A/N: Oh dear, USUK. I didn't use to ship this...but I've decided that I ship it in an alternate universe.
R & R, and please, enjoy!
"Hey wanker. You're in big trouble. Y-you're no better than a pikey! And you smell like fast-food all the time, and I'm sick of it! You think I'm a silly lil' nancy boy who sucks pillocks all day, but YOU sir are the one who does that..."
Alfred held the phone away from his ear to let the rest of the message play out. Arthur was drinking again. Alfred blinked back tears. He had asked, no, begged him to stop. It was all Francis' fault. Once Arthur had started hanging out with him, in eighth grade, he had begun to grow up. Way too fast. With a sigh, he put the phone back to his ear. Arthur might have the courtesy to let him know where he was.
"...and you LEFT ME! I was lying there in the street, and you LEFT! You prick, when I see you next I'll..." Alfred deleted the message. He would have to find him the hard way.
Cold fog pressed against the windows of Alfred's car, shimmering orange in the glow of the streetlights. He drove along the road, looking for a certain teenaged Brit. A hunched figure stood at a bus stop. His hopes soared, and he slowed the car. His hands shook as he fumbled for the window button. Cold rain splattered onto his face as the glass inched down.
"ARTHUR! Hey, ARTIE!" The figure looked up. His hood kept his eyes in shadow, but his rain-soaked beard told Alfred all he needed to know. "Sorry!" He called, and rolled up the window.
Face flushed from embarrassment, he sped down the road. He had no idea where Arthur was. His phone was apparently dead, or he was refusing to pick up. Alfred supposed it was the latter, Arthur was notorious for being a drama queen.
Alfred was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice the skinny boy in the middle of the road until his headlights lit him up in sharp relief. He slammed the breaks, praying that his sports car could handle it. The tires squealed on the wet pavement, and Alfred shut his eyes, waiting for the inevitable impact.
The car came to a stop three inches from the boy's heaving chest. Alfred almost laughed when he opened his eyes to find Arthur's frightened ones staring back at him. He had found him! Almost killed him, but he would deal with that later. From the set of Arthur's mouth, he would probably be getting an earful before too long.
The door made an angry snapping sound when Alfred ripped it open. Four years of silence and hurt looks faded into memory as Arthur fell against him, drunken tears dampening his letter jacket.
"J-jerk...fuckin' jerk, that's what you are..." Arthur didn't even lift his head from Alfred's shoulder. He leaned on him, seemingly unable to stand on his own.
Alfred was used to Arthur's coarse language. It was a habit picked up from his brothers. At this moment, he wouldn't have cared if he were a nun. The joy of having Arthur acknowledge him overrode any resentful thoughts that could have crossed his mind.
"I'm so happy I found you! I got your message, and I was like, "crap, he's in trouble again!" But I'm the hero, so saving people is kinda my thing." He smiled brightly down at Arthur. The Brit merely groaned and clutched Alfred's shirt.
"Wanna go home, buddy?" Alfred detached himself, and guided him to the car. "Your place or mine?" Alfred had settled himself in the seat and revved the engine before he received an answer.
"Isn't it obvious?" Arthur stared at his hands, neatly folded in his lap. His khakis were slightly wrinkled, and his posh green sweater had a hole in it. Alfred frowned.
"No it's not. I may be a hero, but I can't read minds. Gotta use your words, dude."
Arthur sighed heavily, leaning back on the seat and turning his head to look at him.
"Why the hell would I want to go home? Why do you think I went to the pub?" Alfred's mouth formed a small o.
"Things still bad, huh?" It was common knowledge that Arthur's family was horribly dysfunctional. His only sister had moved out -with a bang- when she was fifteen, and his brothers weren't exactly ideal role models. His mother, Rose, was probably the easiest woman in town. The best testament to this was the fact that all of Arthur's siblings had different fathers, apart from the twins.
"They've only gotten worse. Darcy keeps coming 'round trying to get Flynn to move in with her. She's lonely, but he hates her. She makes Owen cry, and then Lennox shouts a bit and she leaves." Arthur stared out the window, the dark shadows under his eyes from a thousand sleepless nights telling the rest of the story.
"It's not your fault, you know."
"God, you're so thick. Of course it's my bloody fault. They wouldn't have to stick around and deal with each other if they didn't have to look out for me." Arthur's breath caught a little. Alfred racked his brain for an answer.
"Have you been to church?" There. Easy fall-back answer. A bit hypocritical, considering that Alfred had been inventing reasons to skip going to church with his family recently. As he grew up and learned more, religion was seeming more and more like a false hope. Of course, explain this to his parents, and it would be right off to Bible Camp for him.
Arthur laughed, a forced, painful sound.
"Dear God, Alfred. First of all, ever try taking Flynn and Lennox to a church together? They'd kill each other, right there in front of the altar. Second, God's a poor excuse for a father-figure."
Alfred sighed, gripping the steering wheel tightly.
"I guess it'll be my place, then." Arthur could sleep on the bottom bunk of his bed, Mattie's clothes would probably fit...
"You're parents aren't home, are they?" A note of anxiety crept into Arthur's voice.
"Well yeah, they are. Is that bad? My mom could make you some food-"
"Take me home."
"But Artie-"
"Alfred, your dad hates me. I'm a faggot, remember?" Realization dawned on Alfred. Their huge fight, way back when Alfred was in 7th grade, was still on Arthur's mind.
"Alfred?" Arthur's voice was soft, his green eyes thoughtfully studying the clouds.
"Yeah?" The two boys lay in the spring grass, enjoying the warm sunshine in Alfred's manicured backyard.
"I've been thinking..." A faded bruise was visible through the sprinkling of freckles on the older boy's cheek.
"About what?" Alfred smiled at Arthur's dramatic pause, his braces showing. He stretched his lanky frame, one tanned leg brushing gently against Arthur's, making the other boy blush slightly.
"About who I like." Alfred glanced at him, confusion in his bright blue eyes. He had all the seventh grade girls fawning over him, but he was oblivious to their charms. He prefered to play football and hang out with Arthur, his best friend.
"Who do you like?"
"I- I don't know."
Alfred frowned.
"Okay, what's the big deal then?" He sat up and reached for the football lying next to him. "Wanna play some more?"
"Well, I've been talking to Francis." Arthur looked up at him, his sandy hair falling into his green eyes. Alfred's mother was always swearing that she would take him to the barber, one of these days. She had not liked Arthur at first, telling Alfred that he and his family were not the sort of people Alfred should be playing with.
Arthur, however, had impeccable manners, at least around grown ups. Whenever he came over, he would say "yes ma'am" rinse his plate, and even clean up after Alfred. She was charmed by his British accent, and soon decided that he was not of the same cloth as his family. He was a respectable young man, and most importantly, a good influence on her son.
"Why Francis? He's a weirdo." Francis was the middle school community's resident man-whore. This word, of course, was not yet in Alfred's vocabulary, so he settled for "weirdo." The fact that he didn't even go to the local public school, but a fancy private school a few miles out of town made no difference, everyone knew Francis Bonnefoy.
"Not really..."
"Come on, let's go on a walk. Lying here is boring." Alfred jumped to his feet, dragging Arthur up with him. "ADVENTURE AWAITS! Right, my king?"
"Yes indeed, Sir Lancelot. Onward!" The two boys ran for the back fence, all grown up troubles forgotten in their familiar game of King Arthur and his heroic knight, Sir Lancelot. Arthur was still thinking about what Francis had said, and how he could work up the courage to tell Alfred.