Alfred was familiar with the way things ran at his school. There was a social caste, starting with the sports players. People such as Antonio Carriedo, Ludwig Beilschmidt, and the Vargas Brothers belonged there. The line slowly went down through the Artists, which also included the Vargas Brothers, as well as Francis Bonnefoy.
That line continued till you got to the punks, mostly Arthur Kirkland. And then, at the very bottom of the list, were the nerd, freaks, and losers. That was Alfred's place on the food chain in his school. He was at the very bottom, but Alfred couldn't change that, as much as he wished he could.
His school was a... different kind of place. Students from all over the world came to the school, and Alfred was pretty sure they're was at least one student from every country in the world here. He knew Francis was from France, Antonio from Spain, the Vargas Brothers from Italy. And then there was Arthur.
Arthur Kirkland was from the UK, England, to be more exact. The teen had light blonde hair, and dark forest green eyes. Sadly, it was those eyes that Alfred was obsessed with, the lean but slightly muscular build and Heavily notable British accent only added a few points on Alfred scale.
The American sighed. Too far Arthur was far above him in everything, except perhaps grades. Alfred really did have a bit of a crush on the British Punk, although he would never say that out loud, especially within the teen's hearing range, or to the punk himself. Alfred, as far as he knew, was doomed to spend his life alone.
Alfred looked back down at his book when Arthur looked up, seeming to sense his gaze. He buried his nose back in his history textbook, trying to finish the packet they were supossed to complete, but having some difficulty with it.
He heard the scraping of a chair, and foot steps coming closer to him, despite the loud talking and laughing in the lunch room. " Hey. Were you staring at me?" A heavily accented voice questioned, a slight drawl obvious in his tone. Alfred shook his head. " No. Spaced out... sorry." He mumbled quietly, frowning at his book.
"1965." Arthur spoke quietly, in a hushed whisper. " That's when it happened." Alfred blinked, looking up at Arthur. " Huh?" Arthur smiled slightly. " Number Fifty-seven. The answer is 1965." He seemed to catch his own smile, because just then it turned into a smirk. "Just ask if you need more help." He whispered, then turned and walked back over to his table.
Alfred blinked in confusion, watching Arthur's back as he left. "Did he just... talk to me? And help me?" Alfred's face flushed slightly, and he skimmed the page of the textbook, until he found the year the Brit had given him. " ... He was right..."
Alfred yawned, laying out on his bed. The rest of the day had gone slowly after lunch, and each class seemed to take forever. The American sighed, rolling over onto his stomach and grabbing his cell phone from the bedside table. He logged onto the forum of one of his favorite sites, then went into a chat room.
AmericanZero has entered the room
SilentDead: Hey there Zero. Today any better than before?
AmericanZaro: Meh. Each day is the same... I guess one thing did stand out though... for once.
SilentDead: Really? What happened?
BritishFucker has entered the room
AmericanZero: This guy I like talked to me today...
SilentDead: Hey British Dude. That's awesome Zero. Think maybe he likes you two?
BritishFucker: Hey. Zero, have you even tried actually talking to the dude?
American Zero: I couldn't... I'm at the bottom of our school... I'm... just... not good enough.
BritishFucker: Just try it. You never know. Not all people actually care about popularity.
"Al? Dinner's ready!" Alfred heard his mother call up the stairs. He quickly logged off the website. " Alright! I'll be down in just a minute!" He yelled. Alfred pondered over the thought at dinner. Could he really actually try talking to the British Punk?
and... another new story.
man this makes 6 series at the same time...
or was it 7?
oh well...
either way.
Reviews keep me going.
peace out ;)
