A/N: PHEW. This thing is huge. Written for the Spring Fanworkathon at the USUK comm at LJ! I hope you enjoy it! (All the extra info can be found at my LJ journal, which you can get to through my profile here. o7)
It was morning as usual at International Academy. Arthur Kirkland would hardly go so far as to say it was monotonous, or boring, but it was routine, and it was safe.
With that logic, Arthur hadn't had any reason to suspect that something just might be up as he entered the broadcasting room to deliver the morning announcements.
The tech crew was working diligently to get things running. Heracles Karpusi went through checking the camera and cleaning the lens with that tired expression on his face, Gilbert Beilschmidt ran through checks on the soundboard, and Francis Bonnefoy ran through the teleprompter's script. All seemed well so far. On the surface. There was something about the way Francis and Gilbert shot looks at each other sent the wrong kind of chills down his spine. Antonio Fernandez entered a moment later. Normally, he wasn't a problem. Today, though, there seemed to be a slight hitch to everything, especially as he exchanged a few quick words with Francis, and then Gilbert. Arthur sighed. It should have been no concern of his. As long as the equipment was working, Arthur had no qualms.
He sat in his seat before the camera as everyone took their places. He gave a last tug on his jacket to straighten it, pat down his neck tie, and cleared his throat as Heracles counted down to one on his fingers. With the disappearance of the final digit, Arthur's eyes followed the teleprompter, greeting the student body as he normally did. He gave a brief preview of the week's sporting events, any awards that were to be given at the luncheon by the week's end, and announced the new hallway loitering policy. From there, Antonio took over with the board-required 'Culture Corner' or some nonsense. Arthur had originally thought it a very neat idea, until all Antonio spoke about were tomatoes, paella, bulls, and more tomatoes. Today's topic was napping at the workplace and he was going on about how allowing students to nap would improve their grades. Arthur rolled his eyes before straightening his papers out and readying himself for the camera once again.
"Kirkland, ma fou," a voice whispered in his ear. Arthur shivered, biting his tongue to keep from shouting expletives to the camera.
Scowling, he snapped his head over. "What the fuck is it, Bonnefoy?" he whispered harshly. "Step back! I don't want your frog slime all over me!"
"Frogs do not secrete slime, they secrete mucus! And I am a Frenchman, we've gone over this, mon petit rosbif."
"Tell me what you want, then leave."
Francis handed him an envelope. "Don't open it until after you've read the prompt to do so. These are the Court results." Not quite as per Arthur's request, Francis stepped away behind the camera, Antonio joining him a moment later. Both had a rather odd sort of look in their eyes and the sound booth technician, Gilbert, joined them just a moment after that. The three were up to no good, he surmised. Then again, who was ever up to any good with smirks like that?
Arthur stopped himself from furrowing his brow in confusion. He would look into it later before they could cause any trouble. He returned his attention to the teleprompter.
"As is known all throughout campus, today is the day the theme of our prom and its Court nominee results are released." If Arthur had supersonic hearing, he was sure he'd hear all of the female students' gasps of anticipation to hear who was in line to be Prom Queen. "Our theme this year is masquerade. I know it's a small feat for many, but please: Do try to be as decorous as possible. Ladies, this means proper evening gowns, or costumes. Gentlemen, proper suits or costumed uniforms. You will find the dress code for the event posted in the hallways, and reminders will be sent to those whose email addresses are on the school newspaper's registry."
He straightened out his papers and cleared his throat to continue on. "Our nominations are as follows: For Prom King, we have…." He took the envelope, opening it up. He flourished the sheet before him. "Francis Bonnefoy—" He stopped himself from making a comment. "…Ludwig Beilschmidt, Yao Wang, Alfred … F. Jones, and Eduard von Bock." He paused for a moment, waiting for the prompter to continue on. "For Prom Queen, we have Angélique d'Isle, Natalia Arlovskaya, Elizaveta Héderváry, Mei Liu, and…."
Thatwas a surprise. Arthur's eyes widened and his throat seized up. "And…" he rasped. Arthur read through the sheet once more, just to be sure he wasn't misreading it. What was he supposed to do? This was a joke! This was impossible! It was inconceivable, really, and such a horribly lame attempt at humor…. Trying to keep that in mind, Arthur attempted to go on reading the final nominee. He was so nervous, though, that the sweat from his palms began to dampen the paper. He stared at the sheet one last time, just to make sure, but only just now could he hear the raucous laughter coming from the trio of misfits hidden from the camera. His mouth and throat went dry as he attempted to open his mouth to speak. All that had escaped him was the first syllable of the name to escape past his lips. "A-Ar…." Would the viewers even be able to hear him over his heart beat?
He couldn't move his eyes away from the card. Unfortunately, his ears still worked just fine and damn them to Hell as they listened to Francis shove himself right next to Arthur. Francis snatched the paper away from him and feigned surprise for the camera.
"On-hon!" he laughed in his Froggish way. "Ladies and gentlemen! It appears that our final Prom Princess is none other than International Academy's own malevolent, delinquent, punk Student Body President! International Academy, please applaud your Prom Princess, Arthur Kirkland!" His heart stopped, and his lungs ceased to function. Having heard his name being called – in full! – in the Prom Princess list, he felt himself go just a little numb. White noise buzzed in his ears, muting the laughter now coming from the tech team and those stupid Europeans. It faded as the laughter grew: He could hear the growing thunder of laughter roll in heaps through the halls of all the floors of the school.
His embarrassment kicked his adrenaline into gear, and his heart started beating at a truly scary pace, as if he was about to be crushed under the weight of this humiliation and nothing could save him. Quickly deafening the laughter was the blood rushing through his ears and anger swiftly took the place of his embarrassment. Francis was still next to him, laughing that annoying fucking laugh, holding his cheese-filled gut as he pointed a nastily manicured finger at him.
Arthur felt his fists clench and before even he knew what he was doing, his fist went flying.
"I see no reason why we should change this. According to the ballots, it was a fair vote."
"But Sir, I am a male! A Prom Princess position is for a female! Prom Princess!"
"Your behavior on the air was despicable. As punishment, you are demoted from being the Student Head, and you will proceed as a nomination for Prom Queen."
That was the conversation echoing in his head since after the fiasco in the broadcasting room two weeks ago. The headmaster had not seemed entirely pleased with Arthur's behavior, especially after finding out about Arthur knocking a few teeth loose in Francis's jaw, giving Antonio a minor concussion, and…. Well, he'd almost gotten to Gilbert, but Gilbert had gotten to him first. He'd received a swift kick in the gut and a twisted ankle. Gilbert had been given the responsibility of taking care of the agricultural center's animal pens for a week, then was suspended for the next after kidnapping one of the chicks and raising it at home as his own. Arthur, meanwhile, had been stripped of his title, sent home for the day, and given a life-long dose of humiliation. (He was reminded of this especially as he worked on making his outfit for the prom: A nice, sharp military officer's (completely fictional) mess uniform. His mask he had purchased at a theater shop.)
He'd been emasculated before his entire school, had the wind literally kicked out of him…. Full-blown laughter in every hall he walked attacked him, in every room he entered to collect assignments. Demoted. But that wasn't the end. It wasn't unknown atInternational Academy about Arthur's sexual preferences (thanks to a certain Spaniard), but he never flaunted it and never caught too much trouble about it. (Also known was just who it was he had a crush on – thanks again to Antonio – but this normally never came up at all. It was really more of the, "Who doesn'thave a crush on Alfred F. Jones?") Now, being in what was traditionally a woman's role, he found himself being taunted in ways he'd never thought existed. Thankfully it had been nothing dangerous. Just some more, and horrifically generous amounts of humiliation. (Never again would he underestimate the power of words.)
But he endured it. He endured it for two fucking weeks. He wanted to curl up and die with every step he took; with every finger pointed at him; with each horrific laugh that assaulted his ears. Every finger was pointed at him. Every laugh was caused by his predicament. Each smile, grin, and smirk, was at his quandary. But he kept his head up and his eyes forward. He may have no longer been the Student Body President, but he had to keep whatever dignity he had left intact, even if it felt like every ounce of pride within him had been stolen away. (Home had not been much better, what with his older brothers having found out. Thathad resulted in … a few more fist-fights.)
In the halls, between classes, was the worst for another reason, and that reason came in the form of the school's football team's star receiver-now-Prom Prince; a moderately tall, blond, bespectacled, blue-eyed jock that went by the name Alfred F. Jones.
Arthur was no friends with Jones. Granted, they weren't enemies, either. They shared no classes, they didn't share the same lunch block, and he was rather positive that Jones lived a rather small distance from the school. There wasn't a lot Arthur had about Jones to truly discern his character, but passing down a shared hall with the youth could sometimes have been enough. What Arthur couldtell about him was that Jones was a trouble-maker. He was loud, obnoxious, and he'd overheard how each of his teachers threatened to send him to the headmaster's office more than once a week.
It was for this reason that Arthur was grateful he shared no classes with Jones. Yet that didn't solve his issue with Jones. No. His second reason was far more hypocritical than that. It was a rather personal reason.
Sometimes … the thought of Jones made Arthur get a little (very) warm in the cheeks, and made his heart beat a little (lot) faster, though only just (very) noticeably. Sometimes (all of the time) a grin would tug on his lips, or the rare (omnipresent) smile would spread just thinking about him, but the facial displays were few-and-far-between (constant) in themselves. More than the previous reason, it was this reason Arthur preferred to ignore.
Unfortunately, it was impossible. It was impossible, for now Jones was a Prom Prince (likely to be crowned as their Prom King), and he, Arthur, was a Prom Princess.
"Bloody Christ…."
A part of him was almost jubilant, as he let himself fall onto the bed. If Jones was named Prom King, and if that blasted Frenchman got his way, then…. He, Arthur, would be Jones' Prom Queen. He would dance with him at the prom. Maybe … maybe he'd get to hold his hand, and maybe – just maybe– Alfred might humor him with a quick, swift kiss to his cheek before dumping him off so he could go dance with all of the pretty girls vying to be in Arthur's position.
Arthur's breath caught and he shoved those thoughts quickly out of his head, now forcing himself to shoot out of his bed and to his computer. He had homework to do…. Jones should have been of little concern.
So Arthur pulled out his English composition text, ready to work on the essay he had due before classes let out for the summer. The computer booted up, starting his programs as he flipped to the page he needed, and pulled out a highlighter to mark important things. Still though, not obeying his mental command, prom and Jones lingered as an omnipresent thought at the back of his mind, always whispering their presence as he tried to force himself to read.
He'd read the first sentence five times. He still didn't know what it said, even after staring at each word for several seconds.
The clock ticking behind him got louder. So did the branches swaying in the wind. The words of his text danced around him. The hum of his computer grew, and the voices in his head grew louder, and louder, and the laughter was back, taunting him, poking him. It was so loud, and deafening and please, would everything just stop making noise?He gripped at his hair, ready to pull it out in frustration if the noises didn't stop! It was impossibly loud; his eardrums would burst, and it hurt, and—
There was a ding. A particular dingfrom his computer.
Suddenly the ticking softened; the breeze stopped blowing the branches. The words of his book were back on the page, where they belonged. The hum of his computer returned to its monotony and the teasing and laughing was momentarily forgotten as Arthur looked up at his computer screen.
AIM had started up automatically and Arthur grit his teeth. He had no one to talk to on the IM program, and he used it only for instant messaging his fellow council members. Despite that, he knew he was on the block list for most of them, save one or two. So who had gotten his screen name, and just who the fuck was this fuckyeahme76?
Arthur clicked the view messagebutton, his curiosity getting the better of him.
He regretted it immediately.
fuckyeahme76: hey its me! alfred! your possible king
Arthur almost whimpered. Fate did not like him. Arthur knew he must have done something atrocious and disgusting in a previous life to deserve this. Why me? he asked himself.Can no one just leave me be to wallow by myself? I don't need anyone's help!He sighed. Arthur knew better, he knew he should just ignore it, but…. He just wasn't able.
akirkland: You are not my king. I have no king, at the moment. A queen, however, perhaps; but she's at home, in London.
fooballhero76: thats not what francis announced the other day. arnt u the gonna be queen?
akirkland: Please tell me that this is not how you write your papers.
fuckyeahme76: huh?
akirkland: Nevermind…. State your purpose and then leave me alone.
fuckyeahme76: i just wanted to talk about prom w/u, since u mite b queen
Arthur bit his tongue, unsure if he should be offended or complimented.
akirkland: Fuck off.
fuckyeahme76: hey, im just trying 2 b nice!
akirkland: By reminding me of my humiliation? O, truant Muse! How have I missed the concern of the Chosen One?
fuckyeahme76: wait, wat r u talking about? shakespeare, star wars, or hp? cuz im totally not darth vader, hes not the hero, no matter how boss he is. hp, eh
akirkland: …You recognized the Shakespeare?
…Maybe he wasn't a completely daft fool.
fuckyeahme76: hahaha yeah, we just read a few sonnets in english. that truant muse one is one of em, and i think ur kinda using it in the wrong context
akirkland: I see, and I'm not using it incorrectly on its own! To be truant is to be absent, and as there is no Muse to guide me, she is truant.
fuckyeahme76: uh yeah sure… so uh, neway, i just wanted to let u no that im sry about every1 making funna u
Arthur found himself just a little touched, and he blushed madly, embarrassed though he knew Jones couldn't see him.
akirkland: It's no fault of yours. I shouldn't have left Francis in charge during my absence.
fuckyeahme76: well if u dont react 2 it itll probly stop
akirkland: I haven't reacted to it at all! I am not a little girl!
fuckyeahme76: no kidding
akirkland: Just what is that supposed to mean?
fuckyeahme76: well, im trying 2 help u out but u kinda make it seem like u dont want it
akirkland: I simply do not enjoy being mocked.
fuckyeahme76: didnt think i was mocking u sry
akirkland: It's all right.
fuckyeahme76: if its ne consolation, id rather go w/u then like natalia
Natalia was a pretty girl. A very pretty girl. She was just … a little crazy.
akirkland: That is a horrible example. No one in their right mind would go with Natalia.
fuckyeahme76: k, then … mei? mei leo?
Mei was a pretty girl, too, and very kind. She likely would have won, if Francis hadn't had anything to say about it. Jones would rather go with Arthur than Mei? His heart threatened to beat out of his chest.
akirkland: (Her name is spelled 'Liu.') Don't be ridiculous, Jones. You'll be teased just as much as I have been for taking me.
fuckyeahme76: nah i dont think so! wat a weird spelling 4 a name
A saddened smirk grew on Arthur's face. I'm glad one of us can be so positive about it.
akirkland: It has to do with the tones of Mandarin. Speaking of names, I'm curious: What does the 'F.' in your name represent?
fuckyeahme76: its a mystery! ;D
akirkland: I see.
Jones didn't respond for a moment, so Arthur returned to his homework, surprised that he'd forgotten all about it. Unfortunately, he was having the same issue as before and he couldn't focus. He looked back up to the screen. Alfre—Jones still hadn't replied, so he took the first step.
akirkland: Jones, you don't need to worry about me and prom. Go on and ask Mei.
fuckyeahme76: dude i thought u were smart! can u read? i just said i didnt want 2
akirkland: Why not? She's a pretty girl.
fuckyeahme76: cuz. shes nice and all but i dont wanna date her
Arthur noticed that his fingers were trembling madly.
akirkland: It wouldn't be as though you were actually asking her to be in a relationship with you.
fuckyeahme76: i no. but i still dont wanna take her
akirkland: Who would you take?
fuckyeahme76: whoever looked like they needed a date the most and u kinda fit that category, so u
Rather than let out that silver-screen gasp of surprise and amazement, Arthur found himself biting his thumbnail. He re-read what Jones and typed, but wasn't sure he was grasping it correctly. After several re-reads and realizing that yes, it said exactly what he thought it said (unless Jones actually was a completely and utter moron and couldn't use proper English), Arthur felt his temperature rise. This wasn't happening. He forced his hands back to the keyboard, wondering how on Earth he should respond. What if Jones was just pulling him along, and Arthur gave in? Well, that couldn't happen…. In a small attempt to protect himself, he played up the sarcasm card.
akirkland: It's so nice that you care about me. I'm flattered, My King.
fuckyeahme76: i try! :D
Not that … he seemed to pick up on it.
akirkland: Sarcasm is a foreign language to you, isn't it?
fuckyeahme76: huh?
akirkland: Exactly.
fuckyeahme76: im just trying 2 help u!
akirkland: I am not a damsel in distress, thank youverymuch! I don't know, nor care, about your hero-complex, but as far as I'm concerned you can go and shove it up your arse! I have no desire to be taken to promby, nor be the queenof, someone who has no valid, genuine concern for me! Good day, Mr Jones!
Arthur exited the window, and closed AIM. He knew that maybe … he'd overreacted, but no one was perfect, right? Homework was a lost cause, he decided, as he tossed his book aside. The rest of his evening was spent showering and eating dinner, and trying to read at least a few more pages into his current novel. When that didn't go as planned, he decided to go to bed early and though he hadn't realized it, he'd fallen asleep.
It was Friday, and it was prom day. He'd have remembered that if he'd been paying proper attention to the announcements when his humiliation was brought up. All day he tried focusing on his lessons; his notes were non-existent, and his eyes were focused mostly on the empty space on the blackboards. He moved lethargically to his classes, but then, out of habit, he looked up and down the hall in time to catch sight of Jones talking to Mei and Elizaveta. Well, if he wanted to take one of them, he could! He … he had encouraged him to, after all…. The boy was daft, there was no doubt about it, but could he not tell through Arthur's words over their online chat that, more than anything, he wanted to be an actual date to Alfred? Thinking a little more on it, he supposed that he had been … morethan a little vague about it. Emotions were getting the better of him; that was all.
It was later, though, leaving school that he contemplated running off for the evening and just not going. He had no true obligation, especially as he was no longer the Student Head. He sighed, stepping off of the school entrance, but yelped as he found himself pulled away.
"Dude, chill! Just me! Not like it's the KGB, Bro."
Arthur focused, now, finding himself trapped between a brick wall and Alfred, while Alfred was trapped between a fence and Arthur. It was a rather close fit, definitely invasive of Arthur's personal space, but they weren't touching. They were just … extremely close.
"You know perfectly well how I disdain appellations such as 'dude' or, 'bro.' You know my name."
"Go with me to prom."
Arthur glared, cheeks puffed only a little bit. His cheeks were only lightly dusted with pink at the sudden question. "I told you 'no' the other day, Jones."
"Alfred."
"I'll call you whatever I bloody well please. Now leave me alone!"
"Why won't you say yes?"
It wasn't as though he didn't want to; it was simply self-preservation. Arthur gulped, forcing down whatever it was trying to escape him. "Because you've been put up to it by your mates," he said. He knew it was actually unlikely, but…. Well, it had been the first thing to come to mind!
"I wasn't."
Arthur stared for a moment.
"I'm telling the truth!"
"Why should I say yes?"
This time Alfred looked to be the stunned one. "Uh, you'd get to dance with meif you're crowned queen?"
Arthur rolled his eyes. That's about the only good possible thing to come out of this. "Because I livefor such an opportunity."
Alfred's face contorted into something Very Not Amused. "Y'know, for someone who likes me, you sure aren't nice to me."
Arthur gulped. Well, he supposed it wasn't a humongous secret…. "(So you dospeak sarcasm—at least enough to detect when it's being spoken.) W-why would you want to take me? You hardly know me."
"Why do you like me? You hardly know me."
Arthur furrowed his brows. "Fair. But Alfred, really. Infatuation and actually taking someone to something like promare two very different things. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm rather done with this entire prom debacle. I'm not even going."
"But you have to! You're a Prom Princess!"
Arthur flinched at the title. "I am not a princess!" he growled out. "I am a male, and I refuse to be called a princess!"
"Well that's too bad, cuz that's what you are. At least for this. Come on! Lemme take you to prom! Why can't you just say yes?"
"No, Alfred!"
"Why?" Alfred demanded. "D'you know how many chicks I had to turn down so I could take you?"
"That's very flattering; I'm truly honored, but I'm sorry." Arthur could feel a spark of indignation starting low in his gut at Alfred's comment. "You said so yourself; we hardly know each other. Allowing you to escort me is not the wisest of choices."
"It was a figure of speech!"
("Not really….")
"I'm not as stupid as everyone makes me out to be! I don't drink, I don't smoke; I don't do any drugs. It's not like I'm gonna take you to a shady motel aft—"
"Shh!" Arthur's eyes widened as he dropped his books in order to clap them over Alfred's mouth. He knew they were unlikely to be heard, but one could never take any chances. "Watch what you say!" he hissed. Slowly he removed his hands, picking up his books in an awkward fashion to avoid having to brush against the young American. The silence between them was awkward, and it was embarrassment that stained his face once more. Arthur fixed his uniform up just a bit as he stood there, wondering what to do. Should he leave? Should he stay put?
"I'm not a bad guy, y'know."
Arthur sighed. Alfred was indeed persistent. "You're not evil, no, but I would hardly venture to call you a saint."
"I may get in trouble every now and then, but I get good grades, and I'm on the football team, and I volunteer all the time at places like the community center, and the kitchen, and at the animal shelter. I dunno what I gotta do to make you go with me, but throw me a bone, bro!"
The automatic 'no' stopped in Arthur's throat when he saw the earnest in Alfred's eyes. Arthur visibly relaxed, leaning gently on the wall behind him. He didn't respond for a moment, turning the words over in his head before he went on. "Don't … aren't the prom nominees not supposed to have proper dates?" He kept his eyes trained on Alfred's, watching as each emotion flickered through, reflecting his growing smile.
"I don't think it matters. The King and Queen have to share a dance, but other than that it's whatever. I don't know why you're so against this! Like I said. You'd get to dance with me, and really, let's face it. Who doesn't?"
Arthur chewed his bottom lip for a moment. Alfred was persistent, if nothing else. He wasn't the type to stop until he finally got his way, and Arthur didn't see that aspect of Alfred's personality changing for this little Prom Fiasco. He could say yes and then just not … go. Pretend to fall ill or get lost somewhere…. It wasn't at all that he didn't want to go with Alfred, and really: Arthur was enamored with the display of intent. If he did go, though, and if he did have a good time; he knew his hopes would fly away from him, pulling him along and allowing his heart to soar.
Then it would end the moment Alfred stopped paying attention to him, and returned to loitering in the hallways with his jock friends.
One evening, just a few hours, couldn't hurt…. He'd keep himself in check. Allow himself to enjoy the evening, but not get carried away.
Looking away and blushing at the ground, he began to answer. "I…. I suppose that I might be so inclined to acquiesce—"
"Oi, Kirkland…!"
Arthur froze at the voice, looking over to find Francis standing a small distance away. "What is it this time, Bonnefoy?" he demanded. His blush rushed off.
Francis swept his hair back with a flourish. Why, if Arthur didn't know better, he'd say that Francis had sparkled while doing so. (Arthur actually wouldn't put it past him to include such a theatric.) "I simply came to inform you that you've been re-instated as Student Body President. Apparently the headmaster didn't think that Feliciano's idea of pasta for lunch everyday was a very good one. Make sure you're back in time to make sure everything is in decent, working order—oh! And worry not!" Francis laughed. "I voted for you, so you still have a chance to dance with your future King! Oh, honhon! Arthur Kirkland, Alfred's Prom Night pillow queen!"
Arthur lunged in Francis' direction. The Frenchman took off, but Arthur found himself jerked back, a hand grasping the back of his blazer.
"Let me go this instant, Jones!" he demanded. "I have some frog legs to boil!"
"Uh, no," he began matter-of-factly. "One, you already got in trouble for fighting; and two, no way am I letting you cook anything. (I saw what you did to the student kitchen last year.)"
"Did you hear what he said?" Arthur asked. He jerked himself free from Alfred's grasp, straightening his clothing. "Did you not hear him? 'Pillow Queen!' How absolutely degrading!" The rage was still building up inside of Arthur; he could feel his face heating in anger. He glared at Alfred. "I am not a Prom Princess, and I will be no Prom Queen!"
Alfred's eyes widened. "You're taking this way too seriously! Calm down, geesh!"
"I will not calm down! I will not allow myself to be humiliated any more than I already have been, and I-I am…!" He struggled to find the right words. "I will not be your pillow queen!"
Before he could allow Alfred to finish processing what he said, Arthur took off, dashing away from the school trying very hard not to let himself let go of a few tears as he tried fixing his bag on his shoulder. These two weeks would be the death of him, and that night would finally be the end of it. However….
Francis couldn't have gotten too far, and by now he was sure to be off of school grounds.
Despite the hostility between Arthur and his brothers, he had to admit surprise at their … willingness … to get him ready for prom.
And it wasn't even done in a cruel way. (But that depended on one's definition of 'cruel.')
When he'd arrived at home with a bloody nose, bruised jaw, tousled hair, and dirt decorating him everywhere after his miniature rumble with Francis, they assaulted him with warm, wet rags and started stripping him of his bag and clothing. Before he could do or say much he was shoved into the shower, blinking at his reflection in the mirror. Washing had been hectic, as it felt as though every inch of his body was under attack, but the hot water did feel good and was rather soothing.
Exiting the shower had been just as unforeseen as entering his home. He'd once again been assaulted, being shoved along the corridor before being pushed onto his bed as his brothers threw his pseudo uniform (the same he'd worked rather diligently on) at him, demanding that he change into it. His door slammed shut, leaving him staring at the door in bewilderment. It took a moment, but finally he understood what his brothers' goal had been. He shook his head. What prats.
It wasn't as though he actually had a choice, now that he was back to being the Student President. He hadto go to the prom. Begrudgingly, he dried himself off (being careful of injured spots) and dressed himself smartly in his costume. It wasn't a horrible costume or too tacky, in his opinion, though it did rather resemble something like an American Civil War Confederate soldier's uniform, especially with the dull, grey-blue colors. He made sure his sash and belt were adjusted correctly before embarking on a small journey throughout his room to find his boots. (One was kicked far under his bed while the other rested on a top shelf in his closet next to his hidden stash of adult magazines. Thank goodness no one else had looked for them… Not that anyone had reason to, but there was always room for possibility.) He ran a quick comb through his hair (not that it would stay very flat) after grabbing his mask and, now having learned his lesson, stepped very carefully out of his room after checking for his brothers.
"Grab 'im!"
Arthur's eyes widened and before he could think of any words to string together, he found two arms wrapped around his torso, trapping his own arms to his sides. He was careful to keep his mask out of harm's way.
"Damn it, Charles! Release me this second or I will see to it that your precious chameleon is tomorrow night's main entrée!" he threatened. He struggled magnificently in his attempt to escape the hold around him, but it seemed that all Charles responded with was tightening his hold. It hurt, but Arthur grit his teeth and bore it.
"Ah, belt it, brat."
Arthur looked up at the eldest of them. Arthur glared, sneering. "What is the meaning of this, James? You attack me before I can take my shoes off in the house, then before I can even open the bathroom door! Now that I'm all done up you detain me? I've a function to get to!"
James, Charles, and Richard (who was standing off just a bit) chuckled to themselves. Charles released him, and Arthur straightened himself out. (If his uniform had creases in it….) As Arthur drew himself up, he realized that the action must have been a cue for something.
That something was being spritzed with cologne—a very…. Well, it wasn't too bad, but Arthur suspected it would smell much better if it hadn't been sprayed in his face.
"What are you—" Cough. "Playing at, James? Are you trying t—" Cough. "To kill me…?"
"Not yet, baby brother! Maybe after yeh get home, and after we make yeh spill any secrets yeh might wanna hide."
"And who said I planned on doing anything that would give you material to blackmail me?" Arthur wasn't sure if he preferred wheezing over coughing his inquiries to his brother. "You usually hold anything over me."
"S'true, but tonight is thatnight. Now, as your brother, I must insist that yeh carry a few, ah, French letters with yeh."
"WHY WOULD I—" Arthur lunged forward, stopped by Charles once more.
"Not that I actually think you'll get anyone teh sleep with yeh. I mean, the eyebrows kinda throw people off."
"You bastard! You have the same eyebrows!"
"Yeh can thank me later," James went on. He pulled something out of his back pocket; something Arthur recognized as his wallet. He went to say something, but it was handed to him. "I slipped a few in there for yeh; yeh might end up thanking me later."
"You are an absolute arse, you know that, right?"
James just smirked as he lead them all to the foyer. "Make sure to get a lot of pictures of you in your tiara, yeah?"
Before Charles could grab him again, Arthur threw himself at James. He didn't end up where he expected, though. Instead, he found himself stumbling out of the door, his wallet and mobile hitting him in the head on the way out. He had several very choice words on the tip of his tongue, but he heard the door slam shut and lock before he could get anything out. With the laughter of his brothers resounding in his ears, Arthur put his things in his pocket, careful to handle his mask with a little more care.
Fucking idiots, all three of them; good-for-nothing gingers….
The walk to the school wasn't much of one, but it was a bit more awkward in his costume, going to a function he wanted no part of. Even upon arriving – just a few minutes early to make sure everything was ready – he found himself already itching to leave and curl up in his bed, without worry over humiliation.
Although … who would really vote for him to be queen? (Bonnefoy and his posse aside.) He was in no danger, really, was he? He'd just avoid going up on stage at all possible costs! The band was doing sound check as he walked by, and upon seeing a few students begin to arrive, he sighed. He pulled his mask on, effectively covering the upper part of his face, and waited for the fun to begin….
It was only an hour in, and already Arthur had asked 16 couples to allow just a few inches more between them. "Propriety!" he'd declared. It did no good, however, for as soon as he stepped away the space was once again closed. Walking through the giant dancing crowd was an adventure and Arthur was positive that from that point on, no amount of sex he would possibly have in his life could possibly measure up to the amount of unintentional molestation he'd endured. That fiasco had ended, but Arthur had found his eyes landing on several people. Kiku and Mei were dancing together and made sure to keep some space between them (he silently thanked whatever greater power may have been listening), unlike Francis and Emma, who…. Well, Arthur really had no desire to know what exactly they were doing. Antonio and Lovino were arguing about something while Feliciano was trying to get Ludwig to dance. Then Arthur found Natalia and Katyusha, both of whom were speaking and laughing with Alfred. (Though the laughter was supplied in bulk by the amber-haired youth.) Jones, it seemed, had gone the simple route: A plain, dark charcoal suit with a light grey waistcoat. His mask was minimal, set over his right eye. The best, and worst, part was that Jones was smiling and looked to be having a good time.
As he turned away from the display, Arthur caught a flash of silver duck behind the punch bowl. He rolled his eyes.
"How much did you put in, Beilschmidt?"
Red eyes slowly rose to hover over the edge of the table. "Maybe I didn't do anything."
"You're suspended without allowance to attend. You didn't come here for shits and giggles. Now tell me," he began again. "How much did you put in?"
"What's it to you?"
Without missing much of a beat, Arthur said, "I want to know if it's enough." He resisted the urge to turn again and watch on as Alfred continued flirting. It wasn't as though he wasn't witness to it before; he saw it every day! He hated himself for the exponential addition of jealousy. "I need something."
Suddenly Gilbert released a guffaw of laughter, standing to his full height. "More than willing to help ya out!" he announced. Arthur rolled his eyes.
"I'm not looking to get pissed; just enough to relax. Where is your mask? This is a masquerade, you know."
"I'm also not supposed to be here, but here I am," he mumbled, shrugging as he dropped some more rum into the punch, giving it a brief stir. Louder, as though he'd said nothing, he added, "Cover up thisawesome visage? No way!"
He wore that arrogant smirk across his face, causing Arthur to release a brief sigh. He filled his cup with the spiked punch and downed it rather quickly. Gilbert stared, blinking, as Arthur filled another cup.
"Careful with that!" he said. "I didn't go easy on it!"
This cup Arthur didn't drink down immediately. This serving he'd take his time with and enjoy. "I'm aware. Ta." Arthur lifted the cup in thanks, and turned away. Quickly he roved his eyes through the student congregation, slowly feeling his nerves relax. He grinned, but only for a moment. His eyes quickly found Alfred again; this time it looked like he was being forced to dance with Natalia. Natalia's eyes weren't on Alfred. They were looking directly at Ivan, but this didn't seem to matter when it registered in Arthur's mind. The fact remained that Alfred was dancing with Natalia, and Natalia wasn't Arthur, so it did not equate to happiness for him.
Arthur looked down to find his cup suddenly … very, very empty. He returned to the punch bowl. He returned to the punch bowl every time he saw Alfred dancing with Someone Very Much Not Arthur. By the time he'd drank eight (very fast) cups of the punch, he couldn't stop himself. A few tears (actually a lot, but Arthur was … modest) escaped his eyes and he went to go march right up to Alfred and give him a piece of his mind, because he should be dancing with Arthur, not with Mei! Hadn't Alfred tried to get Arthur to be his date? Wouldn't this just be some kind of cheating? The thoughts buried those seeds within him, making him grow a little more paranoid with each advancement.
He was five steps into his journey before Arthur felt arms grab him from behind to pull him back, and two other sets push him along out of the gymnasium. He'd flailed, and kicked, but to no avail. He found himself pushed into a wall, and confronted by Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert. Tears were still running down his face, but he couldn't find any part of him that cared at the moment.
"You bastards, get out of my way!"
"Dios mio, Gilbert, what did you put in there?"
"Just the rum! He drank most of it!"
Arthur stared out at them, glaring. "Fuck you, Kraut! I only had a few glasses! What do you want? I'm busy!" He sniffed some, tears still flowing. The image of Alfred grinning and dancing and having a good time with those girls wouldn't stop playing before his mind's eye; the small – very, very small – part of him that was still sober was trying to make a point, it seemed, but the larger drunken part of him wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. This was serious business and was simply too important to brush aside.
"With what?" Francis asked. "Interrupting Alfred with your drunken self?"
"Oh, go suck a—"
"So that's a yes."
Arthur continued to glare, but now scenarios played in his imagination. Would he be interrupting him? Well, yes, in a technical sense he would, but would it be bothersome? It couldn't be, could it? All it was, was finally coming right out to formally confess, and Alfred would have been so happy and excited and it wouldn't have mattered if Arthur did or didn't get crowned. Alfred would still dance with him and it wouldn't be a bother! Yet, paranoia slowly tightened its grip on Arthur. What if Alfred was disgusted? What if things were worse at school? They had never truly interacted, true, but it could become outright rejection. Alfred was straight, and Arthur wasn't a girl, and why did God seem to hate him, all of a sudden; it wasn't fair! None of it was fair! He just wanted a quick dance with Alfred! That was all! It wasn't like he was asking for an entire lot!
More tears welled up and Arthur sunk down against the wall. He hugged his knees to him, crying outright. He could feel his nose beginning to stuff up, and a part of him knew he'd greatly regret ever drinking when he woke up the next day.
"Arthur…?" Antonio took a small step closer, but all it accomplished was making Arthur spew all of his thoughts into a single, incoherent, lengthy run-on sentence.
"It's all your fault you hadn't prom queened me and Alfred could dance and girls with Alfred bloody fuckers all seven of you he's happy and I'm not and why can't I be happy and Mei with dancing a smile on his face why can't I put it there happy with me fucking bastards you lot!"
He continued on that little tangent for several moments. He'd not realized through his spoken sobs that he'd been forced to stand; not until he felt his head turn sharply and suddenly to the right, a sting blooming across his face. Cool air attacked near his eyes and he realized, slowly, that his mask had flown off.
"I am growing sick of this, Rosbif!" Arthur's glossy eyes shot towards Francis. "Not only of your drunken displays, but all of this fighting! It does not do well for my complexion, so I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop this drama!"
His eyes traveled between the three. Still his eyes watered, but sense was beginning to kick in again. Part of him still buzzed with the alcohol, and his tongue felt a little loose, yet. "Er…." His face slowly turned warm, and his eyes now caught sight of something else; something a little more foreboding. Antonio held a cup of water and as Arthur opened his mouth to protest, it was splashed in his face. He coughed some, spitting it out, but it happened again 3 more times.
"Would you stop? Damn it all, stop!" While he could still feel a slight buzz, Arthur felt back on his feet again, and he took off his gloves to attempt wiping the water off of his face. He grumbled, and his complaining grew louder as he realized the top half of his uniform was damp. (Most of the water was in his hair.) "You three are nothing but trouble! Absolute trouble! What on earth would possess you to get the students drunk?"
"More like what would possess us to make you sober," Gilbert mumbled. "And you drank it knowing what I did to it!"
Arthur flushed, and coughed as he slipped his gloves back on. Well, now to get back to prom looking as though he'd just taken a swim. Marvelous. At least, until he felt something going on with his hair. Francis stood next to him (much too close, thank you), sifting a brush rapidly through his hair as if shaking the water out.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Helping you, of course. What if I am named Prom King and you my Prom Queen? I refuse to be seen with someone so tasteless as you. I may as well do what I can."
Arthur rolled his eyes as Francis continued, and Antonio handed him his mask. He didn't ask for the reason behind their charity (besides that he already knew Francis'), but he couldn't very well bring himself to care an entire lot. He kept his mouth shut as Francis went on doing whatever it was he was doing, but did promise under terms of certain death that if he was somehow magically sporting something Louis XVI would, he would hang the Frenchman in boys' bathroom from the ceiling by his toenails. Thankfully the salon session came to an end; Arthur sent a quick hand through his hair just to make sure it was laying normally, and affixed his mask back onto his face. Once it was on securely, he went to look at the three to thank them, but they were already on their way back to the gymnasium. Well fine! It wasn't as though he actually wantedto thank them, or anything…. He almost quickened his step to catch up to them, but he discovered something as he, himself, neared the gym once more….
"…Princes are…. Yao Wang!"
Oh wonderful; he'd arrived just in time for the court results. ("Ludwig Beilschmidt!") He technically wasn't in the gym, yet…. ("Eduard von Bock!") He could still sneak away if he wanted to…. ("Francis Bonnefoy!") Unfortunately, it was his duty to stay, and so, to reach that goal, he would suffer any means possible to do so. ("Alfred F. Jones!")
His knees started shaking as he stood outside the door. Should he enter…? It was close to his own certain death, he just knew it…. ("The Prom Princesses in line to be Queen are as follows! Natalia Arlovskaya!") The only thing running through his head as his hand rested on the handle to the door was, Please don't call my name; please let this have smoothed itself over! His grip fluctuated magnificently but he found the door opening for him. He was yet unsure if this was a good or bad thing. ("Elizaveta Héderváry!") Arthur snuck around to the side of the platform where the rest of the court nominees were. ("Mei Liu!") He was ready! He could do this! It was just a harmless joke, after all! It wasn't like he would actually win, or anything, right? ("Angélique d'Isle!") That would be positively preposterous and so untraditional. International Academy was a rather traditional school!
"And … Arthur Kirkland."
Sometimes.
His breath rattled within him, but Arthur steeled himself as he stepped up on stage to stand next to Angélique (who was, fortunately, a rather nice young girl). This was just a good show of International Academy's growing interest in true equality, wasn't it? Breaking … conventional bonds of society….
But he wasn't a girl!
For the first time since re-entering the gymnasium, he caught glance of the student crowd. A lot of them – a scary amount – had their hands covering their mouths to hide their laughter, or whispered excitedly to their friend. Most of the young men (if they even deserved such a polite term) shook their heads with disbelieving grins on their faces. Beside him, though, Arthur could see the other Queen nominees grinning at him, and the King nominees giving him….
A lot of different expressions. He looked off the stage to the exit, wondering if he could leave without notice if he moved fast enough….
No; the students were far too caught up in this rubbish to not notice any minute move Arthur made.
Again, as it had two weeks ago, his head was filled with every noise around him. Every single tiny little sound—the ruffling of fabric, the scuff of shoes; the girls' baited breaths and the anticipatory clicks of the boys' tongues. The small sparks of static from the speakers and, he was sure if he trained his ear just enough, he could hear the sweat beading down his face.
Then, as it had two weeks ago, all of the noise came to a stop, but this time it came to a stop with a bang, and he could hear nothing. Before him stood Alfred, smile bright and wide. He focused his eyes; the ladies on stage were a mix of emotion. Natalia jumped off of the stage (likely to find Braginski), Mei looked like she was trying not to cry, Elizaveta had … a video camera out … and Angélique was nudging him just a little bit.
Slowly sound trickled back to him, and Arthur looked at Alfred properly.
"I know I'm American, so I'm not really supposed to bow to royalty or whatever, or be royalty but I can make an exception."
It was almost as if Alfred had been practicing how to bow, and he did so rather well (with a small mistake here or there, but Arthur couldn't find the words to point them out). He could hear full-out laughter from the students, and the other nominees for King stepped off the stage to find their dates, or whomever they came with. His face bloomed a spectacular shade of red, and a sound finally escaped his own throat when Alfred rose up part-way to offer his hand to Arthur.
D-don't—don't tell me…
"Your mask is kinda hiding your face a bit, y'know."
Arthur managed a few squeaks of acknowledgement.
"Here."
Alfred stood up completely and stepped forward. Automatically Arthur stepped back and he could feel some of the left-over tears from earlier start forming again as Alfred's hands came up to either side of his face and lifted the mask.
"Y-you idiot! This … this is a masquerade! I'm supposed to have a mask!"
"Yeah, well, ya look like you could use some air."
"My mask does not restrict airflow!" His fingers scrambled up to pull the mask back down. He bit the inside of his cheek as he looked away. Shame crept up his spine; all Alfred was doing was trying to help him out, and all Arthur could do in response was bat him away. He'd have kept staring, if not for the ruffling of his hair. He froze, his eyes locked on to Alfred's as the queen's crown was placed on his head.
Alfred's eyes were shining, and he was still smiling that increasingly annoying (only not really) smile. Without his mind's consent, he finally accepted Alfred's hand and was lead to the floor to dance.
I cannot have won. There is no way this is happening. There are rules! Aren't there? This is—this is just absurd!
People around gave them space. Automatically, Arthur's hands and arms fell into a waltzing position. His right hand rested awkwardly on Alfred's waist as his left grabbed Alfred's other hand. The bespectacled king looked a little confused.
"I uh," he began. "I dunno how to waltz. Or tango. Or box step."
"Er…." Arthur removed his hand and released Alfred. The music was playing and the crowd was waiting for them to dance. (In fact, Arthur was sure he'd caught a very feral and impatient glint flash in Elizaveta's eyes.) "What do you know, then?" he asked quietly.
Alfred started turning a little pink. "Nothing fancy. I know a bit of like, breakdancing, and I know a little swing. And the YMCA!"
"We are not dancing that! Just—! Just … put your hands on my waist," Arthur rushed. His voice was very hushed, and he knew that Alfred hadn't discerned a word of it. He seemed to get it, though, after Arthur set his hands stiffly upon Alfred's shoulders. "Just … regular, silver-screen high school dancing," he breathed.
Alfred relaxed under Arthur's hands, and began moving them as his hands sat firmly upon Arthur's waist. It was rather difficult for Arthur to move his feet. His legs felt as though they were made of some of the heaviest available material. He didn't even have to move them much! Just a little bit here and there so he didn't have to resemble one of those freakishly bizarre clown-dolls that … never stayed down. He trained his gaze on the knot of Alfred's tie (just a simple Pratt knot), and blatantly ignored the flashes from (what was definitely) Kiku's camera. (He wouldn't be surprised if Elizaveta asked him to help her out.) He just knew…. He could feelpeople staring at him as he danced – could it be called 'dancing'? – and his heart felt like it was being squeezed when the other couples joined in. He knew they were whispering about him, ready to start horrible rumors when Monday came around.
"You can relax, you know."
The new and rather sudden proximity of Alfred's mouth to Arthur's ear made the former gasp and snap his head over, only to smash his forehead into Alfred's temple and jaw. There were several variations of the word 'ouch' used between them, expletives included. The two stumbled, both hissing with the new, throbbing headaches they sported. (Honestly: The evening could easily become the world record-breaker for number of headaches had by one person in a single night.)
"I'm—I'm really very sorry," Arthur began. "Are you all right?" he asked. They'd stopped moving, but Arthur had quickly and tenderly grabbed a hold of Alfred's jaw, checking him over, just in case Arthur had hit him just a little too hard. "Nothing hurts too much, does it?" he fretted.
Alfred shook his head, letting Arthur pull his hands away. "I'm fine." He grinned. "Just a bump, right? What about you?"
"I'm … I'm fine…." Yeah, he could feel a headache coming on, but what was he really going to do?
"So where's the bruise on yourjaw from?"
Maybe girls had good reasons for wearing makeup, Arthur pondered. "I was in a fight."
"No shit. You sure do fight a lot."
Arthur found his arms resting on Alfred's shoulders this time, but not for very long. Alfred had taken his right hand to try and replicate what Arthur had begun in the beginning. He didn't question it, but he did have to struggle to hide the heat in his face at their new, very close, stance. "Youtry having to put up with Bonnefoy on a daily basis." Arthur resumed dancing (really it was closer to 'swaying') with Alfred. His hand was awkwardly tense upon Alfred's shoulder, but how should he have moved it? Just loosen his grip and rest his forearm upon Alfred's chest, or wrap his arm around…? He decided on the latter (f-for comfort only, of course!) then steeled himself, studying Alfred's face. He did have to wonder why Alfred would be so willing to dance with him, to risk his reputation with the football team and his classmates. He searched Alfred's eyes to look for any kind of answer, though hopefully something close to sincerity.
"What?"
Arthur grinned. He released a genuine grin, and he knew it. Part of him (translation: all of him) hated himself for it, for not being able to fight it down. At least it wasn't a full-blown smile. (It could easily be so, though.) The way Alfred had asked, Arthur found so stereotypical of the high school jock: The dumbed-down, gravelly low-key emission of sound. Arthur thought it was – and never would the admission leave the confines of his mind – positively adorable. It didn't help that Arthur (and thiswould never leave his heart) could easily picture himself grabbing hold of Alfred's hand, locking their fingers together, and just c-….
C-c….
Cuddling. Cuddling!as they walked down the halls.
Arthur's face flamed up, his grin falling as his eyes widened in panic. Alfred couldn't read minds, could he? Because if he could, that would be bad; very, very bad. It was bad enough Alfred knew that Arthur harbored a small crush on him. Logically, Arthur knew that mind-reading was certainly not something Alfred would be able to do (in fact, Arthur had issues with that discipline, but that topic was for another day), but when panicked, one often thought of rather illogical things, and Alfred having any sort of psychic prowess was, by every definition, illogical. He beat the butterflies down, closing his eyes.
"It's nothing. Just a stupid fight with Frog Face. Don't worry about it."
"I'm not worried!" Alfred insisted. He'd pulled Arthur a little closer, but Arthur wasn't sure Alfred had even realized it. "I mean…. I know you can handle yourself. Just … you shouldn't get into trouble so much, y'know?"
"It's not as though I willingly look for trouble. If Bonnefoy didn't start it, then I wouldn't have to worry."
"That or you just like fighting."
"…I prefer to look to it as an unfortunate necessity in given circumstances." He paused a moment, allowing a grin. "But I will admit that seeing blemishes on that precious French face of his does give me a sense of accomplishment."
Alfred didn't say anything and for that Arthur was grateful. Mostly because he could focus on dancing more. Dancing, dancing; dancing with Alfred! It shocked him now just how close they were. Arthur was pulled up against Alfred as they swayed and spun every now and again, and it was heavenly. It didn't even have to be sexual, but something within Arthur was simply happy and content with life at the moment; something he wasn't often afforded. As he'd told himself the day before, he could allow himself this.
Those 'few hours' have become these 'few minutes,' he told himself. He'll go back to dancing with the girls. That's fine. I only wanted one dance.
He bit his tongue, hurrying his mind to focus on other things. In this rush, he'd not noticed that the music stopped (how could he have been so unobservant all evening?) until Alfred stopped moving completely, carefully nudging him back to reality.
"Hey, d'you want something to drink?"
It took a moment, but the question finally permeated as Arthur found himself finally coming out of something of a daze. He recalled his surroundings and what had happened just before the results were called and the crowning moment of his humiliation began. So. Drinks? "Er, no! No, it—it's okay. I happen to know it's been spiked rather liberally…." At least he had the decency to blush. (Alfred didn't actually need to know why.)
Even though they'd stopped dancing and stepped away, Still Alfred held fast to Arthur's hand. The older of the two allowed a tiny, tiny grin.
"So at first, I thought you kept getting red because you were embarrassed and shy, but you're also pretty warm. Are you sick?"
Arthur snapped his eyes up, grin gone. Warm? Red? He couldn't tell if Alfred knowing that sparked his skin aflame, or doused him with ice-cold water. Either extreme was uncomfortable, and he shook his head. "N-no," he stammered. "I just … it's rather warm in here, isn't it?" His voice cracked just a little as he tugged at the collar of his uniform. "And I haven't eaten since lunch, actually, so I'm sure that's contributing … partly."
"Oh, do you wanna step outside? We can even go grab something to eat if you want. On me."
"I would take you up on that offer, but as the Student Body President, it is prudent I stay in attendance and as we are Prom King and…." Arthur gulped. "…Queen … are we not required to stay?"
"Nah, I think we pretty much did our duty!" Alfred grinned.
As much as Arthur wanted to return the grin and leave with Alfred, he simply stared back. "I still have to be here. You can go, though. Go on and take one of the girls."
"How many times do you gotta be told something before it sticks? I don't want to ask any of them." Alfred fixed Arthur with a stare; one that made Arthur forget how to move properly because hello, body, why are you following Alfred through the gymnasium, hallway, and out of the school? His mind rushed, and no amount of words seemed able to slip past his lips in protestation. Before he knew it, they were standing in the car park beside (what he assumed was) Alfred's car. There was a slight breeze, and Arthur truly realized the difference in temperature when the wind snuck in under his sleeves and wove through his hair.
Ah.
He reached up, and took off the blasted tiara nestled on top of his head. He studied it for a moment, shaking his head. "What exactly am I to do with this?" he asked, breaking the silence. "I should go give it to Angélique."
"Why? You're the queen; not her."
"I am not a queen!" Arthur hastened. "It was a vile joke that … the entire school played part in."
Thatmade him feel better. He took his mask off, and grabbed at his hair, leaning against the car. He was at a loss for what to do, or take care of, now. He supposed he could go back inside – he'd catch hell the next Monday if he didn't – and let Alfred leave, since he seemed so inclined to do so. That option, though, didn't sit very well with him. He'd gotten his dance, yes, but now he felt himself yearning for more.
"Why wouldn't you want to go back inside with the girls?" he asked quickly. His eyes were trained elsewhere, as Alfred leaned against the car next to him, swinging his key ring around a finger.
"Already said: I don't wanna."
"I caught that, but are you going to give me a reason why?"
Alfred shrugged, switching the key ring between fingers. "Not interested in them," he said simply.
"Why not?"
"You ask a lot of questions."
"They beget answers."
"'Beget'? Dude, what year are you actually from? 1498?"
Arthur grinned, shaking his head. "Hardly. I speak proper, present English. You might do the same every now and again."
"You don't seem to have much of an issue understanding me." Alfred had turned his head, shooting a content grin Arthur's way. "You ready to go?"
"I have to stay," he repeated. He turned his head away just as quickly as he'd spoken, tapping his toes inside of his boots to try to keep from releasing a stutter or two.
"Come on, no you don't. Let's go."
"Actually, I—ah!"
Alfred had grabbed a hold of Arthur's sleeve, pulling him along to the opposite side of the car while unlocking its doors. It was just the jump he'd needed to instill in Arthur, as the older of the two told his body to stop following so willingly, yet didn't at all listen to the command. Before he knew it, he was in the passenger seat with his seatbelt buckled.
He was in Alfred's car.
He was in Alfred's car.
His breath caught and he held it, trying hard to calm himself down. He wasn't necessarily worked up, but not until just then did the idea of sitting in Alfred's car ever cross his mind. The idea was just silly, really. Why get so worked up over being in someone's car? Despite his mind trying to play logically, he allowed his eyes to study the car. It was relatively clean, he supposed, with light dust on the dash. Upon the rearview mirror hung a pair of dog tags, along with an American flag pendant and a cross. The tags caught his attention, but as he went to grab them to read just whose name was etched in them, Alfred sat down and put on his seatbelt.
"So where d'you wanna go?" he asked.
Arthur's eyes shot over, to Alfred. "Er … it's no great concern of mine. I can always make something when I get home."
"No way! If you don't choose, we're going to like, Mickey D's, or something."
While Arthur was secretly fond of their burgers, he couldn't say he was in the mood for it. "It's fine. Actually, I have food at home, and I don't need anything that might make me fat."
"What?" Alfred fixed Arthur with a stare. "Fat? No way! …I'm not fat, am I? No way can I be fat!"
Arthur watched, bemused, as Alfred went on about how there was no way on God's green earth that McDonald's could make anyone fat, much less him. At the same time it was also just a little scary to learn that apparently Alfred ate fast food whenever he could….
"You…" he began, breaking Alfred's tirade. "Could come to my house, and I can make us something to eat," he suggested.
And so it became that the two bickered over whether or not that was appropriate, or whether or not Alfred should risk eating Arthur's food. ("Unlock this door, Alfred, before I strangle you to death!" "Nuh-uh!") Eventually Arthur just stopped talking, unbuckled his seatbelt and slid his seat back in order to cross his legs in a Rather Indignant and Insulted Manner. He refused to speak until he'd received an apology and Alfred's concession to eat his cooking (which took a small while). So Alfred had finally apologized and calmed Arthur down (somewhat), before turning his car on.
It was Divine Retribution.
When Alfred had turned the car on, the CD player automatically resumed where it had left off, and the first words spat out from the speakers. ("…See your peacock? Don't be a chicken, boy, stop acting like a bee-otch!") All color drained immediately from Alfred's face, and made Arthur's eyes grew as the song continued on. Arthur was frozen in amusement, while Alfred appeared frozen in absolute fear. ("Don't be a shy kinda guy, I'll bet it's beautiful. Come on baby, let me see what'chu hidin' underneath! I wanna see your peacock, cock, cock! Your peacock, cock!")
Arthur had honestly tried very hard not to laugh. His lip hurt from where he'd bit down in his vain attempts, but he couldn't help his hand flying to cover his mouth as he continued trying to at least hide the laughter. Alfred, meanwhile, had fumbled at the board, pressing every other button in his attempts to stop the music, and having forgotten which button did which. "I-it's not mine! My brother had the car earlier a-and this is his CD! Not mine!" he lied. "I don't listen to that kinda stuff! I listen to stuff like … like Metallica! Hardcore stuff!"
It had taken a moment, but Arthur had calmed down enough to finally speak without any hint that he was greatly amused. He offered to forget about it (unless Entirely Too Convenient, or in the case of Ultimate Blackmail, but Alfred didn't need to know that part) so long as Alfred promised to back him up if he got into trouble come Monday when he was sure to be called to the headmaster's office for abandoning his duties.
Deal silently settled, Alfred drove to Arthur's. Not a very long drive, but the homecoming reception had … fared oddly, suffice to say. None of Arthur's brothers said anything when he'd walked in with Alfred; they just stared. Arthur paid them no heed as he went off to the kitchen to begin preparing something to eat, whereas Alfred had tried greeting them rather jovially. Instead he'd been called into the kitchen to help Arthur.
The three brothers had snickered at the domestic command and act, but went off to do whatever it was they'd been busy with previously as the two younger boys took their jackets (and gloves, in Arthur's case) off. Arthur had just a dress shirt, and Alfred a dress shirt and waistcoat.
Arthur's intention had been some form of meatloaf. ("I like Meatloaf, too! 'I couldn't take it any longer, Lord I was crazed!'" "Oh, shut it.")
Meatloaf … it was not. ("That is an amazing song; I can't believe you'd make me stop singing it." "It's not the song. It's the singer." "Meatloaf's not—! …Oh, that's low.")
So, Alfred had stepped in just in time, rolling his sleeves up and loosening his tie before taking the remaining ground beef and making hamburger patties out of them. ("Can't let Your Majesty's hands become any more sullen than they are." "You try my patience, Your Royal Pain-in-the-Arse.") Arthur was caught between anger (because he was positive that Alfred would rub this in his face) and thrill (because Alfred was cooking them dinner, insisting that he take care of it all), but he did have to admit that Alfred's cooking, while certainly not the best, was actually … all right. Another confession he'd had to acknowledge was that it had been a little difficult to appear well-mannered trying to eat a hamburger in front of someone he was trying to subconsciously impress. He'd managed through without a crumb defacing him in any manner, which was more than he could say for Alfred, for whom he'd fetched a wet rag to clean himself up with.
Both were at the sink, sleeves still rolled up as they cleaned and dried their used dishes. Alfred washed while Arthur rinsed and dried. It had been silent for most of the job; a few accidental brushes of skin and muttered apologies scattered here and there. Arthur thought desperately for a way to break the silence, but thoughts and possible reasons of why Alfred was being so considerate flooded the former ponderings.
"Foster."
Arthur paused in drying the glass in his hand, looking at Alfred's profile as he scrubbed one of the remaining plates. "I beg your pardon?"
Alfred turned a bit pink, and his eyes were set and determined as his hands slowed the scrubbing down a bit. "My middle name. You asked me what the 'F.' in my name stood for. It's 'Foster'." He went back to cleaning the plate as though its previous uncleanliness had been a personal affront to him. Arthur, meanwhile, grinned and made a promise to himself not to laugh. Not out of cruelty, but … well, his middle name was, for lack of a better word … rather attractive.
"Alfred Foster," he mumbled. He'd not realized he said anything until he caught sight of Alfred's reddened cheeks. "You look embarrassed, Alfred."
"It's not embarrassment. Promise." Finished washing, Alfred joined Arthur in drying.
"Oh?" Arthur prompted. "That's not what has you as red as those tomatoes Fernandez had on the announcements this morning?"
"'Fraid not."
"What is it, then?"
Alfred began speed-drying the dishes. "It's nothing!" he insisted. "Just thought you wanted to know, that's all! Just … don't tell anyone."
A grin bloomed across Arthur's face. "I won't, but that doesn't explain why you're blushing."
"I'm not blushing!"
"What is it, then? Stage makeup that appears at random times?"
Arthur would have said that Alfred glared at him, but the glare in question didn't hold much, if any, malice. It was more like he went through the motions of it before admitting it had been his father's name. Arthur didn't press, but he didn't rid himself of the grin as Alfred mumbled on, drying the last of the dishes. He felt immensely guilty, especially as Alfred had used past tense. (Arthur had a sneaking suspicion he knew just whose dog tags those were in Alfred's car, now.) They put the ware away in silence; a silence that soon became slightly awkward as the cupboards were shut. Alfred leaned against the countertop looking up at the ceiling, and Arthur stood a small space away at a complete loss for words. He took the time instead to look at Alfred – who was in his house– and wondered just what he was thinking at that moment. Was he enjoying himself, or was he trying to find a way to leave as quickly as possible? Arthur wouldn't blame him after his blind insensitivity, but he did desperately hope it wasn't the latter.
He yawned, glancing at the clock. It read somewhere just past midnight; Arthur couldn't remember the last time since his last summer break that he'd been up past midnight. …Well, a sobernight, at the very least. Regret struck him as he pressed down the next yawn. He had no idea if Alfred was used to being up this late during term, but he settled himself just a bit by remembering that they didn't have to worry about school the next day.
"Er…" he began. "You are under no obligation to stay." He stopped yet another yawn.
"D'you want me to leave?" Alfred asked. He'd turned with a small, barely-there hint of surprise in his eyes.
Arthur became flustered, wondering what he should say in return. He was doing it again, with his inability to say the right thing. His mind rushed to-and-fro wondering how to answer without coming across as soft, or pliable—or cold and cruel, at the other extreme. "No! That is, I mean…! If you want to leave, you can, and—oh, never mind…." He covered his face with his hands before messing around the kitchen, grabbing his mask, jacket, and gloves to put away yet never actually leaving the kitchen. Alfred had taken that as a cue to grab his own jacket and mask.
"I s'pose I should get going, it is kinda late," he said. He seemed, perhaps, just the slightest bit put out, and Arthur wasn't entirely sure just how he should be handling that….
He tried focusing on something else, but it always came back to the topic at hand. "You don't haveto lea—leave…" he yawned. Well, that was embarrassing….
This elicited only a grin from Alfred. "Nah, it's okay. You're tired. It's cool."
After blinking two or 3 times, Arthur grinned back a little sheepishly and was happy to find no kind of extravagant joy at getting to leave hiding in Alfred's eyes. The disappointment he thought he'd heard was gone, replaced by understanding. With this, Arthur was okay. "I'd protest, but … I suppose I am feeling slightly fatigued." He hurried about a little ahead. "Erm, here, I'll see you out…."
Alfred shrugged his jacket on with a nod and stepped aside for Arthur to lead him out. Stepping onto the front porch, the two felt the drop in temperature. Arthur shivered, not having his jacket on, but felt two very warm, firm hands grab his arms and push him back into the doorway. It was just slightly warmer, but his growing lethargy (and the fact that Alfred was still right there) wouldn't allow him to insist that he would be just fine.
"Thanks for having me over."
Arthur only nodded. He had so many things to thank Alfred for, but all of them died on his tongue. 'Thank you for not laughing, and thank you for standing up with me.' 'Thank you for dancing with me.' Thanks yous were everywhere for everything, but Alfred looked as though he already knew just how grateful Arthur was about it all. He gave that cocksure smile.
"Lemme know if you wanna hang out sometime! I dunno what all you're into, but…. I guess if you wanted to get to know me a bit better—"
"Who said I wanted that?"
"Me!" Alfred seemed a little too proud of this. "We both mentioned how we don't know that much about each other and I figured that we should do that."
"What for?" Arthur asked tentatively. As much as he did enjoy speaking with Arthur on the porch, his bed was calling….
"Nothin', you'll find out. But uh, anyway, I should get going. Mom's gonna have an aneurism if I'm not back soon, and you look like you could use some sleep."
Arthur said nothing. He just nodded along, slowly entering his own semi-world. He was woken out of it, almost completely. He focused his mind, and—
This was either not happening, or it was happening in extremely slow motion.
Whichever it happened to be, Arthur watched, eyes wide, as Alfred bowed down, and kissed the back of Arthur's hand. Warmth spread from the contact, a comfortable and welcomed warmth, and it felt so good. Alfred stood, then, still holding Arthur's hand and smiling.
Arthur's jaw was unsure if it wanted to stay open or closed, but no matter the position, no words came to Arthur. He only vaguely registered the folded paper deposited in his hand. Alfred gave another proper bow.
"Fare thee well, Your Majesty."
"And to you, Alfred F. Jones."
Alfred smirked and bounded towards his car with a last wave to Arthur. Arthur waved back, grasping the paper a little more firmly, but he waited until Alfred was out of sight before stepping back into the house and reading it.
Trembling, his fingers worked at the paper. The sheet had been torn from one of Alfred's notebooks. It was slightly crumbled, but it had been folded neatly, regardless. It looked like it was from his physics notebook, what with the forgotten note-taking near the top. (Arthur knew that Alfred made good grades, but all of the scribbling in the margins would … likely attempt to prove otherwise.) Below that, outlined in a blue and green box, was the message for Arthur, written in a nicer fashion. Beneath the box was an arrow prompting him to turn the paper over for his phone number.
Arthur was a smiling, yet tired, prom queen as he headed up the stairs for bed. His brothers didn't bother him, not that he noticed, and while putting his things away he found that maybe having the prom queen's tiara hadn't bode completely ill for him. (He'd have to thank that Euro-Trash Trio when he saw them on Monday.) He set it on his computer desk, right next to the paper from Alfred, and fell asleep the very moment his head hit the pillow.
Remember when we were IM-ing, and you used part of that sonnet? Here's the whole sonnet. I wrote it from memory. I think I got it right, but if I didn't, I'm sorry.
O truant Muse what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou, too, and therein dignified.
Make answer Muse: wilt thou not happily say,
'Truth needs no color, with his color fixed;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermixed?
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, for it lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem, long hence, as he shows now.
-END-