a painkiller. He sees a quaint little smile cross the boy's mouth like a wave, and he knows that he has succeeded in fooling him.

But not all of it is a trick. He would like to be with Alfred, to climb out of his shell and learn more about him, to bandage his scrapes and give him a kiss every day. It would be lovely, but as usual, he's not used to beauty, and instead chooses efficiency and precision.

Arthur takes in a shuddering breath before ghosting the palms of his hands onto Alfred's cheeks. He lets his thumb trace the skin where tears would be if they were falling, and he composes himself.

Arthur refuses to look at what he knows is there, at Alfred's sweet, giddy smile, and as if it's automatic, he leans down and covers the boy's lips with his own, like he's protecting something precious.

Alfred perks up instantly and ambles upward, like he's terribly eager for any contact whatsoever. He makes Arthur stumble a bit from his enthusiasm, as despite his wounds he straightens and wraps Arthur in his arms, something he didn't have the opportunity to do on the stage. He tilts his head to the side and so does Arthur, and he's blown away at the feeling of hands gliding down his throat to hold him steady by the hood of his jacket.

They whisper nonsense words into each other, one pushing when another submits, going back and forth as if it's a fight for control. Alfred's neck is pushed back as Arthur delves into him, sitting astride his thighs so that he's comfortable, fully aware of the position's implications. His toes curl, still confined within his shoes, and he's surprised when Alfred pushes him to do the same, to bend backwards so that the other can feel satisfied.

With his gentle yet chiding hands somewhere on Arthur's back, Alfred begins to feel a little self-conscious, because the pale boy is so thin and lithe, while he himself is nothing like that. Sure, he's not so pudgy that he's ripping his clothes at the seams, but he does wish that he could slim down a bit. As he rakes his fingers down the smaller boy's spine, and as his heart swims in his chest thanks to the feeling of Arthur sliding up his thighs, he finds that this difference gives him the urge to envelope the boy completely, to protect his little frame like their lives depend on it.

But he can't do that, because Arthur is determined to lead the kiss, while Alfred absorbs it like it's a gift. He lets him toy with his lips even though he doesn't think himself the most attractive person in the world, and he allows Arthur's hands to wander, from his shoulders to his back to his chest, splaying out and grabbing his clothes. It makes him breathe a little harder than usual, because he can hardly fathom the concept that someone might find him attractive at all, much less enough to kiss with so much fervor.

There is the sudden fear in his heart that maybe Arthur doesn't think him handsome at all, but he lets it go soon after, telling himself not to worry.

Arthur breathes in sharply and holds him close for a moment, like he's taking a last breath of fresh air. His lips part, and he licks the delicate skin of Alfred's lips, getting close enough so that they're flush, and it's a sudden, daring gesture, before he pulls away from him and glances at the tiny thread of saliva connecting their swollen lips. It breaks, and after a brief hesitation that involves staring at Alfred's blissful face, he stands and puts himself in order, clearing his throat.

Alfred is left breathless. He sits stationary in his spot, and his tongue, achingly tentative, flicks out to lick where Arthur's was just seconds ago, trying to get a taste of him but not quite succeeding. His eyes flutter open, and he looks up at Arthur, who is twiddling his hands and looking away from him with cheeks red like a rose. The flush spreads to his neck and his ears as he feels Alfred's eyes on him, and when Alfred gets the sudden thought that he wants to kiss and lick those reddened places, he, too, looks away, feeling too naughty for his own good.

Gaining back his clarity, Alfred stands suddenly, feeling weird because he's a bit taller than Arthur. Arthur seems to shrink when he stands, looking protective of himself. Alfred wonders why, but he doesn't question it, instead choosing to be overzealous as always.

"Can we be boyfriends now?" Alfred clamors, standing at full height over him. He looks kind of stupid, with his bruised and cut face, and his red cheeks. Arthur thinks he looks like a kid begging for something, as his eyes, luckily untouched, are wide, glassy, and hopeful. His lips are stretched into a smile, and when Arthur sees that smile he actually steps back in trepidation.

Alfred's excitement falters when he sees Arthur's expression, and after minutes of staring, he loses his smile altogether.

"... Arthur?"

Arthur blinks, as if freed from a trance. His mouth flounders, opening and closing in bewilderment, before he looks at Alfred's nose instead of his eyes. Anything but his baby blue eyes.

Yet he still can't say it. He can't stomp on that hopeful question, nor can he hurt Alfred anymore than he already has.

Arthur swallows his pride and kisses him again, with so much enthusiasm that he falls atop Alfred, and they bounce onto his bed and get lost in each other until the brink of evening.

Alfred is excited for every single day of school.

He considers it a miracle how, much like wind to a crawling fog, the feeling he got when he sneaked out of Arthur's window completely cleansed him of any dread. This scenario is playing in his head again and again, and he's proud of it, because at that time he felt like one of those real teenage princes you see in the movies.

His head is propped onto his pillow, ruffling his dusty blond hair. Slowly, he slides down, until he's merely sprawled across his mattress, looking at the ceiling and reading into its nonsense pictures.

He's not sure how he did it, but he did. In a fit of adrenaline he had climbed down the siding of Arthur's house from the second floor. Alfred reasons that it can't have been easy, as the pads of his fingers are sore and telling a tale of blisters, but he still can't fathom how on Earth he managed it.

That's hardly the point, he knows. He turns from his ceiling and instead looks at his stark blue wall, squinting his eyes just because he feels like it.

The feeling that squeezed his heart when he was finally stepping foot into the grass, with the tips of his fingers still splayed across beige siding, staring up at the worried face that was poking out its window to make sure he didn't fall, is healing all of his bruises. And it's true, he thinks, he can't even feel them anymore. It's like a sugar rush, magnified by the way his stomach upturns with every passing second. He recalls clearly the concern in Arthur's eyes, and the way from below Alfred could see his mussed hair jumping in the careful breeze. The height of his feet seemingly taking flight from the ground, the orange light of that evening sky, how shockingly soft Arthur's sandy hair had been when carded and tangled in his fingers, all of it, had been exhilarating. All they had done was kiss, but Alfred is sure that that's enough for now, perhaps even more than necessary.

Alfred tosses and turns, abandoning his wall in favor of his carpet. He's giddy and his skin seems to warm, and even though he folds his arms and hides his face in embarrassment, he knows that that little worm of a thought that just made itself clear is true.

He misses Arthur already.

"Did it hurt?" Alfred whispers.

Arthur gasps and throws his project into the air, knocking his knees together and making the simple wooden chair creak. He blinks wide eyes and finally notices the American's impish face peering through the door, decorated with a keen smile. Arthur sighs and picks up his project from the ground, setting it in his lap and gracing the other boy with a toxic expression.

"What?"

"Did it hurt, when you fell from heaven?"

Arthur groans and throws a stray ball of thread at the boy, who guffaws as he enters the room. Alfred kicks the yarn back to him as he approaches, stepping loudly onto the wood.

"Shouldn't you be doing your work?" Arthur asks, as a sort of shield for himself. Alfred blinks and pauses.

"Nope. Already got my lines down, and I painted that weird wall. So, I thought I'd come see you!"

The American continues on his path, halting in front of Arthur and his little chair. They share a profound staring contest for a moment, in which Arthur looks angry with everything and Alfred looks like a dunce, before Alfred smooths his hands onto Arthur's bony shoulders and gets close to his face.

"Where's my welcome?" he teases.

Arthur narrows his eyes and flares out his nostrils, only slightly put off because Alfred has a stray eyelash on his cheek. His hand moves of its own accord to brush it away, and apparently Alfred mistakes this for a caress because soon the back of Arthur's head is gently resting on the back of his chair. He feels his eyes flutter closed, and his fingers twitch in nervousness at the now familiar feeling of Alfred's lips.

Luckily, the American boy pulls away before it can turn into that of the previous day.

Arthur huffs and goes back to work, choosing to ignore Alfred's presence for the most part. Little does he know, Alfred is watching his every little movement with excited intent.

To him, it's the greatest thing, to simply stand and watch his boyfriend. Boyfriend. Alfred smiles and giggles a bit, to which Arthur looks up and arches an eyebrow.

Alfred shrugs and sits on the floor with a plop, scooting back so that he's propped up against Arthur's legs.

"You're really good at that." Alfred says. Arthur blinks twice, before flushing and darting his eyes away from the boy's springy cowlick. He's not sure if he's talking about kissing or making costumes, but he's flattered either way.

"Thank you." he mutters, and when he looks back he finds Alfred twiddling with his phone. So, with a pent up sigh, he gets back to work.

Arthur lets Alfred do whatever he wants, because he must hurry to finish every last costume piece before the big event.

Which, coincidentally, happens to be tomorrow.

It feels like they're in an airport, waiting for the plane to take off. Arthur curses the smell of gasoline and shivers in his thin blazer, stuck frigid in the back where the heat does not reach. Alfred had insisted they sit in the back because, "That's where all the cool people sit, and we're totally cool."

So far, they're the only two in the back, and while Alfred is painfully optimistic, Arthur wants to sprint forward and roll around in front of the heater.

The windows are white with frost, traced with ice veins that look like lightning. Snow falls in enormous flakes, dancing and rocking in the air before joining the crowd on the ground. Arthur rests his forehead against that frozen window, apathetic because hey, he's already freezing, why not ease his headache, too? Alfred is warm next to him, in his thick leather jacket, and of course Arthur is envious. However, he is also too ill to care.

Arthur is, of course, one to have a migraine on a very important day. Alfred is completely oblivious, with his big smile and wide eyes, bouncing his leg and humming some tune. It almost infuriates Arthur, how he can be so desperately happy, but he leaves him alone, knowing that the poor boy needs the optimism.

A gaggle of girls sits in front of them, but otherwise, they're alone in the back of the bus. The radio starts up, and after twenty minutes of role call, they're off into the winter storm.

Alfred's excitement subdues as the tires bounce atop ice chunks, and as the bus is painfully slow for safety measures, soon half the students are lulled to sleep. Arthur notices Alfred's eyelids drooping, tired and drowsy somehow in the frigid air. The boy is resting against the back of their seat, and finally, he succumbs to slumber, letting his body hide his blue eyes.

Arthur watches him, without anything better to do. He puffs out his cheeks and slowly releases air, staring ahead at the wipers going mad on the windshield. Couldn't they have postponed the performance?

The bus turns, and Alfred's head slides down until Arthur has a nice mop of sunny hair tickling his neck. He stiffens, and automatically, his eyes dart this way and that, checking that no one is looking at them. When he finds that everyone is either asleep or chatting animatedly amongst themselves, he can breathe a little easier. Arthur huffs and lets his eyes search out the window, watching as they leave civilization. Where in the hell is this old theater, anyhow? He loses the distraction and turns his head to the side, letting the corner of his mouth touch that soft hair. Perhaps he can indulge, just a little.

His eyes trace the throes of students. It's safe to, right?

Yes, right.

Arthur quells his fears and allows an idle hand to wrap around the boy's waist. He rests his head fully atop Alfred's, suddenly feeling at peace and not ill at all. His eyelashes brush his cheeks when he, too, shuts his eyes.

No one is watching, he tells himself. Everything's okay, no one is paying attention. A little rebellious devil on his shoulder hisses that it doesn't matter, he can snuggle up to his beau in public if he wants to, but Arthur quickly and metaphorically flicks it away.

It does matter what they think. It means the world to him. But they can't see him anyway, so it's okay.

Arthur feels rather than sees Alfred's eyes flutter open, and only a second after they do, the boy snickers and nuzzles into his neck. Green eyes open again, and Arthur purses his lips in embarrassment. It's achingly adorable, how he can feel the tip of a cold nose breathe out warm air into his neck, how that soft, soft hair tickles him relentlessly.

"You're so cute." Alfred whispers. Arthur's skin warms, and he sniffs like its a scoff. Alfred is the cute one, not him.

Even so, he doesn't reply. He only watches sidelong as Alfred clasps his hands in his lap and turns so that their knees are brushing.

Arthur gazes out the window, seeing the appearance of trees, capped with snow and decay. He takes in how impossible it seems for them to have so much snowfall. It hasn't happened like this in years. The bus ascends a hill, and to Arthur it feels as though the higher they go, the more gusts fly through the bus, and the colder it gets. Now he's grateful that Alfred is so warm. Arthur, even though his head is pounding and his stomach is in knots, allows himself a gentle, wan smile.

It's silent between them, and after a few minutes Arthur is sure that Alfred has fallen asleep again.

He wonders what he'd do if someone were to look in their direction. Would he push Alfred away? Or would anything happen at all? It makes him bite his lip, but he still can't let the boy go.

Arthur startles when Alfred's head lifts from its makeshift pillow. His big blue eye rove around the bus for a moment, like he's curiously watching his surroundings, before he simpers to himself and fixes his glasses.

"Cold, huh." Alfred says.

"Yes." Arthur murmurs. The arm he has around Alfred tightens, and he sighs quietly. "Very."

Alfred stares at him a moment, before straightening himself out and sitting on the edge of the seat. Arthur whips his arm back into his lap and flushes, narrowing his eyes and looking away. He hears Alfred chuckle lightly, before he blinks at the warmth of something on his shoulders.

"There ya go."

The smaller boy looks down to see the brown leather of Alfred's jacket, warm like a portable heater thanks to the fluff inside. He stares at it for a while, before worming his arms through the sleeves and feeling small. Only the tips of his fingers emerge from its sleeves, and if he were standing, it would surely reach down to his thighs. It's so comfortable, though. It embarrasses him, but he doesn't want to take it off. He smiles to himself when he thinks that maybe this heavenly jacket is the source of Alfred's endless happiness.

Arthur looks up again, and although his smile melts a bit, it's still there.

"Thank you." he says.

Alfred smiles and winks. "Don't mention it." he leans in for a kiss, and Arthur panics. His eyes widen as they stare into Alfred's half-lidded ones, and although he can feel his heart palpitating and his hands getting clammy, he's helpless to those wonderful lips on his. Arthur is nearly hysterical in his head, and rightfully so, because soon after their lips meet a deafening voice winds itself into his ear.

"So you two are together!"

Arthur makes a strange squeaking sound and pushes Alfred away with his sleeve-covered hands. He covers his mouth and his head instantly darts this way and that, and finally after a bit of panic, his eyes fall upon the gaggle of girls in front of them.

One of them is looking over the back of her seat, and she has a bright smile on her face that's complimented with her olive skin and lime-like eyes. Her hands are clasping the top of the seat, and as she grins at them excitedly, her cinnamon hair seems to bounce.

Arthur's breath is hissing in the back of his throat, making a strained hhhhh sound that translates directly into oh, fuck. His eyes are wide and his mouth is poised into a false, tight smile. He looks ridiculous, but of course, he can't see himself, so he thinks it's a perfect mask.

"I knew it!" she exclaims in a charming accent. "Good thing, too, you're really so cute-"

Her excitable little speech garners some attention, and much of the bus begins to look back their way. Some are smiling gently, while others are frowning. The worst of all, though, is the myriad of mocking smirks.

"Yeah." Alfred says softly from beside him.

"No!" Arthur finds himself blurting, and he realizes that it's probably the loudest thing he's said in front of his peers, ever. The girl blinks and loses some of her smile. "No, we're not." he concludes lamely.

She furrows her eyebrows and tilts her head to the side in an estranged frown. Her eyes move between them, and then, a sorrowful shadow encompasses her face. She looks apologetic, but she says nothing.

"No?" comes the breathless whisper from beside him. Arthur flinches, and he knows that he should have seen it coming. Suddenly he feels like the worst person in the world, in a too-big jacket that doesn't belong to him, one he certainly does not have the right to wear. With painful slowness, he turns to look at Alfred.

The American boy looks vaguely pissed off, but for the most part he merely appears as though he's just been punched in the gut. "What do you mean, no?"

"I-I mean..." Arthur stutters, and he feels two inches tall. There Alfred is, with such an uncharacteristically upset look on his face that it makes his head swim. While at the same time, he can feel the stares from elsewhere, burning like lasers into his skin. He chokes on his words and swallows them like rocks down his throat, and he feels himself begin to sweat with a surplus of conflicting emotions. What does one do in that kind of situation? "I mean..." he breathes, looking down at his lap.

There's an aching silence, pulsing like a migraine throughout everything.

Arthur blinks when there's a resounding laugh from somewhere up front. It's small at first, but then it grows and thrives, like a raging storm.

"Lookit that! The little poof's crying!" cries a voice from somewhere. Arthur's eyes dart up to see that the worst has indeed occurred. Alfred is wiping at his misty eyes with the whites of his sleeves, giving the fabric transparent blotches of saltwater. His glasses are foggy and pushed aside by his fist, and as if things could get any worse, his lip begins to wobble.

The laughter is uproarious, and it grates on Arthur's nerves like no other. He grits his teeth and tries not to cry himself. His hand extends to fuss over Alfred, but it's instantly slapped away.

Arthur blinks despondently at the forming red spot on his wrist.

"Stop it!" cries the girl in front of them, the one who started the whole mess. She turns, and her hair whips behind her when she does. "What are you all, seven years old? Grow the fuck up!"

To aid in the chaos, the bus swerves over a sheet of ice. Some fall from their seats and crash onto their elbows and asses in the aisle, while others cling to the seats. Their teacher yells at them to quiet down, and Arthur feels like hyperventilating.

He doesn't have the chance to, though.

The insane force of natural calamity halts everyone's chortles, as directly after that first minor swerve, they veer out of control. The back seems to lose itself before the front, as it swings like a flail, forcing Alfred to crush Arthur against the window. They all simultaneously gasp, and they can almost hear the whine of slick ice, tricking the tires and sending them another way. Some scream, while others, petrified, stay grimly silent. Brakes screech, but they cease to work, and before anyone can blink the jarring impact of the fence silences everything.

It's like nothing, harmless and defenseless against the weight of the bus. It gives way instantly, and although it delivers a startling shake, it's useless. The brakes are stuck, for reasons no one can fathom.

The screaming starts up again, and Arthur feels Alfred cling to him despite everything that just happened. They seem to vibrate with the corner of the cliff, dragging against the floor with aching slowness. Some scramble for the back, sprinting from their seats and turning desperate eyes to the emergency exit. They wish to descend into the storm, as anything is better than the fall ahead of them. Most of them slide down the slope, pulled to the front by gravity.

As Arthur hears the painful thud of someone hitting the windshield, his own eyes turn wide toward the exit. They're the closest of all. They could, easily, get out. He and Alfred, they could survive.

And leave everyone else in the cold.

The slope is only getting steeper, slimming their chances. His eyes move up to Alfred's weeping, terrified face, and he makes up his mind.

Arthur is not about to die as the useless boy who does nothing but stomp on hearts.

Gently, he pushes the boy away and twists his body about the back of the seat in front of them, bracing on his elbows. He can do this. He huffs and puffs, mortified by the way his feet want to dangle beneath the seat. He can do it, he will do it.

Alfred bolts. Arthur gasps as he observes him fighting his tears, hopping over their seat and making the bus scrape. Alfred doesn't look back, and suddenly Arthur realizes that the boy intends to leave him behind. With a growl, he grabs him by the back of his uniform sweater and drags him closer, before Arthur himself climbs atop their seat.

His fingers blister as they cling to the walls and windows, the stepping stones to the exit. Arthur's mere actions beckon Alfred to follow, as he, too, realizes that simply running up the slope is futile. Every step they take seems to jar them, seems to bring forth the agonizing scrape of icy stone to metal.

Arthur grasps the latch and trusts that Alfred will follow, because he knows that he can't grab his hand with his hold on the back window.

With a solid pull, it unravels like a loose knot, and the door flies uselessly away with the wind. He feels like he's on a sinking ship, and the water pressure has finally delved into them, suffocating them. The snow blinds him as it siphons the heat outward into pure abyss. His shoes whine and slip down the slope, and they make the final drop. The screams are deafening, but soon they're gone as he's thrust out into the cold, seeming to float in midair for a single second.

Yet, that heavenly second is over far too quickly. He hears Alfred yelp as he, too, exits the doomed vehicle, and its the last thing he truly witnesses before he is swallowed, and before he drowns in pure white.

It's too late for the road. He falls alongside the bus, his back his only cushion for the impact.

Recognizing that he's about to end, his eyes leak icicle tears that look like glass beads in the air. His heart has stopped early, and a strange thought enters his mind that he can't feel his body. He is numb, soaring through the air. Arthur's fingers act as nets for snowfall, and his eyes take in the last drop of sun, concealed by clouds.

A blinding pain on his hip and a finalizing crash to the back of his skull are the last things he feels before white, completely spontaneous, skips gray and cuts straight to black.

I relate to Arthur deeply in this one. uwu

Alright. So. If you're familiar with me, you're probably wondering where the heck I've been. Well.

I.

I have literally no excuse but for the fact that I've been working on this. Which, by the way, is actually at like 20,000 words right now. It was going to be another oneshot, but last time I put a 40,000 word one on the table, people didn't like the length. So this one's split up a bit. This chapter is barely even an introduction.

As soon as I'm done with this (which will be reasonably soon), I'll be going back to LT. My precious baby.

There should only be two chapters. :)

Until next time.