Folded paper delicately floats on the water after drifting through the air, sailing on the gentle breeze. Soft ripples ebb from it until the rings disappear, unmoving, and the mist that envelops the place makes it appear as if there was an ethereal veil sheltering the area. I can't tell where the sky begins, or if it does at all. This place seems almost like it has an invisible barrier around it. No matter how far into the forest I run, I never escape from here. I try every day, but my efforts are futile. It isn't so bad, however; I have my silent friends beside me.

My father complains about it, saying how I'm a freak for talking to thin air, and then sighs and shakes his head because I never answer him. I don't like speaking to people who don't understand anything that they don't believe. Nobody is open-minded anymore though, are they? It hardly matters though, because I will most likely never get out of here—this condense forest in the middle of nowhere.

I haven't always lived here. I found photographs in father's drawers: sepia toned pictures of a long-haired woman holding me in various locations in a city. There was a museum, which I'd never been to, but I'd read about in books. Books could also be located in libraries, which was somewhere I'd love to visit. As it is, I have a lot of books, but I've read them all numerous times and cannot go anywhere with new novels that I can utilise to escape reality. I'd like to live in a city someday—one with lots of winding roads, big houses made of bricks, tall buildings that reflected the blinding sun, or even a downpour of rain. As long as it was industrialised, I would like it. I'd want to visit the shops a lot and buy a new book every day. In the ones I've read, there are foods other than fruits, vegetables and animals in woods. I've taken to being a vegetarian, which is someone who doesn't consume meat. I saw father hunting animals a few years ago and it made me feel sick.

Father is a murderer.

He never talks about mother. I've only seen her in photographs, but I don't know anything about her. She was very thin and very frail, but she was the kind of person who could make sunshine appear behind storm clouds. Or, that's the impression I've gathered from her script-scribbled notes on the back of photos. Father doesn't like to look at them, so I took them. I hide them beneath my floorboards because I don't want anyone to take them from me. I let the faeries look at them, but the nymphs are too heedless and frolicsome. I've wondered if she loved me a lot, but then I realise it's pointless to dwell on it; I'll never see her again.

The paper cranes in the water eventually soak up too much and slowly sink into the murky depths. I stare out for a moment longer, unperturbed by the constant drizzle cascading from the endless sky, and wish for someone to save me.

But it's the same wish I make every day, the same thing I pray for, and not yet has it come true. My fairytales tell me to keep believing but with every day that passes, my urge to drown like the cranes grows.

I'm suffocating here anyway. Why not take control of my own destiny?

x.

Father's bottles line the thin hallways, but my nose no longer wrinkles at the stench of alcohol that always lingers on his breath. He somehow has a large supply of them. I don't remember coming here, so he must have brought them with us back then. I carefully grasp one gingerly between two of my fingers and take it into my bedroom, ignoring Father who is snoring on the makeshift sofa.

I grab one of my previously made paper cranes and unfold it, silently offering an apology to it as I bit my thumb and covered a small rock with my blood. I wrote a short message on the paper crane and stared dubiously at it before sighing ruefully. I picked up the bottle and slid the paper in, closing it off with a cork.

Father didn't wake up when I left the house, but he never noticed or cared anyway. It's not as if I could ever get away from here. A lost paradise, Father called it. I called it purgatory; it felt like nothing. But I wasn't sure I'd ever get to see heaven anyway.

As I gazed out at the neverending lake and became soaked in the continuous drizzle of rain, I tossed the bottle into the water and watched it float away.

"Save me," I whispered. I hadn't used my voice in years, but maybe they'd hear me if I did.

x.

Faeries' wings are comparable to those of a butterflies or a fireflies. They're very delicate and would be immobilised if their wings were grasped. They are fragile and gentle, although faeries don't necessarily possess personalities similar to their frail, almost transparent wings. With sparkling eyes and glittering alabaster skin, slender frames, long necks and long joints. Really, it was easy to mistake fireflies for faeries. Only... Father says only I can see faeries and it's because there's something wrong with me. I don't care. If my defect allows me to see such beautiful creatures, then I'm glad I'm a freak.

(But when Father is hitting me, I'm not terribly happy about my status. But sometimes I revel in it because I'm glad whatever's wrong with me disturbs him.)

The faeries assure me that I'm not weird. They're very honest creatures for the most part, although since they're all different, some of them are a bit mean and others are just very ingratiating. I didn't tell many lies because I didn't speak, although I'm sure I'd probably lie if I did talk. I'd say that I was okay even though I'm hurting or that I'm content when I feel like drowning myself or that I didn't want to be saved. None of those things are true, but I think I'd be a good liar if I spoke. If others were around.

I also make up stories and I lie in those too. They're call fictional stories. I'd write them, but I don't have any utensils to do so with. I've tried doing it with my blood but it made me dizzy because I used too much. Father saw and sneered and told me I should just slit my wrists if I'm that masochistic, and then later he drowned himself in alcohol and sputtered apologies as he held me tightly enough for it to hurt. Then he shoved me and screamed at me, but I didn't speak to him. He says I'm a mute, but I just have no reason to speak.

I'd like to write my stories down one day though. I'd share them with people and maybe they would like them. It seems I'll never know though, because I'll probably never get out of here.

x.

I don't have any paper left. I used all of it for paper cranes and useless blood-smeared letters that were a fruitless effort at self-sufficiency. I have a lot of paper cranes dangling from the ceiling, but I felt bad for forcing such beautiful bird-like creatures to stay with me when they could fly. I would forever remain a part of a cage, but they didn't have to be stuck too. So I threw them all across the lake, allowing them to glide and flutter down into the water. The faeries came with me as I let all eleven thousand and thirty seven free, but Father never came to search for me although I was gone for a couple of days, abandoning sleep to let them all go. If I didn't let them leave, the wind would take them anyway. I wanted to bid them farewell.

I've started collecting Father's bottles. I smash them and reassemble the pieces into little towers and statues of cranes, but glass isn't the same as paper. It cut my hands a lot but I didn't mind, although I smeared blood over my walls and Father panicked and hit me so hard that everything went black. I woke up and he was crying and apologising again, breath reeking of alcohol, but I didn't push away the intoxicated man. Eventually, he just left me, lying limp on the floor and going to drink more.

I picked up another bottle and smashed it, throwing the shards over my room and walking over them, enjoying the sound of cracking and the feeling of pain in my feet.

I stuck more of the glass shards together with honey from trees, and again they looked like cranes. They sparkle in the sunlight and the faeries love them, but they don't get too near in fear of cutting themselves; they have seen how I am covered in slashes. But I like them.

I threw one of them into the lake, but it just sunk immediately. My glass cranes can't fly.

I wish I wasn't made of glass.

x.

I wake up and expect to see glass cranes and wooden ceilings, but instead I see aqua vinyl floors and artificial light from a single lamp hanging from the ceiling. It smells like some kind of chemicals that I've read about it books but I can't really place them, although it's most likely medicinal.

I sit up to find myself in a strange green robe that almost matches the floor. There are bandages on my arms and legs and there are wires in my arm. There's a disconcerting beeping sound that speeds up suddenly, and I realise it's my heart beat. It goes faster again as the door creaks open ominously, and a man in a white coat strolls in with a reassuring smile. I back up, feeling like a cornered animal, and he stops as if he noticed my fear.

"Arthur Kirkland," he says, voice a lot softer than Father's but more bright. He has shining blue eyes and I'm mesmerised because everything in the forest is pastel-like and saturated. I tilt my head at his words, and his smile saddens. "That's your name, kiddo," he explains gently, sighing and running a hand through his light brown hair. "Well, my name's Alfred Jones. Senior," he adds, grinning. "I have a son. My wife and I decided to name him Alfred 'cause it's sort of a tradition in my family."

I stare at him.

"Arthur's a nice name, I think," he continues. "Did you know there was once a King Arthur?"

Of course I know that. I'm not stupid. I nod.

His smile broadens. "Oh? It's awesome that you know. How are you aware of it?"

I frown blankly. How anyone finds out—I read.

"Anyway, Arthur," he procedes, placing his chart on a table beside the heart rate monitor. He approaches me and I eye him warily, but he sits beside me and gently rubs my back. "Your dad's been taken into custody by the police." He looks at me reproachfully. "You know about the police, don't you?" I nod, scowling. "'Course you do, you're a smart kid. Sorry, I was just worried, since... well, where you've been." He eyes me, looking anguished, and I stop glaring at him. "Arthur, do you know why the police have taken your dad?"

I lower my gaze to my hands, wondering where the faeries were or if they will be able to find me. I shrug although I think I know the answer.

"He kidnapped you, Arthur," he mumbles softly. "He took you away from your family when you were just a baby. And he's hurt you too, hasn't he? Arthur?"

He hurt me a lot, but I don't mind. I don't like it, but he's very sad a lot. Besides, I don't care what he does. I nod again anyway.

"You'll have to tell the police," the doctor mutters, gentle but sounding much more firm. "They'll want to talk to you, Arthur. You'll do that, won't you?"

I look at him pointedly and draw my brows together.

His smile is sad again. "Maybe if you have a bit of TLC first, eh?" He grins suddenly, weaving his arm around my shoulders, and I loosen up, ready for him to shake me or smack me. He doesn't, just continues rubbing my arm. "I think you'd like to meet my son, although he's the complete opposite of you. He's loud, obnoxious, and never studies," he says, rolling his eyes, but he's obviously fond of the boy he's speaking about. "Maybe you'll help him change that habit, eh, Arthur?"

I look away, shrugging once again. He holds me until I fall asleep.

x.

I'm in Doctor Jones's car. He took me out of the hospital today to take me to see his family. He has two sons, but he forgot to mention his other one because he lives with his mother and they don't live together. He told me that he and his wife separated last year but they're still close friends and their sons see each other in school all the time. He also said that I might be going to their school soon. I'm not sure I'm looking forward to it. The prospect of going to a big place full of a lot of people makes me feel sick.

I watch as houses and buildings pass and note them with satisfaction. I'm glad there are buildings here. Doctor Jones previously said that this is south London, although he isn't English; he moved here with his partner seven years ago when his sons were two. He came here for a job, but he'd like to go back to the USA one day. He says that I'm a year older than his sons, and I asked how he knows, and he told me that he found my birth certificate. He let me look at it and I found out that my mother's name was Elizabeth and she died only a few years after Father took me. Doctor Jones said that he would take me to her grave to pay my respects. I vowed to make Mother paper cranes.

"We're here!" he declares happily, humming to himself as the growling sound of the engine suddenly stops and he removes his keys from the ignition. He gets out and then opens my door for me and then he offers to take my hand but I just stare at him in confusion. He sighs but smiles again and leads the way to his house, shoving the key in the lock and shoving it open. "Alfred, I'm home," he calls, glances at me, and then steps to the side as a blur flies past him.

I glance around to see a boy skid to a stop, stumbling and almost falling over, and he glares at Doctor Jones. "That's mean!" he insists, and then his azure eyes fall on me. He eyes me curiously before cackling. "You have really big eyebrows," he says, then grins, "and really pretty eyes."

I scowl at him, bewildered, as Doctor Jones flicks him in the forehead and says something about manners. He then rolls his eyes and dismisses Alfred's sulky mumbles and ushers us in, telling us to break the ice.

"Polar bears," Alfred says with a lopsided grin, and I stare at him. "It's an ice breaker!"

I blink.

He pouts. "Man, you're no fun." He glances back, presumably to see his father in the kitchen, and then turns back to me. "Dad told me I have to be nice to you 'cause something bad happened," he says, tilting his head. "What was it?"

I glare reproachfully and look away.

He was silent for a few moments and then sighed in frustration. "Okay, fine, don't tell me," he mumbles, but soon perks up. "So anyways, I'm Alfred F. Jones. I'm nine years old and I'll be ten in July—You'd better remember that! Get me a present, okay?—and I have a twin brother called Matthew but he's really boring and carries a bear with him everywhere." He rolls eyes eyes and snorts before smiling at me. "How about you?"

I glance back at him and, seeing his hopeful smile and bright blue eyes, I whisper softly, "My name is Arthur Kirkland. I like paper cranes."

He looks at me for a long moment before laughing. "That's weird," he says, but he suddenly looks contemplative. "Have you made any before?"

I nod.

He hums, thoughtful for a moment, and then shrugs off whatever he was thinking. "You'll have to show me some time," he says earnestly, beaming. "For now, c'mon—I'll teach you to play Halo while Dad makes us some food. Do you like burgers?"

x.

Alfred is a strange person.

He insults me quite a lot but he gets angry if anyone else does. He hugs me and ruffles my hair and pulls my cheeks but when he found out that a boy in school teased me and pushed me over and ripped my books, he told them off. He encourages me to talk to more people but then glares at them when they sit next to me or invite me to their house.

I started attending Alfred's school last month. After six months of therapy without any significant results, the psychologist decided that I would benefit most by being surrounded by other people my own age. I stay in the psychiatric ward in the hospital but I sleep over at Alfred's house on the weekends. The doctors are concerned because I don't eat a lot and I never speak to them. When Doctor Jones said that I sometimes talk to Alfred, they warily said that I should stay around him more. Doctor Jones was more than happy to oblige.

I like school. I enjoy learning things and I think I'm quite good at it because I get As a lot and Alfred gawked at me and said that it's amazing. But he's better than me at most of the sciences, especially astronomy. He said he wants to be an astronaut or a fireman or a science professor. I said that it's good to have high aspirations and he grinned at my approval, hugging me.

I always feel warm when Alfred hugs me.

Alfred likes sports. He isn't very good right now, but I believe he can improve. He falls over a lot and when he plays American football, he sometimes scores in the wrong goal because he doesn't pay attention. Once he was really sad after practice and started crying on the field after the rest of the team when inside, still sniggering. So I stumbled away from what he refers to as the bleachers and walked over to him. I knelt in front of him, tore out a page of my notebook, and folded it.

"What is it?" he asked, voice nasally as he sniffled. He rubbed away his tears and peered out curiously.

"A paper crane," I replied softly, placing the delicate creature in his dirty hands. He stared at it for a long moment and then looked back at me, not sure what to do. I carefully put my hands under his and lifted them as a gust of wind blew past, whisking the bird off and carrying it through the wind. We watched it go and then he turned back to me. "You remind me of birds," I murmured quietly, looking at our intertwined hands. "You're free, uninhibited, and learning to fly." I smiled. "Even if you can't see your wings, I can."

That was the first time he kissed me.

x.

"Happy birthday, Arthur!"

I look up from my book, slipping my bookmark into it and shutting it as my rambunctious friend approaches with a toothy grin. I blink in surprise as he kneels in front of my desk and shoves a brightly wrapped present before my eyes.

"Birthday..." I repeat, staring at him with wide eyes. "How do you know it?"

"Dad told me," he replies cheekily. "If you weren't gonna tell me, I had to find out somehow. Now go on—open it!"

Flushing slightly, I nervously tug at the ribbon (and subtly drop it into my lap so I can put it in my pocket and take back with me to use later) and then peel apart the paper. I open the lid of the box and stare at what lies inside—a soft white plush with a glittering horn on its head, a fluffy rainbow tail portruding from the back of it. I pick it up.

"It's a unicorn," Alfred explains, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "I, uh... I dunno if you like 'em. If it's too girly, I'll return it. It's just—I saw you looking at it when we went to the toy store a couple of weeks ago."

I hold it closer and begin to puff out its tail, mesmerised by the various diverse colours. "I like it," I mumbled softly into its fur, and Alfred grins in relief.

"Good," he breathes, and we both smile.

x.

I spend Christmases with the Jones family. Alfred's mother and brother come around, along with his grandparents, who insist that we're all too small. Alfred then shoves me in front of him and declares that I'm shorter and skinnier and then his grandmother tells me she'll make me apple pie and give me chocolates and then she pinches my cheeks and then laughs.

I help her and Alfred's mother cook the dinner, although I burnt the potatoes so they told me to just set the table. Alfred and Matthew helped me with it and told me I shouldn't bother helping because it's boring, so then I was whisked off to play board games. Alfred won most of them but Matthew insisted that he was cheating. Before an argument could escalate, Alfred's father taught us card games, and I won most of them.

To my surprise, Alfred's parents get me presents too. I always blush and stutter objections but then Alfred rolls his eyes and pulls me towards him, saying he won't let me go until I open them. I blush more as his parents laugh and coo and take pictures but I still like being close to him.

"Why does your family have me over for the holidays?" I asked him afterwards, when we're in a fort that we built made of blankets and pillows.

He scoffs. "You're pretty much part of the family," he told me once, putting his hand over mine and smiling. "We all want you here."

Then he shoved a piece of chocolate in my mouth and laughed when I began choking.

x.

I'm in high school now.

Since Alfred's a year younger than me, we have to wait another year to be together. I was sad when I had to leave, but so was he, so we made a pact to be friends forever. He wanted us to spit on our hands, but I thought it was unhygienic. He mumbled that we have to share spit for it to work properly, so I kissed him on the lips. It was chaste but I blushed furiously and he stared at me, but then he hugged me tightly until I had to go back to the hospital.

One my last day of primary school with him, I made two paper cranes and even coloured his with red stripes and stars and mine with faeries. We threw them together and held hands as we watched them disappear into the everlasting sky.

x.

High school is odd. The people in my year are loud and childish but they become shy around older kids. The upperclassmen are rowdy and talk about rude things that I find kind of disgusting, but I slowly grow accustomed to it.

An older boy often follows me around and teases me, but I insult him back. We got into a scuffle and ended up in the headmaster's office and I didn't cry even though the older boy said he expected me to.

"You are a strange boy, Arthur," he observes, flicking his blond hair over his shoulder as he cast a glance in my direction. I wish the headmaster hadn't said my name. He doesn't need to know it.

I shrug and don't answer because I don't see a point. I don't like talking to most people. Alfred and his family are just an exception.

"Why do you refrain from speaking to me?" he whines, jogging in front of me. I stop and look up at him blankly. "Your eyebrows are very horrible. Shall I pluck them for you?" he asks, sniggering, and I glare darkly and shove him with my shoulder as I pass. He grabs my arm and I stop. "But your hair is a lovely colour, even if it is unruly. If I cut it for you, it would be marvellous!"

I don't move.

"Since you do not wish to speak to me, I will go. But Arthur, remember my name, for we shall be conversing again!" He graps my hand and holds it to his lips as he bows, grazing his lips across it. I blush and he smirks. "My name is Francis Bonnefoy."

I step on his foot.

x.

Since meeting Bonnefoy, his friends have gradually been introduced to me. They were all a year or two older than me, but they didn't seem to mind. They frequently called me a baby and threw jibes about my age at me, but I didn't really care.

I always sit with them at lunch and Elizaveta has expressed concern over my lack of eating. I tell her I don't ever feel very hungry but she makes sure I eat something before I leave for class. She has a bad temper but she's very caring. I think she only gets really angry at Gilbert, who Bonnefoy says has a crush on her, although she says she's infatuated with Roderich, who is Gilbert's brother.

Gilbert is kind of like Alfred in terms of volume, but Alfred's a lot more gentle, even if it seems uncharaceristic. But Gilbert's a lot more relaxed when he plays his violin, and I always love listening to it. I also listen to Roderich play piano and I decide to learn guitar. I buy my own book to teach myself and I stay an hour after school every day to practice on the guitars there since I can't buy one myself.

Alfred is always asking me about high school now, although he tries to hide how excited he is; he seems to be someone who likes to be the alpha, so he doesn't really like admitting that he listens to me. But he always does. I sometimes tell him stories I've made up in my head and he just lies his head in my lap and listens.

I miss Alfred.

x.

We go to the same high school. Although he's a year younger than me, he's a bit taller and generally bigger than me, which should be irritating, but I mostly object just for show. But I don't mind it really because it feels nice when we hug and we just fit together well. But he's still quite gangly and doesn't seem to fit his body yet, so he still moves in a very ungraceful fashion. He tried out for the rugby team immediately (thinking it was American football), but they just laughed at him and said cruel things. He tried to hold back his tears but when I found him huddled in the changing rooms, he clung to me and sobbed into my shoulder.

"Try again next year," I whispered into golden locks, stroking his hair soothingly. "I believe in you, Alfred."

For the rest of the year, he spends his time trying to fit in and acting cool. He picks on his brother a bit and I lecture him about it, but he just dismisses it. I try to be nice to Matthew but whenever I am, Alfred gets annoyed and drags me away. And when I brought them to sit with Bonnefoy and Gilbert and everyone during break times, he told me he didn't like me hanging out with them. I told him that they're my friends and I wasn't going to stop, so he got mad and stormed off.

x.

I panic when people touch me. I'm not sure when it happened, because I used to just go lax and wait for them to hurt me, but now I find it hard to breathe when someone gets too close to me. It happened a few weeks ago in PE and it was very sudden. We were playing football (what Alfred calls soccer), and a boy shoved me over but then tripped and landed on me. Something flashed and went grey and I just heard sobbing and my Father's voice.

I told the psychologist in the hospital and I was, after a couple of weeks, diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. He told me what it meant but I already knew because I'd read about psychological disorders. But he also said my emotional growth was stunted and I seem to have autism, although they're unsure if I do. I don't think I do, I just don't get along with people.

Alfred hasn't hugged me in a long time. It makes me feel bad. And when he noticed me and walked away the other day I felt like crying.

x.

For his birthday, I walked to his house and slipped the present through the slot in his door where letters go, and then I went to meet Bonnefoy in Kingston.

I got Alfred Call of Duty because a lot of the other boys like playing that and he's always liked video games. I'm not much of a fan, but I like Pokémon. I was doodling Charmander once and a Japanese boy in my class, Kiku Honda, noticed it. Sometimes I visit him and he shows me anime and manga and lets me borrow them. He's quite timid and doesn't speak much, so he's a bit like me, but I like him. And I showed him my paper cranes and he was very happy because his mother used to make them before she passed away. We often spend hours just making paper cranes together and I tell him about how I make them a lot when I'm sad.

"Are you sad now?" he had asked when I told him. I nodded. "Why is that? If you do not mind me asking..."

I hesitated, and continued folding paper. "I miss my friend. Alfred Jones. I don't think he likes me anymore." I gazed down ruefully at my drooping crane. "I don't think I'll ever be happy if he doesn't care about me."

x.

Gilbert invites me to a party, but I've never been to one. He laughs when I tell him that and ruffles my hair. After school, he takes me out to buy some new clothes and says he'll pay because he has enough money due to his part time job and parents. I look at sweatervests but he ends up buying me skinny jeans and Converse trainers and torn up shirts with band names on them. When I try them on, he grabs my arms and asks if I cut myself.

"I have on glass before," I reply, and he looks uncomfortable. "It was when I was little though. Before I came here. To London. It's not because I'm depressed," I assure him, but he looks unconvinced. He drops my arms and shifts uncomfortably and lets me pull on another shirt.

Later, we go to the party, but I don't notify the hospital because they probably won't let me go. So we get a train into central London and walk around looking for the place and Gilbert flashes a fake ID with a self-assured grin, and I dash in behind him.

The smell of alcohol lingers in the air and I gag. Gilbert laughs heartily and weaves through the crowd. I trail along behind him as he lets out a shout and approaches Elizaveta and Bonnefoy. A few others are here and I remember their faces but I don't know their names.

I suddenly find myself with a bottle in my hand and I eye it warily. The others egg me on and I feel pressured. I don't want to end up sobbing and hurting someone like Father, but they are chanting my name so I have to do something.

I downed the drink.

x.

Since then, I've been to more and more parties. I don't particularly like them and I get intoxicated every time. I often end up staying at Bonnefoy's or Gilbert's houses because they don't know where I live and I'm often too drunk to know the way to the hospital.

Alfred's been avoiding me. Whenever I'm with Bonnefoy and everyone, he glares at me and then walks off. I'm torn between hopelessness and indignation, which strengthens my incentive to get as drunk as possible and forget everything. I've stopped being happy. I was happy when Alfred was teasing me and dragging me around, but now he just doesn't speak to me.

My psychologist is worried about me. I've stopped speaking to him again. They brought in a psychiatrist instead and she's put me on anti-depressants. At first, I tossed them in the bin and refused to take them. But eventually, as Alfred stopped even looking me and just ignored my existence, I began greedily shoving them down my throat. During classes, I sneakily extracted some pills and slipped them in my mouth and at break times I took a few in the bathrooms.

I think I took too many today. That, in addition to my hangover, is making me feel like shit. I really don't want to do any physical activity today, so I'm taking my time trailing towards the changing rooms, almost falling over as more excited boys dash towards them.

I drop my bag onto a bench and sit down, my eyesight swimming and head thumping along with my heartbeat. I groan and lean against the wall, suddenly feeling too hot. I hear voices around me but they're all swirling into one constant droning sound.

Then I can feel hands on me, touching me, and I try to push them away. I don't want to be touched. Don't touch me—!

x.

A rush of air, a ticking clock, and I'm gasping for breath.

I lurch up, clinging to the material beneath my hands and inhaling oxygen needily. There's a rush of colour and suddenly everything is too bright. I blink rapidly and cover my face with my hands, groaning.

"You're awake. Finally."

I don't look up and I don't answer. I haven't spoken to anyone in a while. I don't see a point.

"How're you feeling...?"

I remain silent.

Someone sighs and I feel the bed I'm lying on dip beside me. I shuffle away slightly, not wanting to accidentally touch the other person. "Arthur," they say, sighing again when I don't respond. "Why aren't you speaking, Arthur?"

I shake my head.

"Please talk to me," they say after a moment of hesitation, sounding like it pained them to say it. "I... Is it something I did?"

I drop my hands into my lap and look at Alfred ruefully. We lock gazes for a moment before I turn away again, shrugging.

"Kiku told me you've stopped talking again," he mumbled quietly, still looking at me. I feel his stare on me and shift uncomfortably. "He... He's really worried about you." He paused, probably waiting for me to answer. I didn't. "And so am I."

I let out a breath that sounds almost like a disbelieving laugh, and Alfred frowns. He reaches out for my arm but I flinch back, pressing myself against the wall and staring at him with wide eyes. He looks back at me, astonished and disconcerted, and then just plain worried.

"Has anyone treated you badly...?" he ventures nervously, climbing onto the bed properly and sitting in front of me on his knees, only an inch away. I close my eyes. "It was Bonnefoy, wasn't it? He's always with you. I told you to stay away from him—!"

I shake my head rapidly, and he goes quiet again. Then he sighs. I look up from beneath my too-long fringe to see him scowling at his hands.

"Why'd you start hanging out with them, Arthur?" he asks, and he sounds almost betrayed. I bristle angrily.

"...Lonely," I whisper hoarsely. He looks at me again. "I'm lonely."

He stares sadly at me. "Then why don't you come back to me?" he enquires, voice almost as quiet as mine, and he leans forward to press our foreheads together. I stiffen. "Why'd you leave, Arthur?"

"Me?" I gasp, eyes flying open. "You're the one who hates me."

His eyes widen in shock and he gapes for a moment before shaking his head furiously. "What the hell are you talking about?" he demands, grabbing my arms. I grimace. "I could never hate you!"

"You do," I insist, lowering my gaze. "You avoid me. You don't speak to me."

He recoils, looking guilty and conflicted. "Yeah," he admits. "But... I thought you didn't wanna hang out with me. I mean, you're always with those older guys." He glares. "And you've started going to parties and stuff..."

"I don't like them," I admit, sighing softly. "I always get drunk and I hate it. My father used to be drunk all the time. It makes me forget but it scares me. I don't like losing control." I feel my lower lip tremble but I refuse to cry. I let out a shakey breath. "I tore up all my paper cranes at the hospital a little while ago," I tell him, but I don't know why.

He looks mortified and anguished. "What?" he asks, pulling me closer. "Why?"

I look down. "Because I'm numb," I confess. "I don't have anyone. I'm nobody. Creatures who are able to fly shouldn't be tied down to someone who's so like a cage."

"Stupid Arthur," he mumbles, and then tugs me closer. I fall against him but can't move away; he's holding me tightly. But it's not uncomfortable or terrifying like it is with others, so I hesitantly lean against him, clutching his shirt and burying my face in his shoulder. "You're not like a cage. You're like a home. My home." He buries his face in my hair and I shut my eyes. "I don't wanna lose you..."

"I missed you," I blurt out, and he repeats the words.

x.

Christmas is a quiet affair this year. Alfred's grandmother just not long ago and the funeral will be in January. His grandfather is still smiling but he often just trails off and stares out of the window as if expecting his wife to appear out of nowhere.

Alfred's mother cried in the kitchen earlier, so his father took over the cooking. Matthew and Alfred are a lot more quiet right now. They don't feel up to doing much. So the television is droning in the background, carols being sang by choirs.

I'm itching to take my pills. I still rely on them. But Alfred is holding my hand and sitting right next to me, so he'd see.

So I just squeeze his hand and smile at him. He returns it and we get lost in our thoughts as the sound of music and the smell of Christmas dinner fills the atmosphere.

Later that night, we huddle in his bed together and I fold paper. He throws them and they glide through the air.

"I want to hang them on my ceiling," he says softly, holding onto the one I just made. "I'll always look up to see them flying. And I'll think of you."

I smile and nod, pressing holes into their wings and threading string through them. We stick them to the ceiling with tape and then lie down to watch them hang from the roof.

We fall asleep holding hands.

x.

I make paper cranes for Alfred's grandmother's funeral. They're all white but some of them have flowers tucked inside of them. I scowl at the lilies I see everywhere and shake my head, producing more lighthearted but meaningful flowers to put on his grandmother's grave.

The priest reads words to commemorate her death and a lot of people cry. As they lower the coffin, I pass out paper cranes, and everyone throws them. Fifteen paper cranes flutter through the air.

Alfred doesn't cry until we get back, and I hold him as he falls asleep, and only let go when he wakes up.

x.

I visit every day after school and sometimes I even go to Matthew's house to check on him and his mother. Eventually, she stops crying about the death, and gradually begins to get back on track. Matthew confessed to me earlier that he had been worried she was going to fall into depression, and I tried to reassure him without telling him that there is medicine for it.

Alfred's getting happier. To my surprise, he invited me out on the weekend and took me to a quiet park where we folded paper and had tea and coffee and shared some fast food he'd brought.

"I'm going to be strong," he eventually said as I was sipping my hot tea. "I'm tired of being scared of everything and giving up easily." He had looked at me, determination alight in his blazing blue eyes. "Arthur, I... As long as you're by my side, I know that I can be strong." He grasped my free hand and stared right in my eyes, gaze intense and I was glad we had been sitting because it made me feel weak. "Will you, Arthur? Stay with me?" he'd asked, a hint of vulnerability displayed openly in his hopeful expression, and I smiled.

"Forever," I promised.

We spent the evening watching the stars.

x.

I arrive at Alfred's rugby try-outs without telling him, and slyly make my way into the stands to watch. I clutch the neatly wrapped present and lean forwards eagerly as a whistle blows and the practice begins.

I wince as boys fly at Alfred in a barrage that reminds me, unsurprisingly, of undignified charging bulls. He staggers backwards and almost falls, but then shoves one of the bruts off of him and pushes past the others, snagging the ball and charging towards the scoring area.

He throws it to the ground and cheers loudly, and I grin and clap, before blushing as I find myself bouncing in my seat.

The team disperse off of the field about an hour later, and Alfred removes his helmet, tossing his hair that should soon be cut. He's grown again, but now he looks less clumsy in his body. He started going to the gym after one of the school's atheletes insulted his weight and, whilst he still has "love handles" (which I find quite cute), he's fairly toned. I had first quietly joked that he'd been spending a lot more time with his hand, and he stared at me before bursting out laughing, confessing that he never expected me to make a sexual joke. I refrained from pointing out that I was frenemies with Francis Bonnefoy; Alfred still dislikes him being around me.

"I made the team," he says, grinning widely, and I chuckle at a blade of grass stuck in his teeth. I pluck it out and smile proudly at him.

"I told you," I reply, and then shove the present at him. He takes it and blinks, and I flush deeply. "Open it."

He does, pulling out a large leather jacket. His eyes widen in surprise and he gapes for a minute, and then looks at me, astonished. "I... I've wanted this forever," he whispers in shock. "How... How did you...?"

I smirk lightly, sticking my hands in my pockets and trying not to falter when I feel my bottle of pills. "If you weren't going to tell me what you wanted," I reply, "then I had to find out somehow."

He beams at me and tackles me in a messy hug with our limbs flying everywhere. I groan painfully as he lands on top of me and my head collides with the floor. He grins apologetically, slipping his hand under my head and lifting it slightly. Things seem to soften somehow, and his eager excitement falls into a more relaxed contentment. He smiles, half-lidded eyes full of life. "Thanks, Artie," he murmures softly, and I feel his breath against my lips. I blush and squirm awkwardly, but I feel warm and happy at his words and smile back.

"You're welcome," I murmur, and I'm not sure who leans forward first, but in my head, I recall that this is our second kiss.

x.

It was on a New Year's Eve that he approached me, stoney faced and determined, grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me outside. He ignored my protests and eventually I just scowled and followed him. We ended up getting a train in silence, the lights flickering on and off and a flow of overtime workers boarding and leaving. We arrived in Brighton and walked down to the pier in the rain. I tried not to shiver but he noticed anyway and pulled me closer to him.

We went into a quiet café with only a man reading a damp newspaper and a teenager leaning on the till, examining her phone. Alfred ordered us both tea and shrugged when I reminded him that he didn't like it. We sat by a window and I watched the rain cascading heavily over the area and listened to the sound of waves combined with the buzzing of the artificial lights above us.

"Tell me everything," Alfred had suddenly said, and I turned to him in puzzlement. He ran a hand over his face and I tilted my head when I saw the minimal amount of stubble. I smiled slightly. I often forgot that we're growing up and time goes on no matter who you are. One day, we'd be old. But hopefully we'd grow old together. "Before you were found. Before you were mine," he whispers, leaning across the table and grabbing my hand. "Tell me what happened, Arthur."

I told him. I reiterated tales of my father and how I ended up with him even though I didn't remember being taken. But mostly, I spoke of the faeries and my paper cranes and glass figures. When I mentioned the glass, he looked at my arms and then into my ears.

When the clock struck twelve, he wordlessly pulled me into a kiss. I could taste his tears before I realised that I was crying too.