The boy on the bus had a beautiful smile. Sometimes he smiled a secret smile to himself, and other days he would smile at the sights he saw from his window.

Arthur thought he was completely and utterly beautiful.

The empty seat beside the beautiful boy became exclusively reserved as Arthur's, after days of riding beside the boy. Large baby-blue eyes that reminded Arthur of warm summer days and forget-me-nots came to recognise him, and every time their eyes met, the boy's brightened and Arthur's lit with happiness.

But they never talked.

But sitting beside the beautiful boy soon became enough. Arthur memorised where each soft freckle lay upon the boy's smooth cheeks, and learnt each of the expressions that he would make. He learnt the exact curve of each smile the boy made, learnt where dimples graces slightly-blemished cheeks, and even learnt just how far those horn-rimmed spectacles of his could slip down on his nose before he would push them back higher. Arthur came to adore the one strand of hair that never quite settled into place, and he came to adore the way soft, worn fingers would forget and twitch upon denim-clad thighs.

Arthur liked the softness he could detect around the boy's midsection, and he liked the faint scar just above his left eyebrow. He loved the way the boy would constantly lick or bite his lips, and the way he would run his fingers through choppy golden locks at every stop they passed.

After two weeks, Arthur thought he was in love.

And if he could read into the secret smiles and stolen glances the boy threw his way, Arthur dared to think that maybe, just maybe, the boy liked him back.

And then there were the fleeting touches, the accidental brush of fingertips against his kneecap that left Arthur feeling dizzy with giddiness. There were mumbled good mornings and goodbyes, always uttered quickly and shyly, as though coming from the mouth of a small child rather than that of a young man. There were blushes that would warm Arthur's cheeks and make the boy's lips twitch, and there were sudden flashes of intimacy when the bus would turn sharply and throw Arthur into the boy's lap.

And yet he still did not know the boy's name.

But when the day came, the day when Arthur gathered the courage to ask the boy for his name, the most beautiful smile of all graced his lips and he murmured the most saccharine, candy-sweet name Arthur had ever heard. Alfred.

And when Arthur told the boy– no, Alfred, his name, he did not laugh or say it was the name of an old person. He simply smiled, a very different sort of smile meant for Arthur alone, and stated softly that it was beautiful.

Then Arthur had smiled, because he knew that it wasn't true– yet somehow, when Alfred said it, Arthur believed him.

But they still didn't talk.

Fingers touched, shoulders rubbed together gently, and thighs met, but they didn't speak.

Arthur didn't think they needed to, because words are difficult and will never be enough.

But then Alfred began to smile less.

His golden hair became messy and his face became sallow. Pretty freckles that Arthur had counted and memorised stood out less and less on his pale face, and Alfred's perfect lips were always bloody and torn. Dark violet contusions cast shadows beneath his sad, beautiful eyes, and the soft bit of belly Arthur had adored disappeared until there was nothing but the sharp jut of bony hips and haggard ribs.

But Arthur still thought he was beautiful, because when Alfred cast those teary, periwinkle blue eyes his way and smiled the lonely ghost of a once-perfect smile, Arthur could still see the beautiful boy he loved, simply hidden and tucked away behind fragile wall.

But those smiles became less and less frequent, and Arthur realised that his own smiles had vanished as well.

Then one day Alfred was crying. The tears simply fell down his hollow cheeks; there was no wailing, there was no sobbing. But it was the worst pain Arthur had ever felt, seeing that boy, his beautiful, perfect Alfred, in so much silent pain and suffering. It made him want to protect the boy from whatever was causing those warm tears to fall onto his flawed cheeks. It made him want to hold Alfred close and find out whether he really felt as fragile as he looked, or to see if his heart would thump as loudly as Arthur's undoubtedly would.

But he couldn't do any of those things, because men would stare, women would gossip, and children would ask questions.

Yet when Alfred finally turned a watery gaze his way and smiled an unsteady smile filled with insecurity and sadness, Arthur didn't have to think twice before pulling him close to him and stroking between bony shoulders as Alfred sobbed silently into his chest.

And when Alfred pulled away, his lips, bloodied and cracked again, were pulled into an empty smile that made Arthur ache inside.

But when Arthur touched a faint dimple with the tip of his finger, the smile broadened and became real.

The next day, Alfred was silent.

He did not cry, but he did not laugh. He did not bite his lip until it bled, but he did not smile. He simply sat there, and Arthur watched as emotions rippled through clear blue eyes as beautiful as the sky itself– because the rest of Alfred's face was frozen, carefully masked to disguise the delicate being hiding beneath the indifferent facade.

And that indifferent mask remained there for another week. It remained the same, day in and day out, but Arthur could see the smaller signs of emotion on Alfred's face, because he knew the beautiful boy better than he knew himself.

The day after that long week, Alfred smiled again. He shared his thoughts, his dreams, and his hopes, and Arthur thought they were as beautiful as he was.

He wanted to be a pilot.

He wanted to be worthy, to be called a hero.

He wanted to be loved by those he never knew through his sacrifice.

He once had a brother named Matthew and he had a cat named Ellie, and he had once believed that there was always good, even at the worst of times.

He told Arthur of his childhood exploits and favourite movies, and of the time he broke his knee in the second grade and wrist in the sixth. He told Arthur of the time he camped outside the movie theatres for the premiere of a horror flick, and he even told Arthur of the time he received detention for sucking a lollipop suggestively.

And Arthur had listened to every word, memorised every movement of his perfect lips and the quiet laughter that would rumble lowly from deep within Alfred's chest.

He didn't get off at his usual stop but neither did Arthur, because stories were far more important than quadratic equations and orbital notations.

And then it was Arthur's turn to speak, to tell his stories about fairies and unicorns, and of the time he believed he was king.

He told Alfred of his love of football and hobby of knitting, and of his terrible cooking and online authorship.

He mentioned wanting to become a published author, and he did not miss the way Alfred's soft gaze remained upon him the entire time.

And before he knew it, dusk was rolling past and they had reached the final stop of the day.

Alfred had hesitated then, lingering by their seats when they stood and made to leave.

Every time Arthur would pass those seats in the future, he would remember the fear in Alfred's blue eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, and everything that made him beautiful. He would remember the final rays of sunlight illuminating his messy blond hair, and he would remember the tell-tale way he dropped two small notes down onto the seat where Arthur would sit in the morning.

Arthur didn't know he would be riding alone the next morning and every morning after that.

And if he were to have known it would be the last time he would see Alfred again, he never would have allowed him to go home.

But he didn't know, and he didn't ask about the notes. He simply waited for Alfred to finish his odd little act, and followed close behind at his heels as they stepped out the bus and onto the pavement.

Their footsteps were silent as they walked to where they had began, the lonely little bus stop in the middle of an empty street.

The silence was warm and easy, because Arthur knew the beautiful boy beside him and the beautiful boy knew him. There was nothing left to him that Alfred didn't know or that was his own to treasure and keep silent, because when Alfred hesitantly leant forward to press his lips to Arthur's own, he didn't pull away. He reached for Alfred's hand instead and said nothing, simply holding him close and kissing him sweetly – because there was nothing to be said. Words would still never be enough.

When Alfred pulled away and smiled sadly at him, Arthur thought nothing of it, because there was a similar smile on his face. He didn't want to see Alfred leave.

But Alfred's smile was sad for a different reason, a reason Arthur would have found out later that evening on the 7PM news.

He would have, if he were to have watched the news.

The next morning, Alfred's note was still on his seat.

But Alfred wasn't there.

And as Arthur opened the note and stared at the three little words written upon tear-smudged paper, his mind struggled and fought to make sense of what he was reading.

You are beautiful.

And slowly, it began to make sense in Arthur's mind. The happiness, the sadness, the relief. The final goodbye, the sweet parting words. But he still couldn't bring himself to believe it was true.

Alfred could woken ill. His beautiful boy could have driven to school, or called a day off. But each tale his mind wove was nothing but sickening lie, and Arthur knew it.

He had never before cried so bitterly or sorrowfully.

His lungs were burning and his chest felt constricted. He felt hollow, empty, shattered inside, as though everything that had given meaning to his life had suddenly disappeared.

Which really, it had.

He had.

And when he opened the letter again later that night, curled under the protective barrier of heavy blankets with Ellie beside him, he stared again at those three words until his vision blurred over.

You are beautiful.

Complete...?