October

Alfred F. Jones was never the luckiest person in his grade.

In eighth grade, he was the kid that spent half of lunch waiting in line to get a corn dog, but was always right behind the person who snatched up the last three. In freshman year, he was the kid that spent eons crossing his fingers, hoping that he wouldn't be the one called up to the blackboard to demonstrate the usage of the pythagorean theorem to his peers, but ended up becoming just that. In sophomore year, he was the kid that managed to retrieve the football he'd accidentally kicked over a bush, but spent a good twenty minutes sprinting away from the dog he'd hit.

And in junior year, he was the kid that managed to get into his school's football team for the third year in a row, but broke his leg during their third game of the season.

All of these were simply a series of coincidental, albeit unfortunate, events – but Alfred was always one who simply blew things out of their regular proportions. So, when the 17 year old Alfred F. Jones was placed on after school receptionist duty in the school library in order to make up for his P.E. classes, he bestowed upon himself the title of "The Unluckiest Kid in the World".

And, as usual, his job was as boring as hell.

Leaning back in his chair and heaving out an ungraceful, demon of a sound he could only call a sigh, Alfred is at loss of what to do during the one-and-a-half more after-school hours he's stuck here. His arm flops down to his side, the book he was attempting to read - key word: attempting - brushing against the floor. The jock takes another glance around the room, coming to same conclusion he's had for the past hour.

It's the twenty-first of October, and, as usual, the library's completely empty.

It doesn't take a genius (even though Alfred is a bit far from any title akin to it) to figure out that the school library is one of the least frequently occupied places on the entire campus. Unlike a lot of other libraries, their school library exists with a simple selection of fictional stories - ones that aren't interesting enough for the avid bookworm, yet too dense for anyone who'd be hoping to take a shot at reading. And if anybody wanted a simple, quiet, place to study, the lounge on the second floor would be their first choice instead of the forgotten library up on the fifth.

At least he only has to be here once or twice every two weeks - depending on whose turn it is to be receptionist in the Library Committee.

"Geez," he mutters to himself, lolling his head to the side and staring out the window, ("At least this place has a nice view") eyes fixed somewhere in the distance, "I should just close early." It's a futile hope, and he knows it. "Ugh. Why can't I just die or something."

"If you fancy jumping out of the building, the window over there would be an excellentoption."

The remark is cold and blunt, and it sounds as if it wasn't meant to be heard in the first place. Nonetheless, Alfred almost jumps at the sound of another living being from across the room.

"Wha–" He bolts upright, looking around the room for the source of the voice. "Who was that?" He freezes when he finds a pair of wide, chartreuse eyes staring at him from a dark corner of the room, looking just as shocked as he is – if not even more. "Whoa dude, how long have you been there?"

" . . . "

He's silent for a while, staring at him with wide, unsure eyes and Alfred just opened his mouth to ask again when he replies with a soft " . . . I've been here the whole time."

To most people, a reply like that would've elicited some sort of harsh comment along the lines of "Yeah, right - what are you, a ghost?" or a shocked expression worthy of a hollywood horror movie - but Alfred (as he so often reminded himself) was not 'most people'. He's gotten quite used to this sort of situation, to be honest - worse things have happened between him and his brother, after all.

So he saw no reason to not carry on with a normal conversation - looks like he found something to do in this place after all. "Huh, you're the first person I've seen in here the whole day - d'you actually like this place or something?"

The boy's previous look of apallment is quick to fade into one of offense. "Yes, I do," he states with a gruffness that makes Alfred feel like he's been put on a hit list, "is that a problem, Mr. Receptionist?"

"Not at all," Alfred replies with a wide smile, which lifts the mood slightly until he continues with "but why the library of all places? It's so boring in here."

One of his (somewhat large) eyebrows twitches, and Alfred realizes a question too late that he's said something he shouldn't have. "And what would an idiotic school jock such as yourself be doing at the library of all places?"

"Huh? When did you figure out I was on the team?" he asks, choosing to avoid the main point of the jabbing question.

"If by 'the team' you mean the American Football team this school holds - while disregarding the existence of all the other sports teams it has - you don't see a lot of students going around wearing jackets with their last names spelt out on the back above a double-digit number and the word 'quarterback'." His eyes narrow before snapping away from Alfred and back down to the book in his hands. "Not to mention you were making passing gestures while spinning childishly in your chair half an hour ago."

"Whoa, you've been watching me this whole time?" He chuckles, not missing the heavy jolt of a body from across the room. "Creeper, much?" he adds. The flush of embarrassment that's now on the boy's face entices an even wider smirk from his lips.

However embarrassment quickly turns to scorn as the boy scowls - a look that's a million shades redder than the fading blush on his cheeks. "It's hard not to notice a young man spinning on an office chair whilst giggling like an idiot, as a matter of fact."

"Whatever you say," lilts Alfred. "Well, since you like this place so much, why don't you join the library committee? You can read, or stare at me, all you want - whichever ya prefer!"

"For your information, I already do that."

"Stare at me?"

His eyes are torn away from the book, and there's a hint of recoil in them before it's outshined by his reply of "Oh b-belt up, you know what I meant." The boy gets up and folds his book closed. "And you shouldn't be slacking off, Mr. Receptionist."

"Nothing to be slacking off from, Mr. Bookworm."

"That's Arthur to you."

"And Alfred to you."

"Note taken."

And that's all he says before weaving then disappearing between the shelves.

'Huh, well he's a bit strange.' Alfred thinks, tempted to re-live the moment from half an hour ago and spin himself around, but decides against it for the sake of his leg and settles for leaning back in the chair. But he doesn't deny himself the small smile he makes because he knows that this year won't be nearly as boring as he thought it'd be.

. .

November

The second time they meet is a week-and-a-half later - during the school's indoor sports day. It's not Alfred's turn to be receptionist this time, but it's not as if he can participate in any of the events.

Going up four flights of stairs with a cast on his leg was a challenge, but he insisted that he do it himself despite his brother's frantic pleas for him to at least ask for some assistance ("Puny stairs can't bring down a hero like me!") and managed to get all the way up in ten minutes flat.

And when he bursts into the library with a dramatic push and a verbally-improvised sound effect, the first thing he feels is a violent shiver go down his spine.

"Jesus christ, why is it so cold in here?" he whines, zipping up his jacket and braving through the tremors that proceed to trill up his spine regardless. "Don't they have a heater or something?"

"It's not on," Arthur replies blankly from his corner, eyes never lifting from his book and leaving Alfred no time to be surprised when he continues, "they don't turn on the heating until mid-november, as if the school would spend that much money heating a barely-used library."

". . . H-Huh, is that so?" Alfred shuffles in place, adjusting his arm's position on the crutch for better comfort. "Anyway, shouldn't you be at the gym, Arthur?" The name rolls slimily off his tongue, and he makes a mental note to come up with a nickname in the future. "It's school sports day, after all!"

He doesn't look up. "And why aren't you?"

"Man I'd love to, but you see–" He gestures to the cast on his left foot. "–I'm sorta out of commission with this thing and all." The American chuckles, albeit sadly - he really does love sports.

Arthur hums in acknowledgement. "I'm not very fond of sports, crowds, noise, or the outside, so I stay in here. That is all."

"Hmm . . . I see."

Arthur doesn't make a sound this time, simply flipping the page of his book, intent on dealing with the crushing blow the last chapter's cliffhanger left him when ". . . Why are you sitting next to me?"

"Huh? D'you mind?" asks Alfred, biting back the 'You're the only one here, so . . .' that almost followed suit and would've ultimately lead to him being abandoned at the table.

The question is simple, but Arthur seems to take it into careful consideration. There's a short silence before he drums up an answer, but Alfred didn't bother getting ready to head to another seat within it. "So long as you refrain from disturbing me, you may jump out the window for all I care."

Whoa, harsh.

After of several moments without an exchange of words and listening to the occasional flip of a page from Arthur, Alfred's previous sense of utter boredom begins to resurface - it's as if this entire room has a knack for making him drowsy and fidgety. Chancing a glance to the English (he assumed due to the accent) boy and his book, he lets out a breath and leans back in his chair.

"So our class president Francis and his buddies got pushed into being cheerleaders for today's ceremony." He giggles at the ear-shattering frenzy that was the memory of Francis letting the class decide who this year's cheerleaders would be. "I heard they got special costumes fitted just for them! I would've stayed if it weren't for the leg, but I got my brother Mattie to take pictures anyway."

Whether Alfred notices or not, Arthur's stopped reading, but what he does notice is his lack of a proper response to his little tale. " . . . " Arthur frowns a bit in disbelief, as if to say 'You're still here?'

"Ah." The American brings an uncomfortable hand to the back of his head, averting his gaze from Arthur's direction and conjuring up the best apologetic smile he can manage. "Sorry?"

". . . No, it's quite all right," he hears Arthur say, though he can't tell whether the boy's eyes are actually looking at him. "Continue if you must."

And after a small pause followed by a bright smile, he does just that for the remainder of the day. Though he's not sure how much Arthur actually listened to his stories (he didn't seem particularly interested in the dashing tale of how Alfred managed to get his math notebook out of a tree), the Briton didn't seem to mind - despite not once looking up from his book.

But if Alfred cared to look (and possibly squint) he would've noticed the slight curve in the student's lips.

. .

It's Alfred's shift once again two weeks later, and once again he's sitting on the office chair behind that same old desk. According to the folded piece of paper to his left, only two books have been checked out since the start of the year - both of them being used for the purpose of being subjected to a full hour of intense stares from an art class, and were returned by the end of he period.

The library is as silent and empty as it usually is.

But he knows better than to trust it by now.

"Arthur?" Alfred calls, making another mental note to come up with a better name to call him. "You there?"

". . . Do you need something?"

Following the direction of the reply, Alfred finds Arthur in his same corner, book sprawled out beneath him as usual. He huffs out a sigh, somewhat relieved. "Nah, just checking if you were there, Artie."

There's a visible jolt from across the room. "Artie?" he repeats, his tone a cross between horrified and surprised. "What in the world is that?"

"It's your new nickname!" Alfred beams from across the room, and Arthur can almost see the blinding rays of sunshine flying out of his proud expression.

"Why?"

"'Cause I wanted to give you one!"

"I meant why is it so . . . " Arthur pauses, having great difficulty trying to find a wordclose to articulating his contempt for the mockery of his own dignity Alfred called a nickname, "—atrocious?"

Unaware of the word's actual meaning, Alfred decides that it's a good thing. "That's great, Artie—" Another jolt. "—you'll get used to it in no time!" Oblivious to the aura of murderous intentions emanating from Arthur's corner, Alfred takes notice of the book in the green-eyed boy's hands. "Hey, that's our assigned reading this semester! Is it any good?"

The newly-arisen interest in his book seemed to make Arthur forget about what'd just occurred - but not in a good way. "It's an utter piece of garbage." He seems almost relieved to have gotten that opinion out. "Despite all the smoke and mirrors of the entire fantasy setting, it enforces a 'safe' ethical viewpoint on the reader. Like assigned reading books do." He speaks as if the book's offended him to a personal level. "The entire concept is inane - why force everyone to read the same books?"

Alfred shrugs. "It is pretty boring most of the time."

"I have the feeling that you think that of all books."

"H-Hey!" Alfred retorts from his side. "I read books too ya' know!"

"Is that so?" Arthur muses, unconvinced. "Then recommend one to me."

". . . Huh?"

"Since I'm almost finished with this novel, I would love a recommendation from the avidbook enthusiast on what to read next," clarifies Arthur, heavy on sarcasm. "Unless, of course, you attempt to shove some comic book in my face."

"Uh . . ." With Arthur's last statement eliminating a good majority of Alfred's previous options, he takes a minute's worth of silence to come up with an answer. He settles on what he considers to be his best option - a book his friend Kiku gave him for his birthday along with the 15th anniversary video game that was bundled with it (funnily enough, Alfred enjoyed the book more than the extremely buggy game). "How 'bout 'Night on the Galactic Railroad'? I liked that one."

"Oh?" asks Arthur, half-impressed with the fact that the other actually came up with something. "I found it extremely stereotypical."

"Oh," huffs Alfred, disheartened, "so you've read it, huh."

"Yes, however . . . " Arthur continues, growing a quarter of a tone quieter with every syllable, ". . . I liked it as well."

After a moment, Alfred chuckles, amused by the sudden change of mood. The American spends the rest of his shift sitting at the reception, occasionally breaking silences with conversations that soon increased in length and occurrence until there was no more room for pauses.

. .

December

Two shifts later, the impossible happens.

For once, the library isn't actually empty.

When Alfred limps in on his crutches, he immediately notices a group of giggling freshmen sitting around the far corner table (it's closest to the heater, after all), crowding around a large piece of paper Alfred assumes is a project.

But, before he takes his place by the desk (he might actually be needed today) he has to find something out.

"Hey, Artie, you there?"

". . . Over here."

The reply comes from between the aisles of bookshelves, barely making it to Alfred's hearing through the perpetual shrill laughter emanating from the corner. Too disinterested to even bother telling the group to quiet down, Alfred limps his way over to Arthur, finding the English boy simply standing plainly in between the shelves - no book, no bag, no anything, really.

The sight is just amusing for Alfred. "What're you doing here? There are tons of free seats left in there." The bespectacled boy muses on this question for a moment, coming up with the only conclusion he saw fit. "You aren't scared of girls, are you?"

"Don't be daft - I'm perfectly fine standing." The reply is straightforward and blunt, but there's no hint of Arthur's usual tinge of embarrassment so Alfred assumes that he's actually telling the truth.

You don't look fine! "Geez, do you just not like other people?"

Unexpectedly, Arthur nods. "They're annoying buggers, plucking my open books from right under me and returning them to the shelves as if they've just been misplaced - not to mention the way they just devour my entire table afterwards." He hisses in distaste. "They're bloody nuisances if you ask me."

At this point, Alfred's shocked - and if it's not by the absolute cruelty of the actions previously mentioned, then it's the fact that Arthur treats it like it's the existential equivalent of a small fly that's whizzing around his head. "Dude, have you tried you know . . . telling them off?"

Arthur chuckles, bitterly. "Like they'd listen to me - doubt they even know I'm here."

As the sophomore's previous demeanor remains unchanged, more questions begin to whiz through Alfred's head. So it's more than one person? How long has this been going on? ". . . Hey," Alfred's voice is softer now, "are you being bullied or something?"

Then, Arthur looks up, eyes slightly wider as if he's never considered that a possibility before (which seemed highly likely in this case). But even after the silent rumination his mind seemed to tunnel through, he doesn't answer the jock's question.

"Arthur?"

Amusingly, Arthur jolts at his usage of his actual name for the first time in a long time. But the sudden increase in formality told him one thing: for once, Alfred F. Jones was being completely, utterly serious.

Yet still, he remains silent.

"Ar—"

"Excuse me, Mr. Receptionist?" a high, unrecognized voice interrupts, and Alfred's attention immediately snaps to the girl now standing a few feet to his side. "Do you have any markers in here?"

Cautiously, he glances to Arthur, who seems to have been just as surprised by the sudden appearance - however, the shelf is obscuring her from his vision. Turning back to the girl, he puts on a smile. "They're in the desk - I'll go get them!" The girl nods and gives him a quick 'Thanks!' before heading out of sight.

"I'll be back, okay?" he tells Arthur, readying his crutches.

Arthur doesn't reply - neither does he make a single movement to show his acknowledgement for what Alfred just said. The American thinks nothing of it, ambling away from that spot between the shelves with the intention of returning not long after.

Except, when he does return, Arthur isn't there.

So much for at least wishing him 'Happy Holidays', huh.

. .

January

Alfred's first day back in school is two weeks prior to his first day back as a receptionist in the actual library - since the school doesn't fancy the idea of throwing kids straight back into their after-school activities straight after the holidays - but that doesn't stop Alfred from limping up four flights of stairs straight after the bell rings on the first day.

To his delight, the library isn't locked - which allows him to burst through the doors with no less enthusiasm than before the winter break.

And, in return, allows Arthur to reciprocate that enthusiasm with his own - albeit a bit more harshly. "Christ, how have you not broken down that door yet?"

"Because heroes like me know how to restrain their powers!"

The Briton responds with a dignified harrumph, knowing better than to debate with Alfred with his self-adjudicated heroic status. The jock takes the gesture as one of invitation, waddling over to his usual seat - the one beside Arthur's.

There's a few minutes of comfortable silence after that - nothing new, really - before Alfred decides to break it with a causal "So, anything new happen over the holidays?"

Arthur ponders his answer for a moment. "I managed to read a fascinating collection of short stories by this old Eu—"

"Whoa, Artie, I said anything new." Alfred cuts in, not ready to hear about old literature on his first day back. "You reading some old dude's books ain't anything near that."

Arthur scoffs. "Well excuse me for replying with something I've apparently already done," he grumbles, shifting in his seat, "and since you seem ever so keen about choosing our conversation topic: Did anything 'new' happen to you over the break?"

"Of course!" Alfred replies in a way that makes Arthur think that this outcome was something he'd planned all along. "My mom made us this amazing buffet for Christmas Eve, I must've eaten like ten s—"

"Ah, ah," the sophomore tuts, smirking. "I said something new, Alfred - and you stuffing your face like the diabetic arse you'll probably be in ten years ain't anything near that," he replies, his final words a mocking imitation of the American's.

Disappointed by his lost opportunity of telling Arthur about his winter buffet experience - yet acknowledging the fact that he definitely walked straight into his own trick - Alfred sighs in defeat. "I guess neither of us is gonna be talking about our holiday."

"Agreed."

In the silence that follows, it grows increasingly obvious that the current situation is nowhere near the happy reunion Alfred envisioned. He decides that the prospect of Arthur actually missing him over the break was very unlikely, seeing as there's no change in his current demeanor compared to before Alfred's three-week absence (if anything, it's become even worse). It's a hopeless mission to get Arthur to admit missing the jock, and it's plain to see.

But, Alfred's always been a stubborn guy.

"Hey, Artie?"

The closest thing to a reply he gets is Arthur digging his face further into his book. (He's surely not reading it, though, seeing as it's covering everything up until his ear.)

" . . . I missed you, over the break, you know."

In the moments following, there's no change - and Alfred's left staring up at Arthur's left ear and half the cover of some book for a brief amount of time. Right before admitting defeat to the Briton's stubbornness, however, he notices something - more specifically, something about Arthur's uncovered ear.

It's positively glowing with redness.

The American's eyes widen, shifting up from his previous position of resting his chin on crossed arms and staring at the boy beside him, worried that he's done something wrong. "A-Arthur?"

For several more moments, nothing changes. Just as Alfred's mouth opens to speak again, Arthur pulls the book away from his face - turning away from Alfred in the process. But that doesn't stop the jock from noticing the feverish blush that's spread across the width of Arthur's face to the tips of his ears.

"I-I missed you . . . too?"

The reply is a soft one that's almost cut off by Arthur burying his face into the book again, and everything about the flustered, unsure, scared state that the sophomore is in hits Alfred in a breath of time.

And there's no holding back the blinding smile that spreads across his face.

. .

February

"'From: Mr. Big Hero'?"

Over the course of the five months he's been graced with the privilege of knowing high school junior Alfred F. Jones, Arthur's learned a few things about him - a few of those things being: his habit of keeping his lips flapping for extended periods of time (though Arthur doesn't mind, for the most part), his almost super-human ability to stomach three cafeteria burgers within five minutes when Arthur told him to "Put those way - this is a library, not a fast-food joint!", and (lest we forget) his brilliant feat of being able to recite the Pledge of Allegiance while balancing five medium-sized novels on his forehead.

"This isn't from you is it?"

"'Course not!"

And today, he learns of Alfred's horrible ability to remain anonymous while handing out personal gifts.

"I see," Arthur mutters, unconvinced. "Well, since you've been given the privilege of distributing these, tell 'Mr. Big Hero' that - while I do appreciate the sentiment - I have no interest in accepting his so-called 'Candy-gram'." He turns to Alfred, eyes not missing the slightly disheartened look on his face ("That costed money, bro!")

"Suit yourself, Artie. I–he was just trying to help you out a bit, you know." He leans over to his backpack, picking up a handful of his own candy-grams and tossing them down on the table with reckless abandon. "Not my fault you're not gonna get any candy this Valentines."

Arthur smirks, but puts the packet in his blazer pocket anyway. "Valentines is in a weekyou twit, I don't see why the council had the brilliant idea of letting it come early - I've always found sweets detestable." The Briton chances a glance to the small pile that's now taken shape on the table. "You, on the other hand don't seem to be short on them at all."

"Huh?" Alfred manages through a mouthful of chocolate hearts. "Nah, these are mostly from me and my pals - still not enough to beat Francis, though." He crosses his arms, chewing a bit more harshly. "And I spent a good deal of money on these too - maybe next year I'll get him."

"I'm assuming this is the cheerleading French bloke you've mentioned before," he clicks his tongue in distaste, eyes thinning, "wankers like him don't know what they shove their tongues in half the time."

The image of the comment makes Alfred cringe. "Whoa dude, that's pretty harsh. Francis isn't like that, you know. Sure he's annoying and jokes around a bit but that's pretty much it."

"Hmph," Arthur huffs, crossing his arms, "speak for yourself."

"Whatever dude, you haven't even met him." He pops a freshly-unwrapped cookie into mouth, and his eyes widen at the spectacular flow of flavor that it brings. "Dude, you've gotta try the cookies - they're full of awesomeness!" He offers one of his pieces to the sophomore.

Cringing at the last word, Arthur waves off the offering. "No thank you, I'm rather comfortable without it." After a small realization, he sets his book down for a bit and turns to Alfred. "You're not even allowed to be eating in he—mph!"

There's a sudden burst of sweetness in his mouth - so sudden and forced that Arthur needs a few seconds to actually process the universe of what just happened. But when he's left to pick up the bits and pieces - more specifically, Alfred giggling like the undignified buffoon he is with expectant eyes and a crumb-ridden set of fingers - he has a clear idea of what took place. The American was never going to hear the end of it.

And if it isn't for the cookie that's currently grinding away in his mouth, he would've gotten to that sooner.

"Alfred—" chew "—F. Jones—" chew "—you utter—" swallow "—cock!"

The heavy impression of Arthur's final word is left to ring and fade into the empty silence - one that Arthur previously intended to fill with what was probably going to be the longest lecture Alfred's ever heard, but is adjourned when he hears something break it beforehand.

A snort.

It's followed by a series of growing giggles which increase in volume until the entire library seems to be reverberating with the high school jock's signature laughter - as high pitched and repetitive as it's always been. "You said—" Alfred chokes in between fits, clutching his stomach, "—Arthur Kirkland just called me a cock!" And that single word seems to send him absolutely reeling.

And the boy's reaction sends Arthur into the epitome of embarrassment. For several seconds, he's frozen - the furious shade of red on his cheeks quickly sweeping into one of humiliation and leaving his head hanging in an attempt to conceal himself. If he didn't know any better, Alfred would've assumed he'd actually hurt the boy - but the slightly pink tinge that's on the tips of his ears tells him otherwise.

"Pfft—"

Alfred goes still for a moment, wondering if he heard exactly what he think he just did. Grin never wavering, he opens his eyes to look at Arthur.

Over the course of the five months Alfred's had the pleasure of knowing high school sophomore Arthur Kirkland, Alfred's learned a few things about him - a few of those things being: his habit of harshly injecting his own personal opinion right in the middle of stories Alfred wasn't entirely sure he was even listening to (though it's a bit reassuring, on Alfred's part), his habit of taking a deep breath and leaning back in his chair after finishing a book, and his furtive obsession with fairytale creatures - though Alfred doesn't mention it, he knows that 'The Collection of English Fairytales' is Arthur's most frequent read.

And today he learns that the English boy rarely ever cracks a genuine smile - much less an actual laugh.

But when he does, it's absolutely stunning.

. .

April

Following Alfred's previous discovery, nothing of particular interest happens until his fourth shift of the month of April. Due to the absence of four of the committee's members (the school's currently undergoing a chickenpox epidemic), Alfred - having contracted the disease long before he came to this school in 8th grade - had to help make up for their shifts with the remaining three members.

At this point, Alfred didn't even bother to head over to the receptionist's desk - instead claiming his usual spot in the corner of the library with Arthur. They don't exchange greetings, as usual, but Arthur does sneak a quick glance to the side to validate the figure's presence as the nose-picking American junior he's now been acquainted with for seven months.

But today, it takes Alfred a lot longer than two seconds to start up the conversation - so Arthur (for once) decides to take matters into his own hands. "Ah, lovely weather we're having."

The American is rather shocked at the sound of Arthur's voice breaking the silence for once, but his reply shows no such thing. ". . . Really, Artie? 'Lovely weather we're having'?" quips Alfred with a smirk that makes Arthur believe that the silence was just some kind of trap.

"W-Well I didn't see you attempt to start a conversation."

"Aww, I didn't know you loved talking to me so much," he teases, earning him a somewhat flustered scowl from his side. He crosses his arms on the table, resting his chin on the makeshift pillow. "But thanks for noticing . . . I guess."

". . . Two things," Arthur states. "One: shut your mouth, and two: well, because somepeople aren't pea-brained dolts and are actually quite capable of reading the atmosphere." He turns back to his book.

Alfred chuckles. "Love ya' too, Art." He hears Arthur hiss from his side, mumbling something along the lines of "What am I, a school subject?" and flipping the page rather harshly. ". . . I just, ah, broke up with my girlfriend."

Arthur's silent for a moment, but it turns out to be a moment of fictional distraction when he turns the page of his book and finally gets to replying. "Oh? So you had one of those," he says, head still caught in his book. "Surprising that you have someone to put up with you."

"Hey!"

Arthur chuckles, apologizing with a swift "Oh I'm sorry, you had someone to put up with you," and then smiling to himself with a vague sense of triumph - something Alfred hasn't seen in a while. He turns another page - the story is picking up. "May I ask who broke it off?"

Waving off the light sting of Arthur's previous comment, but appreciating the gentler (he dare say apologetic) tone of the proceeding question, Alfred sighs. "It been comin' around for ages, but it was me who did it."

There's a moment of silence. "Why so?"

"I realized that . . . " Alfred's words are soft, chancing a glance to the sophomore next to him, "I like someone else."

"At least you're an honest man," Arthur remarks, and for once his personal opinion isn't out to jab Alfred in the ego. He flips another page - the climax of the story really is getting to him. "But I do suggest that you wait a while before you go off an woo your next girl - wouldn't want her stringing to the belief what she's - what you call - a rebound."

"Yeah," he mutters in reply, sinking his head into his crossed arms, "I wouldn't want that." It's the first time he's ever heard Arthur give him advice, and he almost feels guilty for not wanting to take it.

Arthur hums in agreement, staring blankly at his book and coming to the conclusion that he hasn't processed a thing he's read ever since the near start of their conversation.

. .

May

"Huh? Where are you going, Al?"

"Just gonna see a friend for a couple of minutes - don't wait up!" And with that, Alfred begins his (slow) heroic ascent up the third floor staircase - leaving his brother behind with a small fit of confusion.

Having known the half-human, half-bookworm sophomore named Arthur Kirkland for almost a semester and a half, it's obvious to him that the English boy is currently located in the same place he always seems to be - even during the whole-school festive event known as Club Day (though it's publicly accepted as the annual 'school festival' by the students).

With a plastic bag stuffed with complimentary treats from the various school cooking clubs and the small pamphlets that came with them, Alfred uses his undamaged leg to kick the library door open with a hearty crack and follow through with an equally exuberant shout of—

"The Hero is here!"

—and being replied to with a slightly startled, yet still heavily sarcastic, response of—

"And what a pleasure it is that you are."

This time, Arthur's standing by the bookshelves, tracing a line across the alphabetically-arranged spines and tipping out the few books he found worthy enough to look at. After a moment or two, he finally pulls one out and heads back to his usual seat in the corner - fully aware of the way Alfred limped over and silently watched him pick it.

"Though, if you don't mind me asking," Arthur begins, "why exactly are you here in the first place?"

"Well . . ." Sliding down into his usual seat, Alfred hums in thought. "Why are you?"

"Pardon?"

"It's the school festival, Artie! And you're stuck in here like always!" exclaims Alfred, attempting to somehow divert Arthur from his introverted ways for the rest of the day - it's a futile attempt, really. "It's not over yet, so why don't you come down with me?"

"So you came up here to try to get me to leave?" The green-eyed sophomore makes a sound halfway between a grunt and a snort, opening the book to its first page. "No thank you."

Alfred huffs, cheeks puffing out comically. "Oh come on, Artie - it'll be fun!"

"My answer remains the same."

"Geez, can you stop acting like some boring old geezer and go outside for once?"

Arthur slams his book down against the wooden desk - its hard cover emitting a crackingthunk upon contact and making Alfred jump in his seat. "No, Alfred. I'm not stepping a foot out of this library and that's final."

For a split second, Alfred contemplates the idea of insisting on. However, not wanting to ruin the good mood the festival put him in, he decides against it and sighs in defeat, slumping against his chair. "Fine, fine." Noticing Alfred's surrender, Arthur's shoulders lower significantly, and he picks his book back up and flipping it back open.

The atmosphere, however, is not as easily fixed. Alfred's become increasingly aware of Arthur's unwillingness to ever step foot out of the library - sometimes the American wonders if he even goes to class.

Letting out the remainder of whatever grief he felt with a loud, exasperated sigh, Alfred leans his head over the head of the chair - eyes directed at the plain ceiling above them. "Aww, I wish I could've walked around more."

Arthur turns a page. "You make it sound like the day's already over. Spare yourself the whining and go back without me," he states bluntly, eyes hard on the book in front of him.

"Ah but . . ." Alfred begins, attempting to swirl words together as he continues tracing shapes into the ceiling using the air in front of him, ". . . then I wouldn't get to talk with you."

This causes Arthur to flinch quite visibly - flattered by the sentiment, but unsure on how to go about addressing it. Alfred doesn't need to chance a glance to his side to know about the rising red in the English boy's cheeks.

"Oh yeah!" Perking up from his previous position, Alfred shoves his hand into his stuffed plastic bag of treats, digging for something. Seconds later, a smaller plastic is tossed onto the area of desk in front of Arthur. "The box said 'English Scones', so I thought you'd like them - it's the Bakery Batch's special this year, so they had a bunch."

Arthur sets the book down on his lap, eyes caught onto the small plastic pastry bag in front of him. Delicately, he takes a hold of it - the bag small enough to fit neatly into his hands. " . . . Thank you." He blinks blankly at the object, as if unbelieving that it's actually there.

Arthur's almost stunned voice makes Alfred chuckle. "You're welcome, Artie. Hope ya' like it." He looks at Arthur, who's still holding the bag in his hands, wondering whether the sophomore is going to eat it or not. It'd be a waste not to have it fresh, but Arthur's always been the one to respect the library's clear rule of 'No food or drink allowed'.

Alfred's sprouting recollection of the time Arthur slapped a burger out of his hands is cut off when he hears Arthur clear his throat uncomfortably. "I, ah, have something to tell you."

And if the jock's attention wasn't fully focused on Arthur before, it was now.

"Sure . . . what is it?"

Arthur's looking down, fiddling with the scone bag in his hands. It seems to take him a significant amount of effort to continue. "Do you recall our conversation before the winter break? What you asked me before you had to go run an errand?"

It takes him a few seconds, but he remembers it soon enough and nods. "I was about you being, um, bullied, right?"

"Yes," he replies. "You thought I was being bullied, right? It seems like the viable option - I thought that as well."

"So . . . you're not?"

The green-eyed boy shakes his head. "I don't think so, no. However, being bullied might've been preferable . . ." He pauses for a moment, but before Alfred could ask him what he meant, he clarifies. "I haven't gotten it all sorted out yet. But, as of late, I've been starting to remember."

"I don't understand, dude." At this point, Alfred's lost - it's not like Arthur to be so vague. "What do you mean?"

Arthur turns to him, and his pained expression shoots Alfred with worry. "I'm not quite sure myself, really. But lately I've been under a heavy suspicion that I'm . . ." He swallows, thickly. "I think that I'm—"

"Ah, I thought I'd find you here."

Alfred whips around to the familiar voice.

Standing by the entrance of the library with a small plastic bag similar (yet not nearly as full) to Alfred's, is Kiku Honda - a fellow junior that Alfred befriended over their similar interests in comics and video games. His expression is as calm as ever, expression soft as he analyzes Alfred's shocked expression.

"Your brother is searching for you," he explains. "Why are you here on your own?"

"On my own?" Alfred repeats, not loud enough for Kiku to hear. Brow furrowing in confusion, he cranes his neck slowly to the other side.

The chair beside him is empty, a closed copy of 'Brave New World' sitting neatly on its cushion.

"Matthew must be worried about you, so I told him I'd check for you in the library." It's silent for a while after that. "Are you all right, Alfred-kun?"

". . . Nah, I'm fine," he finally replies, readying his crutches, "let's go."

. .

When Alfred finally finished his overdue lab experiment in the Chemistry room - long after everyone's gone home (even his supervisor left him) - he was greeted with what was one of the heaviest downpours he'd ever seen. The rain was relentless and loud, hailing down from the overcast sky and preventing Alfred from being able to see four feet in front of the school's entrance - bringing to life two major problems:

One, the dorms are a ten-minute walk (injured leg not included) from school.

Two, he doesn't have an umbrella.

Heaving a sigh, he decides to wait out the storm, heading up to the only place his mind saw fit for the action of sitting in complete silence for what could be the next few hours.

Twisting the key (every member of the library committee is given one) through the lock, he pushes the library door open and flicks on the lights. With no air conditioning, the room is slightly warmer than usual - but the rain stops it from becoming toouncomfortable.

Speaking of which. Alfred turns to look at the windows to see if the weather's lightened up since the last time he saw it five minutes ago.

"Eh?" he blurts out dumbfoundedly when he sees something else across the room. "Arthur?"

"Hm? Why do you seem so surprised?"

The response shocks him even more. He wobbles over to Arthur's side, using a bit of strength from his practically-healed foot. "Why are you still here?"

Quite disturbed by the alarm in the American's voice, Arthur puts down his book. "Why not?"

"The door was locked!" Alfred half-shouts, feeling strange for having to state the obvious to Arthur of all people. "Don't tell me they locked you in here or something." His eyes narrow at the thought, and the carelessness that came with it - aren't they supposed to check if someone's inside before locking it?

Arthur hums in acknowledgement. "I didn't notice, I suppose." He's back to his book. "And while we're on the topic, I'm assuming you're in here to wait out the horrible storm that's raging outside?"

Giving up on trying to open Arthur's eyes to the gravity of the situation (being locked in a school facility shouldn't really be taken lightly) Alfred sighs, collapsing onto his usual spot next to Arthur. "Yep - I can't see a thing out there, plus I can't exactly run in my condition." Sometimes he forgets about the cast wrapped around his left leg. "So, hey, I heard that the PE coach asked out one of the music teachers out the other day . . ."

For the next hour or so, it's the usual - Alfred telling Arthur about whatever he finds interesting enough to say, and Arthur reading his book while occasionally nodding and humming to show that: "Yes, Alfred, I am listening and I would appreciate it if you'd stop waving your fat hands in front of my face to check." throughout his stories.

The downpour seems to lighten up considerably by the time Alfred's finished telling Arthur about his brother Matthew's hockey game, and the American doesn't want to take any chances waiting it out longer.

"All right," he says as he gets up, slinging his star-spangled backpack over his right shoulder, "I'm gonna head out. But I'm gonna have to lock the door while I'm at it, so . . ."

"Oh? Well enjoy your trip," Arthur replies plainly, the purpose of Alfred's last sentence not even close to hitting him.

Sighing, the bespectacled teen stops beating around the bush. "Artie, I can't lock you in here." Now that he thinks about it, he's never seen Arthur outside of the library. "Where d'you live? I'll walk you back—"

"No," he says without a second thought. "Just leave, Alfred."

"Geez, you must really hate it out there, huh." He digs his right hand into his jacket pocket, feeling around the various food wrappers ("So I never did eat that chocolate.") for the library keys. "You keep - ah, there it is - getting all pissy when I suggest you go outside."

When he looks back up, he's surprised to find Arthur looking back at him, grip taut around his book. The Brit blinks, eyes widening as if he's just registered the other's eyes on his. He turns away, back to his book. But he's not reading. ". . . Don't just jump to your own goddamn . . . If I could, I'd . . ."

There's a short silence.

"What?"

". . . Don't worry about it. I'll lock the door. Just leave the keys here."

And he's back to reading.

In the end, with his pockets three keys lighter and soaking wet - the rain picked up around a minute into his journey, but he didn't feel like going back at that point - Alfred returned to the dorms. Having waved off his brother's somewhat frantic exclamations of"Did you forget your umbrella again?" and "Dry up! Y-You're gonna catch a cold!", he changes and collapses on the top bunk with his laptop in his lap, physically exhausted.

. .

June

When it's Alfred's turn to be receptionist three days later, it's as if nothing ever happened.

". . . Artie?"

"What is it?"

Seeing as the school year's almost over, Alfred's taken up the job of returning the remaining stray books that've been borrowed over the year to their shelves - even though the library is barely used, the borrowed books still add up over time. How and why nobody's ever bothered to return them to the shelves remains a question answered by both laziness and lack of caring for the action - but it's not as if anybody cares overall.

"Where does this book go?" Alfred steps closer to Arthur's table, handing him the aforementioned book and letting the boy examine it at his own pace. "I kinda skimped through it already, but I can't tell if it's fiction, or psychology, or science, or what!"

Without even taking the book into his hands, Arthur asks "What about the genre mark?"

". . . Genre mark?"

Sighing and handing the book back to Alfred, Arthur shakes his head disappointedly. "There should be a white mark at the corner of the back cover, you dolt."

The American takes the book and flips is over, finding a small white sticker with a barcode and a string of numbers beneath it. "Found it!" he exclaims, " . . . But I don't know what the numbers mean."

Arthur shoots him a blank look. "You've been working here for a semester and a half and you don't even know the classifications? How in the world have you been organizing them up until now?"

Alfred chuckles up a wide smile. "Heroic instinct!"

And he can practically feel Arthur's sour green eyes glaring daggers at his head.

The Briton sighs, defeated. "Give it to me." And so Alfred does. "This is . . . natural science. It begins with a '4' so it belongs in the physics section in the corner, and the second number is '5' so—are you even listening to me?"

Alfred looks back up, slightly dazed - did they turn off the air conditioning in this room or what? "Y . . . Yes!"

The sophomore grunts. "As I was saying, the second number is a '5' so it's a seismology book, which means that—"

A dull thud echoes through the room.

"Al . . . fred?"

No reply.

"Get up. This isn't funny, Alfred." There's a sense of urgency in his voice. "S-Say something!"

Still no reply.

"Oh god—" The book falls to the ground. "Somebody . . . How can I get somebody's attention? Alfred, you have to—no, you need to get up this instant!"

Silence.

" . . . "

.

When Alfred does wakes up, he feels like he's been hit by a truck.

The first thing he registers is the row of fluorescent white lights that hang from the ceiling above him, shedding light on the pale blue curtains that slowly focus into the sides of his vision. He turns his head to the side - and immediately regrets it, but, other than feeling a nauseating vertigo swell up in his stomach, he registers a bed beneath him rustle and shift to his weight.

"The . . . infirmary?"

"Al, you're awake!" a voice exclaims from somewhere to his side. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"M-Mattie? Why the hell am I here?" Another person enters from beyond the curtain. "What is he doing here?"

"Ah," chimes a low voice from the corner of his vision, "you wound me." It's then the student council president, Francis Bonnefoy steps completely into view. "You collapsed, and your brother here found you and brought you here - but not before running into me in the hall."

Alfred takes a moment to process this. "C-Collapsed? I was just fine a minute ago!" he retorts, squirming in his place as his mind screams 'how un-heroic' like a deafening mantra. "But, now that you mention it, I do feel really heavy . . ."

"Oh, trust me, Al," Matthew snorts, rolling his shoulders, "you were."

"H-Hey!"

Chuckling, Francis decides that it's the right moment to give his diagnosis. "The nurse said you possess sudden fever, along with the inflammation of your upper respiratory tract." He's about to leave it there, but, seeing as Alfred looks deathly afraid of what he's just said, he elaborates further. "It's a cold, mon ami."

Juxtaposed with the relieved sigh Alfred makes, Matthew hums in consideration. "Well hedid come back to the dorms soaking wet the other day. But that doesn't explain the whole violent episode."

Alfred's head perks up, curious. "Violent episode?"

"Hm? You don't remember?" the violet-eyed boy asks. "You broke one of the library door's glass windows with some book about earthquakes."

"What? I didn't do that!"

Unfazed by Alfred's sharp retort, Matthew continues. "I heard the glass breaking after I got out of my Chemistry make-up exam on the fourth floor, and when I went up to look I found you collapsed by one of the desks." He takes a glance at Alfred's disbelieving expression. "There was nobody else there, so I figured that it was you."

Nobody else was there?

"As much as I'd love to sit here and watch you two have a chat," Francis cuts in, "it's important that you rest a bit more before returning to the dorms."

And when another sudden wave of tiredness sweeps over him, Alfred can't help but comply.

. .

It's a Friday - the last day of school. It's also amidst the deafening silence nobody experiences, when a building so bustling and full of life has been fed a year's worth of goodbyes and left alone - save for the few remaining members of faculty that still have to clean up.

He hasn't seen Arthur in the past few days - mainly because he hasn't been to the library since then. Alfred thought he'd find him during the graduation assembly, but he wasn't there either ("He really loves that place, huh."). He was going to go up to the library right after he'd said goodbye to his friends, but it was then that the music teacher pulled him aside and informed him that the principal wanted to see him.

The door to the principal's office clicks open, followed by a nervous Alfred F. Jones weaving through it and the doorway. "You wanted to see me, Principal Hedervary?" he asks cautiously, innocently, as if he didn't know what this was all about.

"Yes, have a seat, Alfred." She allots a small pause between her next sentence, waiting for Alfred take a seat on one of the chairs by her desk. "I guess you can figure out why I called you here, hm?" Despite her serious position, her tone is light and friendly.

In spite of that, Alfred's cautious when he nods. "Y-Yes ma'am."

"No need to be nervous, Alfred." She chuckles. "I'm just going to ask you to tell me how it all happened. Personally, I don't think you did it and don't see a reason to charge you - but Mr. Beilschmidt in the Finances Department insists that I at least called you in."

The American nods, unsure of what else to do.

"Now, would you mind telling me the story?"

Alfred starts at the beginning - when he was putting books back in their shelves, but failing to mention the enlightening conversation about genre marks he had with Arthur ("He helped me out a bit with the last one, that's all.") and going on to the point where he collapsed when Arthur was speaking to him.

". . . And then I woke up at the infirmary. My brother said he found me passed out when he heard glass breaking upstairs." Stopping momentarily, he looks up at her, registering her thoughtful expression. "Arthur was just trying to get someone's attention when I passed out - h-he didn't mean any harm, ma'am."

"Who is this . . . Arthur, you've been mentioning?"

Huh? "Arthur - Arthur Kirkland! He's a sophomore, I think."

The principal is silent for a moment. She clears her throat, looking Alfred straight in the eye. "Alfred, we no longer have a student by the name of Arthur Kirkland."

"What?"

It looks as if she opened her mouth to speak when a high-pitched series of beeps reverberates through the room, shattering all focus on the conversation at hand. Giving him a small nod of apology, the principal picks up the receiver.

"Good afternoon, this is Bridge High School, Principal Hedervary speaking . . ." For a few moments, Alfred sits there, staring intently at the air in front of him as she continues speaking. "I'm sorry, Alfred," she says, putting down the phone and getting up from her chair and snatching a folder from her desk. "It looks like something's come up - but you're off the hook. I'll have to tell Lu—Mr. Beilschmidt it was an accident. Have a great summer."

She walks up to the door, holding it open and gesturing for Alfred to go through.

"Thank you, miss."

Walking back down the hall from the principal's office, Alfred attempts to distract himself from the myriad of thoughts in his head by looking at the walls around him - an action no students in his grade have never actually bothered to do.

He passes through showcases of dozens of the school's trophies, along with several "Go Lions!" flags posted on the wall for the sake of school spirit. However, when he gets to the faculty head shots, things get a bit more bland - but he still skimps through them anyway. It's a long, tedious list, but he manages t–

His body freezes, blood running cold in his veins.

Wait, when did that last picture get there?

For the next several moments, the blond's mind goes blank. He stares, wide-eyed at a framed picture that he'd failed to notice during his first walk down the hall.

It's a clear photograph, filled with a young boy with a soft smile and slightly tired eyes, and that doesn't change as he walks toward it. Unlike the rest of the photos beside it, it has a clear, black frame, its bottom border a tad wider to include a set of letters etched in gold at the bottom.

In the memory of Arthur Kirkland, 1993 - 2009

.

"I suppose you've figured it out," he assumes, tone still and eyes exhausted, "guessing by that look on your face."

Alfred is on the verge of collapsing again, panting like a winded racehorse due to the fact that he managed to haul his cast-covered leg up four flights of stairs in less than two minutes. "Artie . . . wha—how did—why did you never—" The bespectacled teen stops himself, taking a moment to collect his breath and thoughts.

Arthur watches him, eyes blank but full of more emotion than any pair Alfred's ever seen. And he would keep watching him - to sit in silence and soak in anything and everything that just effervesces off of the American boy, as he's done all year - but he knows that he can't anymore.

"I'd like to continue our discussion from this year's school festival."

Alfred blinks at him. Didn't he have something to tell me back then?

"Alfred . . . let's go outside."

" . . . What?"

"Hurry." He gets up abruptly, a motion that makes Alfred flinch, and walks over to grab the jock's wrist in an ice-cold grip. "You first."

". . . All right."

He turns around and ambles out of the library, feeling Arthur's fingers slip away from his wrist and his chartreuse green eyes follow him all the way up to the edge of the doorway where he stands. Upon taking a few steps outside, Alfred turns around, puzzled as to why Arthur didn't follow him.

The Briton is standing by the doorway, pushing against open air.

"Arthur," Alfred gulped, "what are you doing?"

"Watch." He takes a few steps back, a little ways into the library. Sucking in an audible breath and balling his hands into fists, he runs forward–

Thud.

–and crashes into the open air.

His body rebounds in the air for a second before he lands back on the library's carpet with a sickening thump. The impact goes straight for his spine - making his expression contort in pain and alerting the student now a few feet away from him.

"Arthur!" Worriedly, he rushes to the sophomore's side, about to kneel down but stopping himself from doing so as Arthur gets up beforehand. "Artie, are you okay?"

"As I thought . . . I can't leave," he mutters, loud enough for Alfred to register the unintelligible mumble of sound that it makes.

"Huh?"

"I'm unable to leave the library," he repeats, voice trembling for a fraction of a second. "I wake up in this library. After a while, I lose consciousness and awaken here once again. And so it repeats, every day." He pauses, taking the moment to look Alfred straight in the eyes. "You've noticed it - how could you not? - how nobody with the exception of you speaks to me? How nobody else can even register my presence even if I were right in front of them? Why do you think that is?"

The question is heavy, but the answer is dully, painfully, simple.

". . . I'm the only person who can see you."

"Most probably." Arthur chuckles, and lets the sad sound elongate and fade into the silence where only the faint rustle of the trees can be heard from outside ("Even now, the view is as beautiful as ever."). "At some point I forgot how this all happened - figures, I've been alone here for years with nobody to talk to."

"For years . . . ?"

He looks to the side, shrugging. "My sense of time broke a long time ago. However, I've seen at least . . . five of those school festivals go by - it's a bloody nuisance to be honest, you can't get a moment of silence with the band blasting their hearts out the entire day." He lets out a breath through his nostrils, the smallest of smirks tinging his lips - but he's quick to withdraw. "I got use to it, you know, being alone and all . . ."

And Alfred's simply standing there, unsure of what to say but fully aware that it isn't needed. He looks up at Arthur - whose gaze is still averted to the side, disheveled bangs casting a heavy shadow on the upper half of his face. The American notices something, and squints to get a better look.

Is he . . . translucent?

A lead ball drops in his stomach. He lunges forward, hands reaching for Arthur's wrist - but Arthur steps back just as quickly, avoiding Alfred's grip and revealing his currently distraught expression.

"But then you came along and spoke to me," he says with distaste, but Alfred felt no sting in those words, "I've been alone for so long, I even came to terms with it - and suddenly you wouldn't leave me the hell alone." His tone is frustrated, his eyes shimmering in the dusk light. "B-Because of you I started to remember everything - why I'm like this, why I'm stuck in here of all places."

Alfred's eyes widen. "The memorial," he mutters, remembering the entire reason he ran up here in the first place. "You . . . died here?"

"Heh, so you did figure it out." He smiles, and it's bitter and painful. "Nobody's bullying me, or ignoring my existence - I'm just not here to begin with." Arthur takes a shivering breath, putting a considerable amount of concentration into a simple action. "I had no regrets, it was my choice to end my life here after all."

Even though he's right in front Alfred, his voice sounded muffled, distant even.

"At first, it was painful and confusing - nobody would speak to me, nobody heard me no matter how much I did or how loudly I screamed out. But I grew numb over time, I learned to go on without ever speaking to anyone. But then you came along and you wouldn't shut up and I . . . I—"

Alfred pulls him close, wrapping his arms around his slender frame - pressing him to his chest and resting his head on his shoulder. He can feel him, and he's ice cold. But he holds him close, feeling like he'd slip away if he was too gentle, but like he'd run right through him if he squeezed too tight.

After several moments of listening to himself breathe, Arthur's significantly calmer than before. "I never . . . asked you to tell me anything, but you did anyway." His voice sounds calm, fragile even. "Despite being stuck here for so long . . . your stories made me feel more part of this place than anything - it's as if I've gone through a whole school year, really . . . and now it's over."

"Arthur, what d—"

"You know," he begins, effectively cutting off Alfred's sentence, "if it wasn't like this, I would've liked to talk to you more, Alfred."

Alfred's eyes snap open. He looks down at Arthur, almost gasping when he can see right through him. "No!" His tone is strained, desperate. "D-Don't you dare say that! I'll talk to you all you want - enough to make up for everyone else!" And he doesn't need to feel the tears crawling down his cheeks to know that he's crying.

Gently, Arthur pulls back and smiles - a gesture that sparks a light in his fading green eyes and strikes Alfred breathless. Using the tips of his toes, he leans upward, pushing them closer together and feeling the way Alfred's breath ghosts over him.

"I-It's fine," he breathes, lips brushing against the other's with every beating syllable, "you've done more than enough."

And when Arthur kisses him, it's soft and cold - and though it's not quite on the mark it still manages to steal the air from Alfred's lungs and make his heart rattle in his ribcage.

"Thank you, Alfred. I love you."

. . .

. .

.

July

August

September

The sunlight from outside colors the room a light shade of gold. It breaches through the wide windows that panel across the west-facing side of the room, searching for any shape to cast upon that'd give life to a moving shadow, but only meeting the light browns and faded whites of an unoccupied library.

Unoccupied, however, is a bastardized way of putting it – for there's still the now uninjured student receptionist that sits by his desk, a place he'd long grown accustomed to. One could say that he's practically become part of the library, since he's spent the most time in it out of the entire student and faculty body combined.

However, that person would be wrong.

"Hey, Artie, you there?"

And when there's no reply, Alfred forces out a long, exasperated sigh, glancing around the room for the umpteenth time before coming to the same conclusion he's been having for the past few hours.

As usual, the library's empty.

A/N: Oh god this was a lot longer than I thought it would be. If you've ever played through Hatoful Boyfriend and got Nageki's ending, then this oneshot should seem pretty similar to that. Aaahh I'd like to thank my friend Aki for helping me as I made this, I couldn't have done it without you QuQ

I hope you liked it! Reviews are love~