This is set in the 2000's in high school. Don't ask me why everyone is in the same class, because I honestly don't know. I just thought it would make things more fun. I'm sorry this chapter sucks so badly. I'm also sorry, Georgia, that this didn't end with smut like you told me it should, ahahaha. The story will get better in the next couple of chapters, I promise!

Arthur sighed, staring at the pissed off redhead diagonal from him. That boy was the reason for his headache that morning. He had a permanently bad attitude – at least, that was how Arthur viewed him. His messy auburn locks fell lazily into his aquamarine eyes whenever he tilted his head. He wore an earring and had a tendency to bite his lip. He was gorgeous. And, as much as Arthur hated to admit it, his heart skipped a beat whenever he saw that uneven smirk of his. Only one side of his lips would tilt up every time he grinned and for some reason, that only made him more attractive. Arthur couldn't help feeling attracted to him. Even if they did hate each other's guts.

The boy's name was Alistair Kirkland, and he was Arthur's new step brother. He was a couple years older, which the Scot took to mean much more intelligent so bugger off, blondie. Which always offended the hell out of Arthur. Alistair always seemed to be messing with him, and the hot-headed blonde always fell for the bait. However, the redhead also had a short fuse. This usually meant the two boys ended up in their rooms, fuming, or screaming at each other at the top of their lungs. A couple of times, it ended in a fistfight. Arthur still had the bruises to prove it. How their parents ever thought this living arrangement was a good idea was beyond Arthur.

Alistair turned his head, caught the other boy's gaze, and flipped him off. Arthur scowled and looked away, disgusted at his taste in men. But God, was Alistair attractive. Arthur shook the thoughts out of his head.

"Mr. Kirkland!"

" 'e's talkin' to you, kid," came the heavy Scottish accent.

Arthur once again turned his attention to the redhead. "Hm?"

Strands of the boy's hair shifted, untidy, into his bluish-green eyes as he nodded his head toward the man at the front of the room.

"I've been calling you for a while." The teacher's voice was calm, but his expression showed his impatience. He had wild, dark curls and brown eyes.

"Eh, sorry." Arthur lowered his head, embarrassed. He was still getting used to his new surname.

"Are you feeling all right? Maybe you shouldn't stay up all night. Spending time with your lady – or guy, I don't judge you know – is important, but you shouldn't let your health decline because of it. Unless it's really, really good sex."

Arthur blushed deeply and dropped his gaze to his desk. What kind of a teacher was this?

A boy just to Arthur's right stood up and called out, very loudly in fact, "It's probably the men!" Arthur sighed. That was Alfred, an annoying American that he had known his entire life. They were next door neighbors, along with Alfred's half-brother Matthew, who was born in Canada. Matthew was tolerable – even if a bit quiet and unsociable – but Alfred was pure hell. And he always wore sweatshirts, whether or not it was hot outside.

The American laughed at his own joke. His laughter always made Arthur cringe.

Another voice chimed in from Arthur's left. "Are you kidding? Just look at the way he's dressed. He's definitely a straight man." Ah, that was Francis. They used to be good friends – despite all of the fights they had over the years – until Francis began trying out bi-curious fantasies on him and things between them became awkward. Since then, they haven't been able to be in the same room together without the situation growing uneasy.

Arthur glared at him. "What's wrong with how I dress?"

"It's far too bland, darling. Just like your cooking."

"That's not fair, I think he looks nice," replied a voice from behind the two of them. Arthur turned around to see a small boy with deep brown eyes and a beret. He flashed the boy a smile, then turned to the boy next to him. He was much bigger and seemed to emit intimidation. Arthur quickly turned his attention to the other boy. "Thanks, old chap. I'm Arthur."

"Tino. Oh and, er, this is Berwald."

Arthur let his eyes wander over to the taller boy. He gave him a nod in recognition, which Berwald returned. The Englishman turned back around to find the entire class caught up in conversation. And it all started because Arthur had not been paying attention. How the hell did things work at this school? And why was the teacher enthralled in the conversation as well?

Then the Scotsman raised his voice over the steady hum of chatter that ran throughout the classroom. "Well. I don't know about the rest o' ya, but I think I've got the best outfit here."

Arthur blinked. They were still talking about clothes. Arthur didn't see what the big deal was, but apparently the rest of them did. Alistair grinned smugly. Arthur sighed, having to force himself not to make a snide comment. He really didn't feel like starting anything with him at that moment. He settled for rolling his eyes.

Alistair went over and put his hand on Arthur's desk, leaning in dangerously close. "You got a problem, Artie?"

Arthur blushed slightly, looking away and pretending not to give two shites. "You're an idiot. Go away." Alistair just smirked and laughed, a harsh monosyllabic sound. "Your face is turning red there, pretty boy."

Arthur fought the urge to flirt back. Wait, flirt? That wasn't what he meant, was it? It wasn't the word he was looking for, oh God no… And why was he blushing in the first place, because there was no way he actually liked the pompous git, even if the sparkle in his bluish eyes made his smirk seem more attractive…

Jesus Christ on rice, what was he thinking? This boy was his step-brother. And he could see the Englishman staring at him, lost in his eyes, face flushed. Arthur lowered his head, blushing deeper, his bright blonde hair falling over his eyes. He stared intently at the desk, wishing with all his might for Alistair to leave. But, of course, he didn't.

"Gettin' a crush on me, are you, Artie?"

Arthur lifted his head to scowl indignantly at the red-haired boy. He wanted to come up with a venomous remark, but all he could come up with was: "You're a moron, and my name is Arthur."

"Come now, Artie, don't be like that."

"Oh, I will be, Alistair."

That earned a glare from the Scotsman. "Don't call me that," he growled, aquamarine eyes narrowed in contempt.

Arthur smiled, now satisfied with himself; Alistair's usually calm and cool exterior seemed to dissolve.

"But that's your name."

"My name is Scott. Artie."

Arthur ignored the last part of his sentence and raised an eyebrow. "You want me to check your birth cert?"

The redhead leaned in, his face only an inch away from Arthur's. The blonde held his breath, feeling himself turn red.

"Go ahead. I dare you."

The boy leaned out, much to Arthur's relief. The blonde swallowed a lump in his throat, intimidated by the tone in the Scotsman's voice. Oh, the way his eyes were both beautiful and terrifying at the same time made Arthur's pulse race. But then the Scot's frustrating smirk reappeared and Arthur remembered his indignation. He turned away, crossing his arms and wishing he hadn't gotten lost in his eyes. Oh dear God. Was he still blushing? Surely Alistair wouldn't notice.

"So ya' have got a crush on me." Crap. Of course he would see it.

Arthur's gaze was fixed on the wall just in front of the obnoxiously loud American kid. "Get the hell over yourself."

Alistair laughed, then put a hand up near his mouth as if he were telling a secret, and whispered mockingly, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

"Bugger off, you arse."

The Scotsman simply laughed and returned to his seat.

"You know," came a voice just to Arthur's right. Of course. Alfred. Arthur turned his head and his eyebrow twitched. Alfred's smile was intoxicating as well. If only he weren't such an annoying wanker. "Your accent is funny," Alfred began, laughing in that annoying way of his, "always saying 'ahss' and 'bugger' and 'wanker' all the time and what is a wanker anyway? I don't know what it means but it sounds pretty awesome—"

Arthur sighed exasperatedly as the American continued making comments about his English accent and laughing to himself – and none too quietly at that. His high-pitched laughter was beginning to bother the hell out of Arthur. Just as the Englishman thought he was about to snap at the American, the teacher decided to speak up.

"So, I think now's a good time to start our lesson—"

"Grandpa, grandpa!" shouted someone from one of the desks at the front. One of his hairs stuck out farther than the others did, and it twisted into a curl at the end.

The teacher paused before answering. "Yes, Feli?"

"Can we have pasta for dinner tonight?"

A loud sigh came from a boy with the same type of impossible curl at the end of one of his hairs. They had to be related. Even if the second one was a lot darker than the first. "Feliciano, this really isn't the time for that."

The one with the reddish-brown hair spoke again, seemingly ignoring the boy next to him. "Oh, but Ludwig wants to come over so can we have wurst with it?"

The teacher seemed as if caught between annoyance and wanting to hug the stuffing out of him. "Sure. Now, class, let's begin."

. . . . .

On the walk home, Arthur realized how glad he was that the day was over. The entire day was chaos, what with so many interruptions and even an argument that led to a fistfight breaking out randomly in the middle of class. At one point a blonde man with long, braided hair entered the classroom and scolded their teacher for how noisy they all were.

When Arthur got home, he made sure the door was closed properly – it would sometimes open inexplicably if you didn't – and plopped onto the couch with a favorite book. Since Arthur went straight home and Alistair went to hang out with his friends for a while, and their parents often had to work late, the house was quiet and peaceful after school. No arguments, no wild classmates, and no Alistair for a couple of hours. Pure tranquility.

The redhead stumbled through the door just as Arthur had opened his book. He was home early. Granted, it had been about an hour since school let out and the two lived relatively close to the school grounds, but still. Alistair had never been home that early before. Arthur noticed he was holding a bottle that was concealed in a brown paper bag. Slowly, as if he were trying to keep his balance but not doing a very good job of it, the boy meandered over to the blonde. Alistair leant into him, his face only inches away from Arthur's. His breath smelled heavily of whiskey.

"Listen, Artie, I know ya' have got a thing f'r me—"

"Don't flatter yourself," the Brit spat defiantly.

Alistair unwittingly smacked the book out of Arthur's hands and the bottle slipped through his fingers, its contents soaking not only the blonde's book, but the rug under it. Well, that book was ruined. But the redhead didn't seem to notice; he was too busy glaring at Arthur's lips.

"I know y' got a thing for me. And I can't stop thinkin' about you and your…" He hiccupped before continuing. "…And your eyebrows."

My eyebrows? Involuntarily, one of Arthur's hands flew up and touched his brow. Alistair took his hand and held it for a couple of seconds before placing it on the couch. "But I know how to make it all go away, Artie." He spoke softly, his words slurring just a bit.

"What are you—?" Arthur was cut off by Alistair's lips smashed against his. The blonde's intense green eyes widened slightly, then closed as he slowly gave in. His heart fluttered as he realized that was all he wanted since he had first laid eyes on Alistair a year earlier. He melted into the kiss and wrapped his arms around the redhead's neck as he felt Alistair's tongue, soft yet firm, against his. Arthur wasn't sure just how long they had been kissing for until he broke the kiss for air, breathless. He could see his reflection in Alistair's eyes. He leaned in again, his tingling lips lightly brushing the other's, when the door opened with a slam. The two pulled apart so fast Arthur hit his head against the couch while Alistair struggled to keep himself from falling backwards.

"Hey Scotty!" The American began walking over cheerfully.

Arthur cringed. Why now, of all times, did he choose to show up uninvited? Bloody moron. Alfred stopped in his tracks. "Am I interrupting somethin' here?"

"Ya' ain't interruptin' anythin' now get out o' here, ya sh—" The redhead stumbled and fell backwards, landing with a thud on the heavy rug. Well, that was embarrassing.

"Oh maple," a soft voice whimpered.

Arthur turned his head. "Oh, Matthew, when did you get here?" The Canadian looked almost startled, as if he expected Arthur to scold him for showing up in his house uninvited. "Sorry about this," he explained, "but Alfred dragged me here and I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't let go and you know how strong he is." Arthur nodded and smiled in order to calm him down. Matthew was sweet and shy and cute, but sometimes he was just a bit too nervous. How in heaven was he related to Alfred? "It's fine, Matt. Come in, have a seat."

"Don't mind if I do!" the American shouted, as usual, before placing himself comfortably on the couch next to Arthur. Cautiously, Matthew made his way over to them, eyeing the unconscious Scotsman the entire time. Arthur stood and stepped over Alistair to get to Matthew. "So do you want anything? We have—"

"Maple. Erm, are you sure he's okay?"

The Englishman looked down at the redhead briefly before turning back to Matthew and nodding like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Mm, yep. This isn't the first time that's happened."

Matthew laughed nervously. "Really?"

"Mhm."

Alfred cleared his throat. "You know, I heard if he lies on his back like that an' throws up, he could choke and die."

Unsure what to make of the comment, Arthur and Matthew simply stared at him, letting the comment hang in the air. When he got sick of the uncomfortable silence, Arthur briefly glanced at his step-brother before roughly kicking him onto his side. "There. Now he's fine."

. . . . .

Long after the three had all gotten settled, a boy with strawberry blonde hair and mint green eyes poked his head through the door, which Arthur realized had not been closed since Alfred busted it open. "Er, excuse me?" The trio of blondes turned their heads. "Sorry to bother you all. I'm Dylan. I, uh, came to check up on Scott?"

Arthur gave a fleeting look over at the drunken redhead before nonchalantly kicking him in the foot. "He's out cold."

Dylan sighed lightly. "Did he do anything … Er, strange?" Arthur immediately turned red, remembering the kiss from earlier. The memory, still fresh in his mind, sent a fluttering sensation through his stomach. "Erm. Sort of."

Dylan smiled knowingly and gave a small laugh that sounded a bit like a sigh. "You must be Arthur, then. I'll just take him upstairs, if you don't mind."

Arthur smirked. If it weren't for Dylan, Alistair might have slept on the floor all night. And that wouldn't be pretty. The Scotsman was never pleasant when he had a nasty hangover. "That'll save me the trip. Thanks. Watch out, though, he's heavy." Dylan laughed softly as he walked over to the unconscious body on the floor. "Trust me, I know. He's sat on me more than once."

Arthur nodded. "Yeah, same. Hey, you should stay a bit. I think we might have some tea left in the kitchen."

Dylan smiled, nodding, before picking up Alistair and heaving him up over his shoulder with a grunt.

"Do you have any ice cream?" Alfred's face lit up as he asked the question. "Me and Mattie here love it."

Arthur cut a glance at the American. "Ice cream is fattening."

"But just look at Mattie. He's a stick!"

"That's because he exercises, you git."

"Aww, come on!"

Arthur sighed. "Check the freezer."

As Alfred ran excitedly to the kitchen, the Englishman smirked and rolled his eyes. "How do you live with that?" he joked to Matthew, who smiled politely.

"You get used to him, I guess."

Arthur didn't know whether to shudder or laugh at Matthew's response.

. . . . .

"So, how do you know Alistair?" Arthur asked, sipping the tea he had made earlier. Matthew was politely eating ice cream and contributing every once in a while to the conversation, careful not to make a mess. Alfred, on the other hand, was practically shoving the spoon down his throat; he had proclaimed he could down the entire carton in under ten minutes and was trying like holy hell to prove it.

Dylan inspected the crumpet Arthur had given him before taking an experimental bite and putting it back down on the small plate. "Well, um, we're brothers, actually. Our father is Scottish, and our mother's half-Welsh, half-Irish. I was born in Wales, and Scott was born in Scotland. When our parents split, he went with Dad and I went with Mum."

"So…" Arthur replied, pointing to the stairs with his eyes. "How did that happen?"

Dylan smiled, seeming to be both amused and exhausted. He courteously took a sip of his tea. "Well. He decided to visit, since we don't live too far from each other. We got into a bit of a disagreement over whiskey and before I knew it, he had run off and bought himself a bottle. When I said I didn't want any, he told me he'd finish the entire thing himself and ran off." He laughed softly before continuing. "Scott always did have such a temper."

Dylan set his cup of tea down on the tea plate on the table before him. "How are you getting along with him?"

Arthur winced. "Er. Um. All right, I suppose." He did not want to talk about this type of thing in front of Dylan.

"All right?" Alfred scoffed. "You know," he said to Dylan in a hushed tone, even though he was actually still speaking rather loudly. "One time they both came in with black eyes and Arthur here even had a split lip. They beat the crap out of each other constantly." The American burst into a laughing fit.

Arthur rolled his eyes. Dylan simply laughed.

"He and I used to be like that. We kind of grew apart with the divorce, though, so now we don't try and kill each other like we used to." The Welsh boy ended his sentence with a small laugh.

Arthur felt as though time had slowed considerably. Could he be saying…? The Englishman knew he was staring, incredulous, at the other boy but hadn't dared to look away. He gawked at Dylan as if he held the answer to the meaning of life. He was Alistair's brother, and bruises and lacerations were not a regular thing for this boy. Was that even possible? Arthur nearly bowed down and worshiped him. He settled for grabbing Dylan's arm urgently. "How the hell did you manage something like that?"

The boy's eyes softened guiltily as his strawberry blonde bangs fell into his face. "Arthur—"

"Dylan. Please."

The boy sighed, gently pried Arthur's hand off of his arm and leant back, defeated. He had a small smile on his face. "You have to understand something about Scott."

Dylan's mint eyes shot over to the staircase before settling once more on Arthur. "He tries to, well, cover up his emotions." Dylan's smile widened slightly. "He's too stubborn for his own good."

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows as he felt a knot twist in his stomach. He didn't exactly like where this conversation was going. He opened his mouth to say something but Alfred beat him to it. "So what's that got to do with blondie over here?"

Arthur cut a sideways glance at Alfred. "You're blonde too, you twit."

Dylan laughed. "You two sound like an old married couple!" he said cheerfully. Arthur hadn't caught the slight blush that had made its way across Alfred's skin. The Englishman nearly cringed at the thought of him and Alfred being married. Dylan sobered and leant forward a bit. "To answer your question," he said to no one in particular, keeping his gaze on the carpeted floor. "Scott doesn't seem likely to stop torturing Arthur any time soon."

And with that, Arthur felt his heart drop. Wasn't he the lucky bastard?

"Why not?" Matthew chimed in, his voice soft-spoken as always.

Alfred and Arthur's heads both whipped around to where the Canadian was still sitting. Arthur had nearly forgotten he was there, and felt immediately guilty for it.

Dylan took a moment to collect his thoughts then spoke slowly, carefully. "Well. We all know that when a young boy likes someone, he sort of picks on them. Right?"

Alfred nodded his head fervently, Matthew listened quietly, and Arthur fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn't sure he liked where the conversation was leading this time, either. But he couldn't deny the tingling hope spreading throughout his chest.

"Scott hasn't really grown out of that. He … he doesn't know how to communicate, and gets frustrated when he can't get his point across."

Arthur froze, his heart pounding in his chest, not ready to believe that there was any hope of the redhead having any interest in him. Sure, he practically made out with him, but that was because he was drunk … Right? He must have been misunderstanding the Welsh boy. That must have been it. But then why was Dylan smiling at him like that, as if he knew something Arthur didn't?

Feeling flustered and not knowing what else to do, Arthur dropped his head, feeling as if his face were going to burn up.

Dylan simply laughed softly and smiled reassuringly at Arthur. "But he really isn't all bad. You just have to be patient, yeah? He'll come around in his own time." His words only made Arthur blush harder. This caused Alfred to rush over, chattering nonsensically.

"Hey, hey, Arthur, are you all right? You're not sick, are you?" He put his hand on the Brit's forehead to check for a fever. Arthur smacked his hand away curtly and turned away, hoping Alfred was too ignorant to figure out why he was turning red. "Yeah, er, I've got a cold."

Alfred stared at him with a stupidly blank expression on his face. Thank God Alfred was too oblivious to notice that the mention of Alistair was the reason he was blushing. "You're weird. Kind of like Matt and his French love songs. I think he only listens to them because he likes that girly dude in our math class."

The Canadian turned different shades of red, stuttering out an explanation as best he could. "I already told you, French is a beautiful language!"

"That's what you said about Spanish when you had a crush on that guy from Cuba. And then you wouldn't stop listening to Enrique Iglesias for two months even though he comes from, like, Mexico or something."

"Spain, actually. And anyway, I can now speak fluent Spanish, so it wasn't all bad, was it?"

Alfred shrugged, resigned, leaning back in his chair.

Dylan glanced down at his watch and made a face when he read the time. "Oh, it seems I've stayed far too long." He stood up and held out his hand to Arthur. "It was great meeting you and your neighbors. We should do it again sometime."

Arthur stood and nodded, then took Dylan's hand in his and shook it firmly. "Same to you. Feel free to drop in any time."

Dylan nodded and flashed a smile at the Englishman. "I will. Thanks for your hospitality."

Arthur glanced pointedly at the stairwell. "Thanks for lugging that brute upstairs."

Dylan laughed, his eyes lighting up as he did so. His eyes were similar to Alistair's, but held a certain gentleness that the redhead's did not.

"No problem." He turned to Matthew and Alfred and gave them a friendly wave. "See you two soon as well, I hope."

"You bet, dude." The American put his arm around Matthew's shoulders and roughly pulled him closer. Matthew stumbled and nearly tripped over his own feet. Alfred always was monstrously strong. "Maple – Bye, Dylan."

The boy turned and walked to the door, then paused. "Bye, everyone," he stated cheerfully. "Oh, and Arthur?" He rotated on his heel and looked at the Englishman. Arthur genuinely believed that Dylan's eyes could pierce straight through him at any given moment.

"Hm?" He took an involuntary step forward in anticipation of what Dylan was about to say. The boy's tone sounded like he was trying to warn Arthur.

"Be careful. If … if you play with fire too much, there's a high chance you could get burned. Whether, um. Whether the fire means to burn you or not. Just keep that in mind." And with that, he left.

Arthur froze in place, suddenly immobilized by Dylan's words. His blood rushed in his ears.

"Huh? Dude, that doesn't make any sense." The American whined before rushing off into the kitchen once more, spouting something about needing a soda all of a sudden.

But Arthur knew, suddenly and unmistakably and beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dylan was talking about Alistair.