imperfect cry, and scream in ecstasy
so what befalls the flawless
look what i've built it shines so beautifully
now watch as it destroys me
- AFI
Alfred had thought that finding out that Arthur Kirkland - his childhood hero/friend, his secret crush, his favorite person-to-tease in the whole wide world - slept with teachers for his grades and position was the worst thing that could happen to him.
Alfred was heartbroken because he loved Arthur. He was furious because his sense of ethics and morality - his hero-complex, Arthur had dubbed it with what Alfred thought was affection, but now he wondered if it was exasperated condescension - was deeply offended. So of course he confronted Arthur about it.
What happened next proved that finding out about Arthur and his 'arrangements' with the teachers wasn't the worst thing that could happen to Alfred.
Sleeping with Arthur was.
He didn't know how it had ended up with Arthur moaning below Alfred on the sofa of the council-room, except that it probably had to do with the rum Arthur had offered him to drink (Alfred had thought it was apple juice and then was too proud to stop drinking) when Alfred had first accused him, inviting Alfred in a too-smooth voice to "sit down and we'll talk about it."
Alfred really had a very bad head for alcohol.
And he was talking, waving his hands, whining, shouting. And all Arthur did was nod, and refill his glass - yes, a full glass - of rum, and oh yeah, slowly and absently unbutton his shirt.
Ten minutes and way too much rum for him to handle later, Alfred was living out a dream he'd been having since he was old enough to have that kind of dream - he was fucking Arthur Kirkland. Arthur was naked, his pale-cream body flawless, slim but deceptively strong, his green eyes brighter than stars, the look on his face enough to make Alfred come all on its own. His mouth could do things Alfred had never imagined. His hands were unerringly accurate in where to touch Alfred that would bring the American boy to a fever of arousal.
It was blazing hot. It was the hardest Alfred had ever come in his life. And when it was over and Arthur had wordlessly dressed himself up again and sat back down to resume doing paperwork, Alfred had slunk out the door feeling dirty, unhappy, and nearer to tears than he'd been for years.
When he thought back on it, that had really been the beginning of the end.
When he sat in class, he couldn't stop wondering if the teachers now lecturing at the blackboard had fucked Arthur. If they'd forced Arthur or if he'd seduced them into it like he had seduced Alfred - he couldn't decide whether they were pedophile monsters or weak-minded fools. He couldn't stop wondering about coach, if Arthur knelt in front of coach under the bleachers and sucked him off in order to be excused from PE class. He couldn't stop wondering about his classmates, his schoolmates. Who had slept with Arthur? What had they offered him in return for the pleasure of the British boy underneath them, for the use of his body?
He hated them all. And he hated that he was no better, that he'd done it too, and he hated himself.
He avoided Arthur, found himself progressing from avoiding eye contact to plotting elaborate routes around the school in order to not be near where Arthur was. He stayed away as carefully as a deer keeping away from hungry wolves. His grades dipped. He began to skip practices, and then outright dropped from the team, killing their chances for a championship and leaving them without the leadership of their captain.
Everything that he had taken joy in had been marred. He picked fights - he broke Francis Bonnefoy's nose, and then Gilbert Beillschmidt's arm when the German boy came after him for Francis's sake. (He knew, by then, that they were among Arthur's most frequent bedmates among the students) When his cousin Matthew tried to talk to him he snarled and shoved the other boy away. He mouthed off to teachers and laughed in their faces when they tried to discipline him. He mocked his coach openly, to the man's face, as a washed-up has-been who had never been good enough for the professional leagues, and when the coach - losing his temper - swung at him, he swung back, and gave the man a black eye. Unfortunately, with the coach swinging first, Alfred now had grounds to sue the school and everyone knew it.
By the time his angry and worried parents yanked him out of Hetalia Academy, it was hard to say who was more relieved to see him go: the teachers and other students, or Alfred himself.
When Alfred, dressed in civilian clothes, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, walked to the waiting car that would take him to the airport, he showed none of the shame or guilt or slow wistfulness that most expelled students showed. Instead, his head high, his gaze fixed on the car, he walked fast, as if his foremost concern in life was to leave. He had the air, not of someone fleeing, but someone leaving. The difference was very clear in him. He never looked back once.
If he had, though, he would not have seen Arthur watching him go. The Council President was watching from behind the blinds of his window, the slats tilted so he could see out, but no one could see in. He watched Alfred get into the car, he watched the car drive away, and when it was gone he stood there watching the empty street for a very long time.
Written for the USUK comm, request by rurushuu.