This is for Cynmia, who correctly guessed the identity of Alfred's therapist in The Pursuit of Happiness, and who also noticed that Madeline remarried Pierre Elliott Trudeau.

Matthew was trying his damnedest not to listen to Alfred and Kiku's conversation. But it was really, really hard not to. Especially what with the way Alfred's voice tended to carry. Not that Matt minded that in the slightest. He loved the sound of Al's voice. And it was sweet that he was talking about him, but…

"I can't believe he thought it was for Arthur! We fight all the time! How could he think that?"

At the same time, it was more than a little insulting.

What else was he supposed to think? When a singing, dancing flash-mob of people with Alfred at the lead burst out of the classrooms and into a chorus of What Makes You Beautiful right at Arthur Kirkland, himself and Kiku Honda, Matthew's first assumption had been Arthur. He and Alfred were friends, yes, but just friends, much though he may secretly hope that one day the American would yank him into the boys cloakroom between classes and kiss him so hard that his lips bruised and everyone would know that he'd been kissing Alfred F Jones, the school hero. The golden boy, Mr Perfect.

Mr perfectly unobtainable and perfectly uninterested.

Sure, his heart started on a never-ending drumroll if he even thought about the American but Alfred was so out of his league that they weren't even playing the same sport. And they didn't. Alfred was football and summer and electric guitars. Matthew was Hockey and winter and orchestral movements. They were chalk and cheese. Actually, chalk and cheese probably had more in common than Matthew Williams and Alfred Jones. But Mattie had his little dream, and it had been shattered today.

Arthur and Alfred knocked sparks, and occasionally teeth, out of each other. Their fights were so fiery, so passionate, so intense. Every once in a while, he would find himself envying Arthur when they fought. Whether he was dishing punishment or getting his ass handed to him, the way the two of them were able to be so close, physically. The way Alfred would seize the front English boy's shirt and drag him closer, his lips curled into a snarl.. If that was Matthew, he'd lean in willingly and Alfred would smile and they would kiss…

But no. That was not to be. The intended recipient of Alfred's song and dance number was in fact Kiku Honda, the shy Japanese boy with a personal space bubble the size of the Russian Federation and a haircut that Matthew passive-aggressively thought of as helmet-like. That opinion had only been formed in the last half hour, and the Canadian had nothing against Kiku, really, except that he had Alfred's affections and Matt didn't. But this was high school; he was allowed to be petty.

"That's a great idea, man! Thanks, Kiku, you're the best!" the American gave the mortified-looking Asian a one-armed hug and dashed out of the door of the cafeteria. Wonderful. They'd barely been a couple for an hour and a half and there was PDA already. This relationship was going to wreak havoc on Matthew's emotions. And put his Bad Thought count through the roof. He really shouldn't be anticipating mental images of poor Kiku in pain with any kind of relish, but he was.

For the rest of his lunch break, Matthew couldn't even look at the school's soggy, old-sock mac and cheese. His stomach was filled with lead snakes He couldn't even think about eating, not when his heart felt so broken. It was true that he and Alfred had never really had a chance, but it had still been nice to daydream without feeling guilty. After all, Kiku was his friend, too. It wasn't as though he had asked for Alfred to like him. It wasn't as if he had asked to win the lottery; or the keys to the city; or a Nobel Prize. But he had gotten it anyway, and that still hurt. With a forlorn sight, Matt picked up his book bag, swung it over his shoulder and slouched off to the change rooms to get into his gym kit.

~====o)0(o====~

The amount of noise that could be made in one average-sized gym hall by thirty odd teenagers was nothing short of cacophonous. It sounded like there was a riot going on, and there might as well have been. Alfred and Arthur were having another screaming match, the long-suffering but short-tempered Student Council President had once more reached his wit's end with the school's star athlete and was giving him a right-royal bollocking.

"-Unacceptable behaviour! The younger students look up to you, Jones, the Great Mother only knows why, but this is setting a bad example! Why, for Goodness' sake, could you not just stick up bits of card? Is that too much to ask, you ungrateful, impertinent, immature, egotistical megalomaniac? That you do not deface school property? Or are you so assured of your Godlike status that you think the headmaster will overlook this indiscretion? You imbecile! You oaf! Vandal! Hooligan! Yahoo! The entire grade is going to be punished for this, you realise? Is the wrath of your classmates really worth asking someone on a date?"

Looking up, Matthew could see what Arthur was so pissed about. He would be too if he had to take the blame for this. There were two-foot high letters slapped onto the white wall behind the stands in what looked like black roof sealant.

Alfred stood in his togs, completely ignoring the President's tirade, except for the occasional, "Can it, Artie, nobody gives a fuck," which was his default response for whenever Arthur said anything, so there was nothing new there. But the words. The words on the wall;

WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME, MA-

It was very, very cruel of his imagination to finish that sentence with two Ts. Or a double-T-I-E. Or even double-T-H-E-W, though there wasn't really enough wall space for that one. If anything, it would be Mattie, because Alfred always called him Mattie.

It was meant to say MAYBE. Matthew would be willing to bet almost anything he owned that that was going to say maybe. Because Kiku had looked so shell-shocked that Alfred must have needed a second asking. If Al asked Matt out he'd probably have to ask twice, because there was no way Matt would believe him the first time around.

"I feel sick," he muttered to his nearest classmate and made a sprint for the door, only stopping when he crashed into the powder-blue boys' washroom door, shoving the stiff hinges open and letting it swing back with a pneumatic wail.

Hanging over the sink, he splashed water on his face, the smell of bleach, public toilets and liquid soap the colour of radioactivity filled his nose, making his head reel.

Splashing his face with water, he pumped some of the lurid pink hand soap from the wall dispenser and washed his hands, a reflex action, not that it would do all that much good when every surface in this room was covered in germs.

The door keened its protest as another body hurtled into it and none other than Alfred F Jones, self-proclaimed hero and everyone's favourite All-American sportsman burst through.

"Mattie!" he said, too loudly, striding over to the other boy, grabbing him by the shoulders, "Are you okay? They said you were sick. You don't look sick; you look wet, and kind of shaken and stirred. But not sick. So come back to gym, okay? It'll be fine; I won't let coach push you if you're not feeling well. Just please?"

"What? I- Okay. Fine," he said weakly, drying off his hands and following the bouncing American back down the corridor and to the gymnasium. Gymnasium, from the Greek, gymnos, meaning naked…

That was not a train of thought he wanted to ride just then.

The second they were through the doors, Matthew's eyes were assaulted by the drippy black letters on the wall.

WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME, MATTIE?

"Alfred," he asked hoarsely, "What the holy hell is that?" one shaky arm raised to point at the words, and he must have looked truly sick this time, because the American stepped forward protectively,

"Well, you didn't seem to be getting the cards, the flowers, the singing telegrams or the flash mob or anything. I- I understand if you don't like me back," Alfred was sweating bullets, and severely regretting his decision to do this in a public place, "But.. Would you go out with me? I really, really like you. I have since middle school."

"Really?" Matthew asked in total disbelief. Those flowers? Those cards? He'd thought that someone had just gotten the wrong locker. As for the telegrams, he'd politely tried to help them find their intended recipients. The flash mob had stopped in front of Arthur, Kiku and, "Me?"

"Yes, you. Would you, Matthew Williams, do me the honour of going on a date with me?"

Nodding dumbly, Matthew grinned like an idiot as Alfred kissed him.