Twilight: The Hetalia Version

Preface:

I'd never given much thought to how I would die - though I'd had reason enough in the last few months - but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this.

I stared withing breaking across the long room, into the dark red eyes of the hunter, and he looked pleasantly back at me. Surely it was a good way to die, in the place of someone else, someone I loved. Noble, even. And I was definitely one who knew nobility. That ought to count for something.

I knew that if I'd never gone to America, I wouldn't be facing death now. But, terrified as I was, I couldn't bring myself to regret the decision. When life offers you a dream so far beyond any of your expectations, it's not reasonable to grieve when it comes to an end.

The hunter smiled in a friendly way as he saunted forward to kill me, and I knew this was now my end.

Chapter 1: First Sight

My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down, which I was thankful for. Strangely, it was seventy-five degrees today in London, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. It was ironic, really. Here I was, moments from leaving my home, and yet it seemed happy to be rid of me.

I was wearing my favorite shirt - a white, button up long sleeve; I was wearing it as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a backpack, filled only with three items that were necessary for my trip; a book, an iPod with headphones, and my cell phone. For you see, in America, in a state called Washington was a small town named Forks, where it exists under a near constant cover of clouds; much like London. It rains on this inconsequential town, though, more than any other place in the United States of America. It was from this town and its gloomy, omnipresent shade that my mother escaped with me when I was only a few moths old. It was in this town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summer until I was fourteen. That was the year I finally put my foot down; these past three summers, my dad - Charlie - vacationed with me in California for two weeks instead.

It was to Forks that I now exiled myself - an action that I took with great horror. I detested Forks, and all of America. With their fat-filled hamburgers, greasy fries, loud ill-mannered behavior. England was my home. I loved the vigorous, sprawling city of London that my mother and I had moved to. This is why it pains me to move.

"Arthur," my mom said to me - the last of a thousand times - before I get on the plane. "You don't have to do this."

My mom looks like e, except with short hair and laugh lines. I felt a spasm of panic as I stared at her wide, childlike eyes. How could I leave my loving, erratic, harebrained mother to fend for herself? Of course, she had Phil now, so the bills would probably be paid, there would be food in the refrigerator, gas in her car, and someone to call when she got lost, but still…

"I want to go," I lied. I'd always been a bad liar, but I'd been saying this lie so frequently lately that it sounded almost convincing now.

"Tell Charlie I said hi."

"I will."

"I'll see you soon," she insisted. "You can come home whenever you want. I'll come right back as soon as you need me." But I could se the sacrifice in her eyes behind the promise.

"Don't worry about me," I urged. "It'll be great. I love you, Mum." She hugged me tightly for a minute, then I got on the plane, and she was gone.

It's a long, boring flight from England to Washington. Takes an extra hour in a small plane up to Port Angeles, and then an hour drive back down to Forks. Flying doesn't bother me, I'm used to it; the hour in the car with Charlie, though, I was a little worried about.

Charlie had really been fairly nice about the whole thing. He seemed genuinely pleased that I was coming to live with him for the first time with any degree of permanence. He'd already gotten me registered for high school - which I wasn't looking forward to - and was going to help me get a car. But it was sure to be awkward with Charlie. Neither of us was what anyone would call verbose, and I didn't know what there was to say regardless. After all, he was an America and here I was, a British gentleman. I knew he was more than a little confused by my choice, and unlike my mother before me, I hadn't made a secret of my distaste for Forks.

When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining much to my delight. At least now it wouldn't be as sunny and pretty as it was in London. Fits my mood, actually. Charlie was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too. Charlie is Police Chief Swan to the good - er, fair people of Forks. My primary motivation behind buying a car, despite the scarcity of my funds, was that I refused to be driving around town in a car with red and blue lights on top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop.

Charlie gave me an awkward, one-armed hug when I stumbled my way off the plane.

"It's good to see you, Artie," he said using my nickname and smiling as he automatically caught and steadied my clumsy self. "You haven't changed much. How's your mother?"

"Mum's quiet well actually. Doing a bit better, I would suppose. It's good to see you, as well, Dad." I wasn't allowed to call him Charlie to his face.

I had only a few bags plus the backpack. Most of my styled clothes - since I refused to wear any retched American clothes - were packed into them, along with things like my hairbrush, toothbrush, shampoo, etc. It all fit easily into the trunk of the cruiser.

"I found a good car for you, really cheap," he announced when we were strapped in.

"What kind of car?" I was suspicious of the way he said "good car for you" as opposed to just "good car."

"Well, it's a truck actually, a Chevy." A good god, not one of those idiotic Americans made ones.

"Where did you find it?" So kill me for trying to be polite.

"Do you remember Billy Edlestein down at La Push?" La Push is the tiny Indian reservation on the coast.

"No," I somewhat lied. The name did ring a bell, but I wasn't entirely sure of how much I did remember of them. So it was easy to say that I didn't.

"He used to go fishing with us during the summer," Charlie prompted. That would explain why my memory of him isn't so good. I do a good job of blocking painful, unnecessary things from my memory, such as the ignorant thing American's call "fishing". "He's in a wheelchair now," he continued when I didn't respond, "so he can't drive anymore, and he offered to see me his truck cheap."

"What year is it?" I could see from his change of expression that this was the question he was hoping I wouldn't ask, but I wasn't about to drive some shitty made model. If I was going to be forced to drive a Chevy, it had better at least have some class to it as being a recently made model.

"Well, Billy's done a lot of work on the engine - it's only a few years old, really." I hoped he didn't think so little of me as to believe I would give up easily. If there's one thing I inherited from him, it was stubbornness.

"When did he buy it?"

"He bought it in 1984, I think." Oh, wonderful.

"Did he buy it new?" Please say he did.

"Well, no. I think it was in the early sixties - or late fifties at the earliest," he admitted sheepishly. Oh bloody hell. This just gets better and better.

"Ch - Dad, I'm not really knowledgeable on cars. I wouldn't be able to repair it should anything go wrong, and I couldn't afford the price of a mechanic…"

"Really, Artie, the thing runs great. They don't build them like that anymore." The thing, I thought to myself…it had possibilities…as a nickname, at the very least.

"How cheap is cheap?" After all, that was the part I couldn't compromise on.

"Well, son, I kind of already bought it for you. As a homecoming gift." Charlie peeked sideways at me with a hopeful expression.

Wow. Free. "You didn't need to go that, Dad. I was going to buy myself a car."

"I don't mind. I want you to be happy here." He was looking ahead at the road when he said this. Charlie wasn't comfortable with expressing his emotions aloud, one thing I didn't inherit from him, thank god. I was very good at expressing my emotions if needed, but though, I had to admit when it came to Charlie, I couldn't do it. So, I lied.

"That is very kind of you, Dad. Thanks. I really appreciate the effort."

"Well, now, you're welcome," he mumbled, embarrassed at my thanks. We exchanged a few more comments on the weather, which was wet, and that was pretty much it for conversation. We stared out the windows in silence. Forks was beautiful, of course; I couldn't deny that. Everything was green unlike London; the trees, their trunks covered with moss, their branches hanging with a canopy of it, the ground covered with ferns. Even the air filtered down greenly through the leaves. It was too green - an alien planet - but I loved it and it's what made living in Forks bearable.

Eventually we made it to Charlie's. He still lived in the small, two-bedroom house that he'd bought with my mother in the early days of their marriage. Those were the only kind of days their marriage had - the early ones. There, parked on the street in front of the house that never changed, was my new - well new to me - truck. It was a faded red color, with big, rounded fenders and a bulbous cab. To my intense surprise, I loved it. Sure, it didn't have the class as the British models back home. And I wasn't quiet sure it would run, but I could see myself in it. Plus, it was one of those solid iron affairs that never gets damaged - the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paint unscratched, surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it had destroyed.

"Wow, Dad, I love it! Thank you!" Now my horrific day tomorrow would be just that much less dreadful. I wouldn't be faced with the choice of either walking two miles in the rain to school or accepting a ride in the Chief's cruiser.

"I'm glad you like it," Charlie said gruffly, embarrassed again. Another rare trait we shared; we are both easily embarrassed.

It took only one trip to get all my stuff upstairs. I got the west bedroom that faced out over the front yard. The room was familiar; it was belong to me since I was born. The wooden floor, the dark blue walls where a British flag hung on the north wall, the peaked white ceiling, and the black laced curtains around the window - these were all part of my childhood. The only changes Charlie had ever made were switching the crib for the now red-sheeted bed and adding a desk as I grew. The desk now held a laptop and a new desk lamp. This was another gift that would allow me to stay in contact with my mother if I couldn't reach her by cell and to also complete any homework if needed. Surprisingly, the rocking chair from my baby days was still in the corner. Sadly, there was only one small bathroom at the top of the stairs, which I would - regrettably - have to share with Charlie. I was trying not to dwell too much on that fact.

One of the best things about Charlie, though, was that he did not hover. He left me alone to unpack and get settled, a feat that would have been altogether impossible for my mother to do. It was nice to be alone for a change, not to have a smile and look pleased; a relief to stare dejectedly out the window at the boring, bland town and let just a few of those tears escape. I wasn't in the mood to go on a real crying jag. I would save that for bedtime, something to help me fall asleep as I dreaded the coming morning.

Forks High School had a frightening total of only three hundred and fifty seven - now fifty-eight - students; there were more than seven hundred people in my junior class alone back home. But all the kids here had grown up together - their grandparents had been little lads together. I would be the boy from the big UK, a curiosity, a freak. Maybe, if I looked like a boy from England should, I could work this to my advantage. But thanks to stereotypes, a British man was to be tall, brown haired with lovely blue eyes, a winning smile, and beautiful cut features. I was none of these. Instead, I was short and small, with blonde hair and emerald eyes, way too-thick eyebrows, and a frame that screamed malnutrition. It wasn't my fault I didn't eat much or played much or done anything at all. I wasn't one for sports; my hobbies lied with sewing, reading, and writing.

When I finished putting my clothes in the old pine dresser, I took my bag of bathroom supplies and went to the communal bathroom to clean myself up after the long hours of travel. I looked at my face in the mirror as I brushed through my tangled locks. Maybe it was the light, but I already looked more unhealthy thanks to the recent week. Facing my pallid reflection in the mirror, I was forced to admit that I was never going to fit in with a school of three thousand people; what were my chanced here? I didn't relate well to people of my age. I related to more mature people, those of ages 30 and older. I didn't understand the generation of teenage sixteen year olds. But even my mother, who I was closer to than anyone else on the planet, was never in harmony with me. She was childish, playful. I was mature and strict. She broke rules while I followed them. She was adventurous while I'd rather stay home and read.

Maybe there was a glitch in my brain. But the cause didn't matter. All that mattered was the effect. And tomorrow would be just the beginning.

I didn't sleep well that night, even after I was done crying. The constant whooshing of the rain and wind across the roof should've helped. I pulled the faded old quilt over my head and later added the pillow, too. But I couldn't fall asleep until after midnight, when exhaustion finally took hold and drug me under.

…

Thick fog was all I could see out my window in the morning, and I could feel the sickness creeping up on me at the thought of what lay ahead.

Breakfast with Charlie was a quiet event, sadly. I was wishing he could help clam my nerves a bit, even if it would be awkward, but he only wished me good luck at school, which I thanked him for, knowing his hope was wasted. Good luck tended to avoid me.

Charlie left first, off to the police station that was his wife and family. After he left, I sat at the old square old table in the one of the three unlatching chairs - honestly this house lacks décor - and examined his small kitchen, with its dark paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white linoleum floor. Nothing was changed.

My mother had painted the cabinets in an attempt to bring some sunshine into the house, but only managed to make it even more unmatched. Over the small fireplace in the adjoining handkerchief-sized family room was a row of pictures. First, a wedding photo of Charlie and my mum in Las Vegas, then one of the three of us in the hospital where I was born, taken by helpful nurse. Those were embarrassing to look at, especially the wedding one as it was somewhat in an inappropriate, drunken stance. I would have to see to it that Charlie replaces them somewhere else, at least while I was to reside here.

I didn't want to be too early to school, but I couldn't' stay in the house anymore. So I donned my jacket - which covered my grey vest and dark green long sleeve - and headed out the door into the rain. It was just drizzling which wasn't enough to soak me to the core as I reached for the house key that was always hidden under the eaves by the door, and locked up. The sloshing of my boots was unnerving, though, as it made the water rings at the ends of my pressed slacks. The mud was also ruining the lining of the boots. I missed the concrete of London.

I couldn't pause and admire my truck again as I wanted; I was in a hurry to get out of the mud and puddles that were damaging my outfit, and now my just fixed hair. Inside the truck was nice and dry, a little too warm so I clicked on the AC. Luckily, someone had cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats sill smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline and peppermint; three smells I could not tolerate but was forced to do so anyways.

The engine started quickly, to my relief, but loudly, roaring to life and then idling at the top volume. Well, a truck this old was bound to have a flaw or two. The antique radio worked and I quickly found a station that played classical pieces.

The school was, like most other things, just off the highway so it wasn't hard to find. It was not obvious that it was a school, though; only the sign, which declared it to be the Forks High School, made me turn into it's parking lot. It looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon colored bricks, unlike the schools back in England. There were so many trees and shrubs, that I couldn't see its size at first from the high way.

I parked in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the door reading front office. No one else was parked there, so I was sure it was off limits, but I decided I might as well get directions instead of circling around the bloody parking lot like an idiot. I stepped unwillingly into puddles again and walked down a little stoned path lined with dark hedges that I avoided. Once at the door, I took a deep breath and entered.

Inside, it was brightly lit which made my eyes squint a bit, and it was too warm for my liking. The office was small, a little waiting area with padded folding chairs, orange-flecked commercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering the walls, and a big cloak that ticked loudly. Plants grew everywhere in large plastic pots, as if there wasn't enough greenery outside. The room was cut in half by a long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly colored flyers taped to its front. There were three desks behind the counter, one of which was manned by a large, red-haired woman wearing glasses. She was wearing a purple t-shirt, which immediately made me feel over dressed, but then again, the shirt was far from looking as attractable on her as the suit was on me. So I ignored it and stepped up to the counter. The red haired woman looked up.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Arthur Kirkland," I informed here, and saw the immediate awareness light her eyes. I was expected, a topic of gossip no doubt. Son of the Chief's flighty ex-wife, come home at last.

"Of course," she said. She dug through a precariously stacked pile of documents on her desk till she found the ones she was looking for. "I have your schedule right here, and a map of the school." she brought me several sheets to the counter to show roe. She went through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each on the map, and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I was to bring back at the end of the day. She smiled at me and hoped, like Charlie, that I would like it here in Forks. I smiled back as convincingly as I could.

When I went back out to my truck, other students were starting to arrive. I drove around the school, following the traffic. I was glad to see most of the cars were older like mine, nothing flashy; so I at least fit in some way. The nicest car here, though, was a shiny Volvo, and it stood out greatly. Still, I cut the engine as soon as I was in a spot, so that the thunderous volume wouldn't draw attention to me. I looked at the map in the truck, trying to memorize it now. I don't want to appear like one of those lost idiots who can't find their way around a school on the first day. But the map proved to me that I would be exactly one of those idiots. The school looked to be a maze and I was not one to be good at mazes.

I stuffed everything into my bag, slung the strap over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge breath. I can do this, I can do this…oh bloody hell, I can't. Finally I exhaled and stepped out of the truck. I kept my face held high as I walked the sidewalk to the building, noting only a few stares here and there. My outfit stood out greatly amongst the faded jeans and band t-shirts the teens around me were wearing, but I didn't care. I continued my walk to the building ahead, which was labeled Building Three. I felt my breathing gradually moving toward hyperventilation as I approached the door. I tried holding my breath as I followed two unisex raincoats through the door.

The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside the door to hang up their coats. I noted this and did the same. They were two boys, one with a skin of dark tone and light brown hair, the other a little light skin tone with blonde colored hair. At least my hair matched, but my skin stood out greatly.

I took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, balding man whose desk had a nameplate identifying him as Mr. Mason. He gawked at me when he saw my name - not an encouraging response nor good first impression on my side - and of course I flushed a tomato red. But at least he sent me to an empty desk at the back without introducing me to the class, but somehow everyone noticed me anyways and the whispers began. Luckily, it would be harder for them to stare back at me without getting scolded by the teacher for not paying attention.

I glanced down at the list the teacher had given me, this class being Literature, one I favored. It was fairly basic, things I have read before; Bronte, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner. It would be comforting to know I've read all of these, but a bit boring since this meant I would be acing this class.

Finally, when the bell rang - a nasal buzzing sound, a lean boy, though he looked more to be a man, with curled blonde hair and shining blue eyes leaned across the aisle to talk to me.

"You are Arthur Kirkland, no?" he asked, his voice painted heavily with a French accent. He looked overly handsome and confident, the popular type. I hated those types.

"Yes," I stated, trying to not make small talk, but he insisted.

"Where is your next class?" I didn't want to answer, so unsurely - and hoping I was wrong - I stated the first class that came to mind.

"Um, Government." Wait…I checked the list and saw that I was right. Curse my bloody good memory.

"Oh, with Monsieur Jefferson in building six. I'm heading toward building four next. Perhaps I could show you ze way?" He sounded very hopeful that my answer would be a yes. "Oh, and my name is Francis. Francis Bonnefoy." I nodded and tried to smile politely, but something about him was making my stomach want to hurl.

"Thanks, but I can manage," I replied, but then paused. It was be helpful if he showed me. After all, I would be lost if I decline. I sighed and added, "well, I suppose you could show me." His eyes lit and he smiled brightly. When the ending bell rung, we grabbed out jackets and headed to Building Six, into the rain that had picked up. Francis had an umbrella though, so we shared much to my disgust. And I could swear people were walking behind us close enough to eavesdrop. I hope I wasn't getting paranoid though and that they were just trying to get under the umbrella too.

"So, zhis is a lot differunt zhan your England country, no?" he asked.

"Very," I stated. Perhaps small talk wouldn't be so bad. I needed someone to help guide me through his horrible maze of a school. So he would simply be that, my guide. Nothing more.

"Doesn't it rain zhere just as much as 'ere?"

"Yes."

"Do you ever get sunshine?"

"Sometimes. But not as much as other places. London tends to be more cloudy." He nodded and studied me for a bit. Then we continued to the building in silence. We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south building by the gym where my next class was located.

"Well, good luck," he said as I touched the handle to open the doors. "Maybe we will have some other classes together." He winked and then left. I sighed, rolling my eyes, and went inside.

The rest of the morning passed in about the same fashion. My Trigonometry teacher, Mr., Varner, who I would have hated anyway just because of the subject he taught, was the only one who made me stand in front of the class and introduced myself. I didn't stuttered or trip as I made my way to my seat, but apparently there was something about me that made the some call me names.

After two classes, I started to recognize several of the faces in each class. There was always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask me questions about how I was liking Forks. I tried to be diplomatic, but mostly I just lied a lot. At least I never need the map. One boy sat next to me in both Trig and Spanish, and he walked with me to the cafeteria for lunch. He was tiny, several inches shorter than my five foot four inches. I couldn't remember his name, but I recognized him as the blonde I saw in first class. So I only smiled and nodded as he prattled about teachers and classes with a Canadian accent. I didn't try to keep up. We sat at the end of a full table with several of his friends, who he introduced me to; and I learned his name to be Matthew. They seemed impressed by his courage to speak to me and I assumed by their stares that he was probably the shy type. He looked to be from my view. Glasses, long red sweater, hands always in pockets, a shy look.

The boy from English, Francis I believe, waved at me from the across the room and I inwardly groaned. He came to sat with us and apparently Matthew's friends were his friends. It was then, sitting awkwardly with all these strangers, that I saw the first group of people that looked almost identical to me. There were five of them. They weren't talking, weren't eating, and they were all holding bored looks just like myself. They were also dressed in the same fashion as me and for a second I was hoping they were from England, but I was wrong.

Of the five boys, one was big, reminding me of a Russian man with his near white hair, pale skin, and built tall body and fierce blue eyes. Another was slightly shorter, but still just as built and fierce, but his complexion reminded me of a German with golden-slicked back hair and dangerous dark blue eyes. The last was shorter and less built, but still muscular just lean. He had messy blonde hair much like mine, but had it fluffed back with one cowlick at the front sticking curved up at the ceiling. He wore glasses and surprisingly he looked like Matthew, but there was definite difference between them. He looked more childish than the other too, and seemed more lively with his bright, almost clear blue eyes. I couldn't tell what country he was from.

The two others were more feminine and definitely not muscular. There was one who was short with messily cut brown hair, one strand curving up at the back and lively brown eyes; he also seemed like an Italian man to me, but younger than the others. The other was of same height, with perfectly cut black hair that reached to his pale chin, his eyes black and he seemed to be Japanese.

Despite the features being extremely different, they all had one thing in common; the fashion and the dark shadows that hung under there eyes as if they hadn't slept in days.

They were all looking away - away from each other, away from other students, away from anything in particular as far as I could tell. As I watched, the small Italian boy rose with his tray - unopened soda, unbitten apple - and walked away with a quick, graceful lope that belonged on a runaway. I watched, amazed at his dancer's step, till he dumped his tray and glided through the back door, faster than I would have thought possibly. My eyes darted back to the remaining others who sat unchanging and I finally decided to ask about them.

"Who are they?" I asked Matthew and he jumped, slightly startled as he was chatting away with Francis, blush covering his nose. As he looked up to see who I meant, suddenly he looked at him, the skinny boyish one. He looked at Matthew for just a fraction of a second and then his lively eyes flickered to mine. He looked away quickly, more quickly than I cold, and in a flush of embarrassment I looked down. In that brief glance, his face held nothing of interest and I don't know if it was my imagination, but his eyes seemed to cloud over in some emotion I couldn't recognize. Though he had looked as if Matthew had called his name.

Matthew, however, giggled in embarrassment, looking at the table like I did. "That's Alfred, Ludwig, Ivan, and Kiku Jones. The one who left was Feliciano Jones; they all live together with Dr. Jones and his wife," he said under his breath. I glanced sideways at the beautiful boy who I guess was Alfred from the way she had stated the name first. He was looking at his tray now, picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers. His mouth was moving very quickly, his perfect lips barely opening. The other three still looked away, and yet I felt he was speaking to them quietly. Strange, unpopular names - most definitely from different countries.

"They are…very fashionable." I shrugged with conspicuous understatement.

"Yes!" I jumped at the sudden outburst from the boy beside Francis who I think Matthew called Peter. He was as I previously learned my neighbor. "They're all together, though." I cocked a brow at his statement. "Like, Ivan and Kiku are togher, and Ludwig and Feliciano. And they all live together, it's very weird." His voice held all the shock and condemnation of the small town, I thought critically. But, if I was being honest, I had to admit that even in London, it would cause gossip.

"So who is who?" I asked, wanting to know there names so I could be sure the handsome one was Alfred.

"They're all brothers, so it's hard to tell, but the boyish one is Alfred, the one who stared at us for a second. The one with white hair is Ivan, and the one with slicked hair is Ludwig. The one with black hair is Kiku, and I already told you who the one that left was." I nodded, looking back. So I had guessed his name right.

"Are you sure they are brothers?" I asked. "They look like their from different countries."

"Well, technically they are adopted except Alfred, but they act as if they are blood related. Ivan is Russian, Ludwig is German, Feliciano is Italian, Kiku is Japanese, and Alfred is American; he's the real son of Dr. Jones." I nodded, proud of my expertise of noticing different cultures, but shocked to know that Alfred was American. But I'm glad to know he wasn't as the teens I see now.

"That's really nice of them to take care of them all. Especially them being so young and all," I stated. Peter laughed.

"They're actually older than us. Ivan and Ludwig are eighteen. Alfred is seventeen. Then Feliciano and Kiku are both sixteen."

"Oh. It's still nice though."

"I guess," he stated, and I started to hear the disinterest in his voice, giving me the impression that he didn't like them very much. With the glances he was given, I would presume the reason was jealousy. Throughout the whole conversation, though, I couldn't stop my eyes from flickering again at the table where the strange family sat. They continued to look at the walls and not eat.

"Have they always lived in Forks?" I asked, interrupted Peter. He looked irritated with me bringing them up again, but I was curious.

"No, he said. "They just moved down two years ago from somewhere in Alaska." I felt a surge of pity and relief. Pity because as beautiful as they were, they were outsides like me, clearly not accepted. Relief that I wasn't the only newcomer here in Forks, even if they had a two year lead on me. As I examined them, the boyish one, Alfred, looked up and met my gaze again, this time with evident curiosity in his expression. As I looked swiftly away in embarrassment, it seemed to me that his glance held some kind of unmet expectation.

"So the boyish one is Alfred?" I asked, peeking at him from the corner of my eye and he was still staring at me, but not gawking like the other studens had today; he had a slightly frustrated expression and I look down again.

"Yeah, that's Alfred F. Jones. Totally hot, of course, but don't waste your time. He doesn't date. Apparently no one - boy or girl - here are good looking enough for him," Peter sniffed, a clear case of sour grapes. I wonder when he'd turn him down. I bit my lip to hid my smile. Then I glanced at him again. He face was turned away now, but I thought his cheek appeared lifted as if he were smiling too. I was suddenly wanting to see that smile, thinking it would be extremely handsome with his features.

After a few more minutes, the four of them left the table together. They all were noticeably graceful - even the big Russian one, Ivan. It was unsettling to watch. Alfred didn't look at me again.

I sat at the table with Peter and Matthew and the rest longer than I would have if I'd been sitting alone. I was anxious not to be late for class on my fast day. Luckily, Matthew had Biology two with me the next hour. We walked to class together in silence. He was definatley shy as I had figured when we entered class, because he quickly took his seat, leaving me to find an empty one. All the tables were full though, so it didn't take long to find a empty chair, but it sat next to another which was occupied. I looked up and saw Alfred.

As I walked to the teacher's desk, I introduce myself and gave him my slip signed. I watched Alfred surreptitiously and when the teacher handed my book to me, I went to the empty chair when he suddenly went rigid in his seat. He stared at me again as I sat, meeting my eyes with the strangest expression on his face - it was hostile, furious. I looked away quickly, shocked, going red again. I stumbled over the book in my to place it on the counter top. I chanced a glance again and notice he was still glaring at me, but what was strange was that his lively blue eyes I had saw in the cafeteria were now a solid coal black. I kept my eyes down then, bewildered by the atagonistic stare he was giving me. I didn't look up anymore, but I could see his posture from the corner of my eye. He was leaning away from me, sitting on the extreme edge of his chair and adverting his face like he smelled something bad. Inconspicuously, I sniffed my hair as best I could. It smelled like strawberries, the scent of my favorite shampoo. It seemed an innocent enough odor.

I gulped and tried to pay attention to the teacher. Unforunately the lecture was on cellular anatomy, something I'd already studied on. I took note carefully anyway just in case there was something different in his teaching ways, and I remained looking down. Though I couldn't stop myself from peeking occasionally out the corner of my eye. During the whole class, he never relaxed his stiff position on the edge of his chair, sitting as far from me as possible. I could see his hand on his left leg was clenched into a fist, tendons standing out under his pale skin, and muscle I had not seen before showing through his brown, black laced jacket. This, too, he never relaxed.

The class seemed to drag on longer than the others did. Was it because the day was finally ending, or because I was waiting for his tight fist to loosen? It never did; he continued to sit so still it looked like he was not breathing. What was wrong with him? Was this his normally behavior? I questioned my judgment on Peter's bitterness at lunch today. Maybe she was not as resentful as I had thought. It could not have anything to do with me. He did not know me.

I peeked up at him one more time, and regretted it. He was glaring down at me again, his coal eyes full of revulsion. As I flinched away from him, shrinking again my chair, the phra seif looks could kill suddenly ran through my mind. At that moment, the bell rang loudly, making me jump. Alfred Jones was out of his seat. Fluidly he rose - he was much taller than myself, towering over me - his back to me, and he was the door before anyone else was out of his or her seat.

I sat frozen in my seat, staring blankly after him. He was so rude and ill mannered. So much for my accurate guesses on people. It was not fair, though, his attitude towards me. I began gathering up my things slowly, trying to block the anger that filled me, for fear my eyes would tear up. For some reason, my temper was hardwired to my tear ducts. I usually cried when I was angry, a humiliating tendency.

"Are ya Arthur Kirklan'?" a male voice thick with a Scottish accent asked. I looked up to see a strong face topped with spiked red hair, smiling at me in a friendly, brotherly way. He obviously did not think I smelt.

"Yeah," I replied with a smile.

"I'm Scott."

"Hi, Scott."

"Do ya need any help finding' yer next class?"

"I'm headed to the gym, actually. I think I can find it," I stated.

"Dat's me next class, too!" He seemed thrilled, though it was not that big of a coincidence in a school this small. We walked to class together; he was a very talkative man - he supplied most of the conversation, which made it easy for me. He had lived in Scotland until he was ten before moving here to America. It turned out he was in my Literature class also, but I had not notice him. So far, beside Matthew, he was the nicest person Id' met today.

However, as we were entering the gym, he asked, "So, did ya stab Alfred wit' a pencil or what? I have never seen 'im act like dat." I cringed. So I was not the only one who had noticed. And apparently, that was not Alfred Jones's usual behavior. Perfect. I decided to play dumb.

"What that the boy I sat next to in Biology?" I asked artlessly.

"Yeah," he said. "He looked like he was in pain or somedin'."

"I don't know," I responded. "I have never spoken to him."

"He's a weird guy, dat Jones." Scott lingered by me instead of heading to the dressing room which I wanted to avoid, but was going to have to anyways. Did not want my outfit to stink of sweat. I was held in a sigh of relief when the Coach came up and made him go.

"Alright. I am Coach Cross. Here is your uniform. We're playing basketball so be ready," he stated then just left. I gulped and took the uniform into the locker room, avoiding the rest of the guys as best as I could as I tried to change in private. Finally, we were all on the court, playing. Well, they were playing. I was trying not to be hit. The Coach kept yelling at us, me especially.

"Come on, Kirkland! Get in there!" I flinched when the ball came hurling at me, and I slapped it away, causing it to hit Scott in the head. Coach blew his whistle and I hurried over to Scott to examine the damage.

"I'm really sorry, Scott. I'm horrible at sports, and I just -"

"It's alright," he replied smiling. I smiled slightly, but felt guilty. Before I could say anything, though, Coach came over and shot me out, making me sit on the benches. I heard the other guys laughing at me, calling me a wuss. I was thankful to be on the benches though. At least now they could actually play without me being in the way and I would not be a danger to anyone else's head.

The final bell rang at last and I was already back into my comfortable outfit. I walked slowly to the office to return my paperwork. The rain had drifted away, but the wind was strong and colder. I enjoyed it was best as I could before walking into the over heated office, but as I did, I almost turned around and walked back out.

Alfred Jones stood at the desk in front of me. I recognized the blonde cowlick. He did not appear to notice the sound of my entrance. I stood pressed against the back wall, waiting for the receptionist to be free. He was arguing with her in a low, attractive voice and I could not stop the shiver that ran down my spine or the little blood flow that wanted to go towards my private regions. I ignored it and quickly picked up the gist of the argument.

He was trying to trade from sixth hour Biology to another time - any other time. I just could not believe that his was about me. It had to be something else, something that happened before I entered the Biology room. The look on his face must have been about another aggravation entirely. It was impossible that this stranger could take such a sudden, intense dislike to me.

The door opening again, and the cold wind suddenly gusted through the room, rustling the papers on the desk, swirling my hair around my face. The girl who came in merely stepped to the desk, placed a note in the wire basket, and walked out again. But Alfred's back stiffened, and he turned slowly to glare at me - his face was absurdly handsome - with piercing, hate-filled eyes. For an instant, I felt a thrill of genuine fear, raising the hair on my arms. The look only lasted a second, but it chilled me more than the cold wind. He turned back to the receptionist.

"Never mind, then," he said hastily in a voice like velvet. "I can see that it's impossible. Thank you so much for you help." And he turned on his heel without another look at me and disappeared out the door. I went meekly to the desk, my face white for once instead of red, and handed her the signed slip.

"How did your first day go, dear?" the receptionist asked maternally.

"Fine," I lied, my voice weak. She didn't look convinced; I most definitely wasn't convinced myself.

When I got to the truck, it was almost the last vehicle in the lot, than god. It seemed like a haven, already the closet thing to home I had in this damp green hole. I sat inside for a while, just staring out the windshield blankly. But soon I was a bit warm from the windows being up, and rolled down my side. I turned the key and the engine roared to life. I headed back to Charlie's house, fighting tears the whole way there.

So it's a bit rough. I'm trying to make it a bit different than the book but keep it on the same page. Sorry for any mistakes. But, chapter two should be up either in a few more hours or at least by tomorrow. Thanks! R&R please.