There he was. He stood across the room, leaning in the doorway, hung like a drape off the siding. With a thin frame, and his sweater pulling off him like it was trying to escape—blue eyes grasping every conversation in the room without his mouth even tossing a word. His hair was pulled back—but not the bangs- they hung loosely in his face, no—just the back. Just the frayed ends that usually curled around his neck, and he would always say;
"When my hair is long, it has waves, just like my sister's."
Arthur doubted it, highly. He couldn't even imagine what Francis would damn look like with long hair, let alone curly locks.
But they had similar friends—they've talked before. Had history.
But nothing personal.
But in all honesty, he tried to keep the damn pest as far away from his imagination as he possibly could.
However, it was hard to keep the most popular kid in your boarding school out of your mind—because he was everywhere. He was in the halls, on the teacher's board, his name was scribbled in the girl's bathroom—well, so he had heard, Arthur certainly hadn't been in there any time in the recent past. Or ever.
(Girls didn't like him.)
(And certainly didn't "Invite him into the bathroom to cop a feel before the watch came by, because for god's sake, "That's enough Gilbert stop telling me about what- or who you did today.")
And worst of all, he always seemed to be in Arthur's room. He always seemed to be looming in the center of the room like he was their sun and they were simply his planets that rotated around him like some sort of worship. Arthur hoped of course, that he was Pluto. Or at least—he'd like to be exactly 3,670,050,000 miles and six ten-thousandths of a light year away from Francis and his cliché boarding-posse.
(Yes, that is how far Pluto is from the sun.)
(Arthur checked.)
The setup of the school was simple. There was three buildings, and the courtyard. The first building was the girl's dorm, which was fenced off, and you could only enter the dorms with your female I.D. (However, once again- Gilbert had found his way in to Liz multiple times.) Behind that was the riding track and the Girl's swimming pool. The fence went around those too.
Then, the center room was the biggest, which was long and rectangular, simply built. However, it was as big as both of the dorm rooms combined. It had taken Arthur to his Junior year—well, this year to figure out the entire floor plan of the school, it had ridiculous winding hallways that seemed endless in sight—but so easy on paper.
Finally was the boy's dorm, which was fenced as well. It was exactly the same as the girl's just as big, just as tall. This was where Arthur resided—(Duh.) Out back was the various sports fields Arthur never cared for, and the boy's swimming area. All very posh, he assured his parents.
(To put it simply, the center building looked as boring as school was- The perfect metaphor for High School as a whole. While the dormitories were more like mansions, with circular stair cases and drapes—kitchens and maids, it was for only the richest children, of course.)
In essence it sounds impressive, but three years too long can get to you.
–"Right Arthur?"
Arthur's eyes suddenly perked up from his scribbled, his hands clutching the wiring so tight it left marks in his palm. They were met with Gilbert's—crimson eyes peering at him with a grin that looked ever too-… pleased.
"Pardon?" He sighed gently, releasing the notebook. He felt the other two- Alfred and Francis- staring right at him like he was about to give the Presidential speech.
"I said" He started, his eyebrows furrowing on his pale skin. "You wouldn't mind if we stayed up tonight, right Arthur?"
"I would say yes but of course, it's Alfred's room as well." Arthur raised an eyebrow, resting back into his pillows. He glanced to Alfred, whom simply laughed. Arthur groaned, his eyes locking on Gilbert again. "I'm taking that as a yes. But sadly, Alfred has a English test tomorrow, so it would be wise for him to schedule a time to go to slee—"
"What are you, his mother?" Francis cut him off before he could seem any more concerned, with one hand shifting across his own stomach. Arthur simply tucked his bottom lip in-between his teeth, his eyes—no, his best glare- were fixated on Francis.
"Right."
He sunk into his black tee-shirt, his eyes narrowing down at the doodles he had in his notebook. His fingers curled around the pen, eyes wandering to the free space at the top of the page.
Right.
(He would spend approximately twenty minutes pretending not to listen about their talks of girls, and another thirty ignoring the feeling of eyes that kept hitting him—only to be followed by whispers. He was curious about what they said when they were whispering, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know, either.)
(He also spent ten minutes observing the mannerisms of Francis Bonnefoy, whom might he add to the earlier description- was much more quiet than usual.)
(However, he still seemed to keep crawling into Arthur's imagination.)
Ever since he was a young boy, Arthur had gotten stomach aches. He couldn't touch any Italian food, let alone any sort of buttery product—or he'd be tossing it up only minutes later. It was unfortunate, but it kept the stalky Briton healthy—or at least, generally in shape.
It was supposedly stressed, or so his doctor told him. And his freshman year had been hell because of this, with the stress of being away from his parents, the pressure of grades and—
He could get sick just thinking about it, oh god.
But it died to about one stomach ache a week- (Not counting the utter anxiety of Finals. During the week of Finals he seemed to only see answer sheets and the bottom of trashcans.)
He'd have a nightmare—resembling a fever dream, and wake up in a sweat, the only sense of reality being his stomach churning like he was going to be sick.
And unluckily for him, it was one of those nights.
He awoke with a startle, the entire room casted with a dark shade of the window. His neck ached, finding himself hunched in the corner of his bunk, knees pulled up to his chest with the notebook still sat upright on his lap. Had he fallen asleep- … He placed the notebook to his side, glancing at the room. Alfred was probably above him on the top bunk—(He heard the snoring.) Gilbert was leaned on the desk, grasping a blanket in a defensive way, and Francis was… curled up in the dirty laundry. (Great.)
He stood, bare feet against the carpet- with long fleece pajama pants pooling over his ankles. He rubbed his wrist, shuffling past the two, and entering their dorm's bathroom. He shut the door quietly, eyes stinging as he flicked on the light.
"Tchnn- God, fuck- That's florescent." He rubbed his eyes even though it was bad for him, leaning against the wall. He pried the medicine cabinet open with one hand, grasping the bottle of "Tums" and putting two in his palm.
"Would you mind shutting the door all the way if you're going to turn the lights on?" A hushed whisper came from the door, and Arthur's whole body tensed. He spun, tums clutched in his hand like coins.
Who else would it be? He thought, staring down the male before him.
Who else would it be then his Majesty himself?
"Next time you stay over someone's dorm room instead of your own, find a bed- not a pile of dirty clothes." Arthur spat back at him, quickly moving the sink and pouring water in a plastic rinsing cup. The room fell silent as Arthur put the pink tablets in his mouth, grinding them to dust and staring in the mirror nonchalantly.
He expected Francis to shut the door and leave, however—there wasn't a single movement between the two of them. Arthur's lips were now dusted a light pink from the stomach medication, compared to his pale complexion.
"Are you just going to stand there?" Arthur turned, walking forward, his eyes locking on the blue set that stared down at him.
The silence fell yet again, the sound of the clock ticking around them.
Tick.
Tick.
"Let me get my bag and my headphones if you're going to keep me up all night." Francis drew his eyes from Arthur's, his shoulders slumping.
Tick.
Tick.
He brushed past Arthur, their hands brushing as Francis grasped his bag and started to move to leave again. Arthur shuddered at the feeling of cold fingers grazing his own, but tried to stay still. He didn't look back, he didn't flinch—he stood.
Wasn't Francis just so fucking poetic?
He watched as Francis brisked out with strap gripped in hand.
I hate you.
I hate you so much.
When he awoke the room was silent except for the shower, no trace of Gilbert or Francis. (Thank god. Not that Arthur didn't like a good morning banter, he was just glad they weren't hanging about.)
He stretched forward, the satisfying feeling of pops, cracks, and muscles bending. He let out a groan, slumping over on his knees after he stretched. He listened to Alfred's horrid singing and chuckled to himself. The room was messy, and Alfred's blankets were hanging down the side of the bed frame. Per usual.
(They had a general agreement that every other day Alfred would get the bathroom to get ready, and Arthur would get the room. The other days, they'd switch places.)
(Flawless—of course. It was Arthur's idea after all.)
Arthur walked to the closet, reaching and picking through the hangers absent mindedly. He pulled the uniform and hummed, glancing over it. It was a white sweater and a white button down to go underneath. Black pants—or rather dress pants, were next. It was a completely standard uniform, per say.
He slid his shirt off his body, the black fabric tossed aimlessly against the dresser. He caught his reflection in the mirror, looking at himself sideways for just a moment. He was short, with no weight—besides a little bit of a pudgy stomach. His hair was messy—a dark blonde, with straggly bangs that hung down in his face over his thick brows. He had eyes that seemed shifted—slitted and angled as if he was always angry—but according to his mother, when he smiled they were wide and crinkled at the edges. Allastor thought that was girly.
So Arthur did too.
He carefully slid off his pants, wrinkling the fabric in between his fingers. He folded them and tossed them on the dresser as well, licking the chapped dust from last night—or rather, earlier this morning off his lips. His stomach ache was gone like he predicted, and it'd probably come back tomorrow.
He slid the button down off the hanger, sliding it over each shoulder and buttoning it from top down to bottom. The sound of the shower stopped suddenly, replaced by the steady drip of water, (Along with Alfred's singing being much clearer now that the shower wasn't masking the sound.)
He pulled his sweater over his head, fixing the collar and flattening his shirt down. He grabbed his bottoms and slid them on—hopping on one foot until he got one leg in, and doing the same for the other.
"I'm heading out!" He shouted towards the bathroom, grabbing his bag from the hanger and jacket as well. He shimmied into his jacket, slinging the backpack over his shoulder and exhaling in an exasperated sigh.
He opened the door to a familiar face.
"Hello, Matthew." He spoke with a small smile, overlooking the blonde who stood before him.
Matthew had been one of his only friends for a while now, which had been possibly the only friend he'd ever make. He was quiet, unknowing—a bit oblivious. He had met him in his first year at Alfred's. But once Alfred stopped playing Mario Kart, and started to play Rugby with Francis and Co., he'd stop talking to poor Matthew. Though he was an awkward conservationist, Arthur felt bad—and their friendship… bloomed, so to speak.
"G'morning, Arthur! I brought you one of those pumpkin lattes from downstairs!" He thrusted his hand forward, his mittened hand holding out a skinny foam coffee cup. Arthur took it from him, his eyes softening.
"Thank you." He put the drink to his lips, his hands going pink from the warmth. "Off we go then?"
Matthew nodded silently, starting down the hall. He always seemed so happy—but he acted as if nothing had happened.
Before Arthur had really gotten to know Matthew, he thought that he was a happy go lucky guy! Nothing wrong with that. But the year before this—sophomore year, Matthew had been in the same room as him and Alfred. Alfred took Matthew and a few other guys out on the second to last day of academic calendar, (A fancy way of saying No lessons, or classes for three months.) Something happened and Matthew—almost always seen side by side with Alfred, had come home alone in this emotional wreck. He had no jacket, he was soaked and his body was shaking—not with fear, no—with utter instability. He had practically marched in in a mess, his chest heaving and compulsing with every word, like he had just almost drowned.
"I-I messed up, A-art'hthur," The words were still fresh in his mind. "I really messed up."
He can't breathe, Arthur thinks. He hurt himself, he repeats.
But Matthew only says vague things like:
"I can't feel my fingertips." And, "We're spinning, we're spinning, and he lets go."
However, after what seemed like hours, Arthur finally felt it all click. He thought back to how Matthew looked at his roommate, how he eyed Alfred in class, always tried to hide Alfred's history book so he can bring it to him-
And Arthur said,
"You love him."
Matthew didn't talk anymore after that, but Arthur helped him later when he was sick and hunched over the toilet. This wasn't the joyful Matthew he knew, but this was the Matthew he'd never let down.
But the next two days were like a vow of silence, and everything was rushing like a city street.
The first day, with no sign of Alfred— there was not a single word from Matthew as he filed for a new dorm on that next morning; on the second day there was not a single word when Alfred came home at noon to find Matthew's stuff gone.
"What happened?" Alfred asked.
"He moved." Arthur replied.
Alfred never told him what happened, whether he knew it happened or not.
Matthew didn't either.
And that was it.
Matthew moved into Francis's dorm with Gilbert, and Arthur visited every day.
Which was the beginning of Francis and Arthur's history, (which was mentioned earlier.) But that of course was a story he would put off of thinking about for another day.
He and Alfred hadn't talked since, and Arthur had been damn in the middle of it. Though Matthew got better over the summer- and seemed fine after August- It was October, and he still seemed... shaken.
And as he watched Matthew walk to the front door, laughing and smiling at those who walked past, he frowned, catching up to him. They stepped outside the dorms, and onto the sidewalk. Arthur glanced over at Matthew, then back to his coffee.
"Thank you," He chuckled lightly. "I just want to thank you again for the coffee."
For a moment they went quiet, the sound of the leaves crunching beneath them. They stood for a moment in the red and orange autumn world, and Matthew turned to him for a moment.
"Just returning the favor."
Maybe they'd both been thinking about that night.
Matthew stared for a moment and picked up the pace again, kids walking around them in a rush to get here and there.
He wouldn't bring it up to his friend ever, but he had thought long about what happened that night since that night, and he had concluded the problem.
Alfred didn't love him back.
"Alright class, let's begin."
First class of the day, Shakespeare. Arthur sat in the front row, on the far left, right next to the door. He originally sat next to Matthew, who was in the second row, farthest right next to the windows- But the teacher put him instead next to the door, because he was trusted not to get distracted. (Rather than Heracles, who got distracted at simply a person walking past the door.)
Even though his mind had been somewhere else, he still tried to pay attention to "Much Ado About Nothing"—their current reading.
"Before we begin class." The teacher Mr. Greene, stood proud in front of the class, the book itself held in his hand. "Can someone please explain to me, what 'much ado about nothing' may mean? Using your context clues."
Arthur tapped his pencil and looked around for a moment, giving everyone a fair shot at the question. But when none of the bored students raised their hands, the blonde's shot up, with a cocky smirk.
"Yes, Mister Kirkland?" The teacher pointed him out, smiling back as well. (He was the most participant; it was his favorite class after all. Mr. Greene adored his little Kirkland to death.)
"Much ado—ado meaning a bit of a quarrel, a fight, some sort of objection- about nothing. This means, Lots of fighting over nothing particular." Arthur felt prideful as he continued. "You see, from what we've read- Benedick and Beatrice fight constantly, but they hold a love for each other. They make much ado, once again—about nothing. They're accidentally together, despite their constant quarreling. Quite romantic—"
"I don't find it romantic at all." A voice suddenly shot from behind him. Two seats back.
Francis Bonnefoy.
"Arthur is completely wrong—if I may interject, sir." Arthur shot his eyes back as he saw Francis smiling his charming little smile—god damn him and his teacher pet ways. He c-can get away with anything!
"Of course," Greene said. "Feel free to begin discussion."
"Merci, Monsieur." He laughed a crisp laugh, as half the girl's in the room swooned over his stupid accent. "I think it lacks romance completely. Romance is about loving each other, not letting the other cause—ado, was it?"
Arthur sneered, turning his body completely. "What the bloody hell would you know about romance, you just don't understand Shakespeare's romantic genius! He's just not conveying your mucky idea of love, so what?"
"Please, if you knew a single thing about love, you'd be up there teaching Romeo and Juliet- Kirkland."
"I have a name, you twat—"
The teacher cleared his throat then, leaving Arthur midsentence. All heads turned from the little fight, towards Mr. Greene. He simply motioned Arthur to turn back around by twirling his finger—and Arthur obeyed immediately. He set his book down, closing his eyes.
"You two sure do make much ado about nothing." He muttered in a sense of distaste, earning a room full of hushed snickers, besides Arthur and Francis of course. "Please turn to page twelve, class."
Much ado about nothing?
Hmph.
All the "ado" is his fault anyway.