Author's Note: Hey, everyone! Firstly, thank you for clicking on this story to read, it means a lot! Secondly, I'm not very patient when it comes to rereading my chapters over and over again, so comment on any major problems/typos/etc if you feel they need to be fixed, and I can go back through. So far for this story, I'm planning only 3 chapters. I've tried to do longer stories before on older accounts, and I always run out of ideas/steam/motivation before I finish; and I hate not finishing my stories! So I present to you, a short story worth your while! :) Thanks for reading!

Chapter 1

Invisible

"He doesn't want to be found, Jones. Leave 'em be."

Alfred F. Jones, seventeen years old, sat in the passengers side of an old Mustang. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a nasty habit learned from an old friend of his. Namely, Arthur Kirkland; otherwise known as the boy who'd disappeared, again. He exhaled the cloud of toxins, further fogging up the windows. Hair dangled down in front of his eyes as he rested his head against the window. "Bullshit. He always wants to be found." He did, right? Alfred tapped his foot against the worn out interior of the car, flicking ash into the neatly balanced tray on the dashboard. Arthur ran away all the time. Made a whole big deal of it too. Screeching tires in the dead of the night, or an unnecessary fight with one of his older brothers. Every time, he left with a large "I'M FUCKING PISSED OFF" sign hanging right over his head. It was, as a best friend, Alfred's job to go retrieve him. He just didn't understand why the Brit had made it so damn hard this time. No screaming, no passive aggressive cold-shoulders, no sappy 'I'm leaving for real' text at 2 AM. Alfred woke up one morning after their routine fucking ('no relationships', Arthur had protested); and he was been gone. No note, and no after-sex routine cleaning of the condoms off the floor. Arthur hadn't even attempted to tidy up Alfred's room. Now that was out of character.

"Does 'e, now? Or do you just keep draggin' 'em back? Maybe this time 'e figured it was smart to take off without the bitch fit." The twenty-four year old in the drivers side contributed to the smoke already accumulating in the car. "Plus, Alfred, 'e is eighteen now. It ain't runnin' away if the runnin' is done by a legal adult. No matter 'ow much of a baby 'e really is."

Alfred shot a nasty glare, and followed it with a large cloud of smoke headed towards the other's head. "You're his brother, ya gotta know where your bro would go. He didn't leave the usual coordinates hidden in the bottom of the Frosted Flakes again?"

"Or the message written in toothpaste, or the city written in 'is current favorite book. I'm tellin' ya Jones, 'e's gone." Alastair exhaled smoke in the general direction of Alfred in return. "Isn't this better for the both of ya? Now ya can fuck all those pretty girls without Artie throwing a fit. Or buy the condoms that taste like cherry, ya know 'e hated those bastards." Alfred buried the stub of the cigarette in the ash heap, sighed, and shrugged. "Did that never bother 'ou? 'E didn't want 'ou to fuck anybody, but 'e could stick his dick in anything 'e wanted to? Self-entitled little brat."

"I don't mind." Alfred replied absentmindedly. Which was only half true. He didn't mind not fucking other people, he did mind seeing Arthur's underwear on floors other than his own. "And I fuck plenty of people. Plenty."

"Sure ya do, sonny." Alastair put out his own cigarette, and started up the car. "Well, good luck findin' the little bastard, let me know when 'e comes back home." Alfred reached for the handle, and let the avalanche of smoke pour from the open door as he stepped out. The second the door was closed Alastair had sped off, to talk to better people than his younger brother's not-boyfriend-boyfriend. Being with Arthur was weird, because the Englishman never let anyone be near him, yet simultaneously was one of the neediest people Alfred had ever met. Not that he minded. If anything, seeing Arthur sitting out on the porch of his house every day, waiting for the American, was somewhat endearing. Half of him hoped to turn around from the disappearing car to see the Brit there, with his head against the railing and with his earphones blaring music so loud, nobody knew why he bothered with the notion of earphones in the first place. But Alfred's porch was empty, and the world surrounding him lacked the loud buzz of angry metal music.

It was 5AM when he entered his home. Almost twenty-four hours since he'd rolled over to find the small bundle of warmth that should have been in his bed was not there. Alfred had demanded Alastair drive him to the three nearest states, in order to look for the Brit. But he was not in his favorite diner one state up, or his favorite record shop one state to the left. And after three hours of walking around some big-ass park Arthur had named once, he concluded he was not there either.

The American's room was just as he'd left it. Ripped condom packets barely hidden by the blankets he'd thrown down over them, day-old skinny jeans and a white v-neck crumpled up into a ball in the corner. The pack of cigarettes he'd left on his counter had gone missing since he'd left a day earlier, though, and he assumed it was his mothers doing. She never confronted him on the matter, but any time the lung-killers were left unattended, she'd throw them out. Occasionally he felt bad about being that kid in the family. But then he remembered Arthur shotgunning with him at a party in their Freshman year, and all the times following that. Guilt faded, pleasureful memories did not.

Alfred began the tedious process of picking up all the used condoms, and their counterpart wrappers. Honestly, he and Arthur had to get a better system, the whole 'throw it wherever - we'll get it later!' idea was not working out well for him. He dropped them all into the trash, and plopped down onto his bed. His eyes scanned the room yet another time, in hopes of spotting something Arthur had left for him. Some kind of note, some message, something. He'd already tried calling the Brit, only to find his phone had been turned off. Alfred threw his own phone down on the bed in frustration, after scrolling through all of their recent messages, hoping to uncover buried anger he'd not detected earlier. Anger was a good thing, coming from Arthur. His anger was wild, but quick, and over with soon. This new silence was a whole lot scarier.

The American picked up his phone again, returning to the messages from Arthur.

'Arthur? Call me.' He texted, and waited. He waited for five, ten, twenty minutes, and sent another. 'I'm tired of this bullshit man, this is too draining.' Thirty more minutes. 'If you don't respond now I'm going to go light your guitar on fire.' Ten more minutes. 'And your records.' Alfred heard his mothers 8:00 work alarm go off. 'Stop being an ass and come home already. I miss you :( '

Another three days passed without a word from the elusive Englishman. In that time, Alfred had hitched rides to the next two states he'd thought he had found clues for, only to realize they were random cities that somehow worked their ways into Arthur's thoughts for a brief moment. At the end of the third day, he was searching around places that didn't even make sense. Was it possible Arthur was sulking around ring shops, thinking about their future? Or spending days patrolling around apartments, planning for something they'd never discussed before. The Englishman had never, once expressed any hint of wanting to spend time past high school with the American. But the blue-eyed teen was out of ideas, and Arthur had had crazier ideas.

Alfred tugged his flannel closer around his frame as he hurried down the busied backstreets of downtown Washington. Damn these cold weathers getting the best of him. Being born in Florida had done nothing to prepare him for the brutal chill that came hand-in-hand with winter. Arthur, on the other hand, had moved to the United States right before his freshman year of high school, after his mother had passed away in a car crash over in the UK. He, along with two older brothers and one younger sister, came to stay with their father in America. As far as fathers went, Arthur had gotten the short end of the deal. An alcoholic at best, most would call him a full-blown dead man walking. If he wasn't drunk he had some kind of drug in his system, and not the fun kind that 'everybody tries in college'.

Alfred and Arthur had always been the blond duo of the school. Both strikingly handsome, each with an accent that was foreign to Washington; it was not hard for them to settle into groups and find their friends. People were constantly in envy of one of the two, considering the fact nobody would ever get as close to either of them as they were. Alfred looked out after Arthur, and vice versa. They'd made a pact in the fourth week of school. Both new to the area, both confused, and both attracted to one another - it was inevitable.

Francis Bonnefoy had been the 'third wheel' in their group, so to speak. Coming from Champagne, France a year after Alfred and Arthur had started high school, he had wasted no time in making close friends of the two... Having raced in to escape the cold, the American sat in the back of the one bar in the city limits that didn't card. The Frenchman, much like his usual self, seemed to appear from the shadows of the bar and take a seat next to him. Ignoring the odd timing of the two meeting, Alfred immediately launched into a story, catching the taller, learner male up on what had happened.

"But dontcha think it's weird, Franny? He just left. He never just leaves, not without letting somebody know about it." Alfred sipped on the dark liquid that had been placed in front of him. Going to a place that didn't card meant getting whatever the hell the bartender felt like giving out. Beggars can't be choosers. Francis, on the other hand, sipped on water. After (quote on quote) "living in such an esteemed life in France, with the best of alcohols", he had found it hard to lower himself down to a-dollar-a-bottle American drinks. Or so he said; Alfred thought it was just because the other had a shitty tolerance and didn't want anyone to see him plastered. That was Arthur's thing; getting wasted and making loud, drunk mistakes. For anyone else to strip to Uptown Funk would be nothing more than a cheap copycat of how wonderful the Brit was after a drink too many.

"He is Arthur, he does things like that. You know he'll be back. He always is." Francis had been the one to lose the most of his accent when moving to America. Lost, or buried intentionally, his French came through only at the ends of his sentences and when he got angry.

"I just…" Alfred ground the palms of his hands into his eyes, shoving his glasses up on his head to do so. The bags under his eyes were evident. "This doesn't feel right. By now I should be on some bat-shit insane riddle that he laid out for me to follow. Or something."

"What if he doesn't want to be found? Alastair suggested that, non? Arthur could have gotten fed up with his father, and left. Space was always his big need." Francis suggested.

"He wasn't with his dad the night he left, he was with me." Alfred said, in such a tone and with the appropriate eyebrow waggle. He still enjoyed rubbing it into the Frenchman's face, on occasion. Hell, he liked rubbing it in anyone's face. Arthur was hot, and Alfred got to bone him on the regular. The Frenchman chuckled.

"I've no idea then, Alfred. It's not like he confided in moi, you were always his go-to boy." Francis hummed, sipping at water as if it was wine. He paused, eyes trained on the twisted knots in the table as if they were actually interesting. As if they both hadn't sat in that exact booth thousands of times before, giddy with adrenaline, and the sense of doing something completely illegal. "Did he ever let you take him out? On that date, I mean…?"

Alfred shook his head. "We all know he hated that shit. I tried not to bring it up to him."

"Alfred, at some point, you have to stop putting his feelings ahead of yours. You've been asking him for four years to go out and do something other than fuck him. It is not that big of a request."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll ask him out again as soon as he returns my calls." Alfred spat back, somewhat angrily. Everyone was acting like Arthur wasn't even gone! Like he'd walk in through the shitty old doors of the bar any minute and pronounce he wanted to get drunk enough to forget his first name! Alfred eyed the door curiously, in bleak hopes of seeing the Englishman. Francis exhaled loudly.

"Sorry… Alfred, I'm saying this as a friend now, oui? You are obsessing over him, and he's obviously not putting a seconds thought into you. He knows this stresses you out. And he still does it, for the attention, non?" Francis ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair. "All I'm saying, is that exerting every ounce of your abilities won't make him return the favor. It just makes you tired, and him still missing. Let him sulk in whichever cheap motel he's in now. When he realizes not everybody has stopped their lives for his, he'll be back."

"I need a cigarette." Alfred shot a glare, his hand on the back of his chair in mere seconds to help hoist himself up to his feet. The Frenchman looked only mildly concerned, watching the back of his friend as he disappeared through the doors. Once outside, Alfred immediately sought out for the area behind the bar where the cold wind couldn't reach. With a cigarette clamped between his lips, he lit it with one free hand, immediately inhaling deeply. He pulled the fag away from his mouth, exhaling, and looking down at it. Even the damn cancer-sticks made him think about Arthur. It had been the Brit, bright-eyed and bushy tailed at 15 years old, who offered one out to the American.

"They taste like shit and rot your insides, but I'm bloody hooked on them." He remembered Arthur saying, as they hid beneath the porch of the Brit's house. They'd been somewhat squished together, with old paint cans and broken lawn mowers surrounding them."Eww, then why are you trying to get me hooked on em too, bro?" Alfred had taken it, nonetheless. He still remembered the wicked grin that had appeared on the Brit's face, and the words that followed. "Because I like you, Alfred F. Jones. And I think you'd look bloody beautiful with smoke pouring from those pretty lips of yours." He'd smoked every day since then.

"Goddamnit, maybe I am obsessed with him…"

Two weeks. Alfred waited in the stagnant silence for two weeks without as much as a breath of air from Arthur. After returning to the bar and offering Francis an apology, Alfred had downed the rest of his beer(?), then two more, got shit faced, and fucked the first girl in his contacts that was available. He didn't need Arthur! Half of the people in his school practically stood in line to get in the American's pants, and he opened the gates and let them, one by one. (On some occasions, two or three at a time.) And for those two weeks, he somewhat managed to forget the Englishman. Sure, taking a drag made him think about Arthur, and messing around on the fret board of his Statocaster hit some memories. But screwing the cutest cheerleader in their school certainly only made new ones. Somehow, he thought Arthur would catch wind of all of Alfred's hookups and come racing back to scold him. But wherever the Brit was, it was clear he was staying.

"So you'll call me~?" Alfred lay on his back in bed with the sheets barely covering anything, as he eyed the brunette who was slipping her skirt back up over her thighs. She looked over her shoulder after the silence, and raised an eyebrow in question. Alfred nodded, in a haze, as she slipped her shirt back on.

"You know it. See ya when school starts back up again." Oh, school. Their winter break was soon going to be over, and he'd have to return to school, and answer the same question over and over again. 'Where's Arthur?' 'I don't know, I don't know, why's it my fucking problem?'

The American lay in bed as he heard the girl leaving, the front door having to be jammed shut, as usual. He lay there until somebody cranked up the AC and he had to get up to turn it off. Who the fuck turned the AC on in December? Just open a damn window! The American exhaled loudly as he returned to bed, fiddling with the draw strings of the sweat pants he'd thrown on, in order to avoid another 'Alfred, go put on pants!' screech from a family member. After scrolling through the copious amount of Snapchat notifications and updates on Facebook, he found himself dialing Alistair's number. He half expected the male to send him straight to voice mail.

"'Ou lasted longer than we thought." Was the first thing out of the Scott's mouth. "James and I made a bet on 'ow long you would last before 'ou suggested we look for Artie." Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled in exasperation. He refrained from speaking. "Well," the redhead continued on, " 'ou are right, this is longer than usual for 'im. Any ideas on where 'e may be?"

"Yeah, actually." Alfred sat upright in bed, running his hand down over his stomach absentmindedly. He leaned against a mountain of pillows. "I think he might be in New York." Silence on the other end of the line.

"Are ye mad, Jones? Dontcha remember all of those looooong rants about 'ow 'e loathed New York? Hell, Washington is too big for him!" This much was true, Arthur had come from a small city in the UK that nobody had ever heard of, or learned to pronounce. He always said once he was on his own, he'd go get an apartment in the center of the three-restaurant town back home, and lived there until he died.

"See, that's what I thought at first. But if he really doesn't want to be found, wouldn't he go where we never would have guessed?"

"…That's one helluva long stretch, Jonesies. Are ye sure 'ou aren't over thinking this?"

"No! I don't know… Maybe?" Alfred hopped up and slowly wandered around his room, kicking up astray pillows and shirts. "I don't know what else to do, though."

"Well, New York is bloody huge. 'Ou can't just show up and hope to find 'em in the nearest motel. Any leads, Sherlock?" Alastair's tone altered temporarily to a much more posh one, and Alfred muttered 'fuck you' under his breath in response.

"I'll figure it out once I get there. I'm gonna go spend the last few days of our break in Manhattan. He'll be sulking around there somewhere, if I'm right."

"And 'ou do realize if ya fuck up, and 'e isn't there, ou've wasted the rest of the break looking in the wrong place. This is a stretch, even for 'ou. Maybe Artie isn't gone at all. Maybe 'e is in some local motel."

"I've called around to all the local ones, asked if there was a 'brooding Englishman' camping out in one of their rooms. He isn't here." Alfred felt more certain than he previously had, and repeated the last sentence with more confidence. Because it all made sense, in his head. Arthur was gone, without a word. He was in New York, waiting patiently for Alfred to walk in. It was the Brit's twisted version of figuring out if people still cared for him, and the American felt he'd already wasted enough time trying not to care. Two weeks? Arthur probably thought he wasn't coming at all! "Actually, I'm gonna go ahead and get on the road. It's a long drive up there."

"Four 'ours of a drive. Good luck on gas money." Alastair's voice dripped with sarcasm once more. He paused, as did Alfred, and the only sound coming through was the thin static of the phone line. "… Let me know when 'e's back safe, with you."

"Will do, Alastair." Alfred hung up first, and started to throw clothes that didn't smell as badly as the rest into a backpack. His parents, although kind and caring, were busy with work. They'd given up on mentoring their oldest son the second they found him and his British friend in bed together. It was apparent to them that he was going to do what he pleased.

Alfred was not a fan of his own car. It didn't run well, liked to stop and break down when paused at red lights, and guzzled gas with only 14 miles to the gallon. Which was why he commonly hitchhiked off of Alastair, who only did it because he loved going 120 miles an hour on the interstate when no cars were around. But the Scott had a work schedule, and he was done with asking for long car rides with the man, who truly enjoyed playing Russian Roulette with pot holes and harsh turns.

The American left a note on the counter, something similar to 'got to go retrieve Arthur, be back in 3 days.' He threw his bag in the passengers seat, and spent ten minutes turning the key and whispering "come on, come on dammit!" as the motor groaned in protest. Eventually, the old engine coughed to life, and he was off, the quiet voice on his phone muttering directions persistently. While at a stoplight, he tried to text Arthur one more time, somewhat certain the other was checking the messages and then turning his phone right back off.

'On my way to New York. Any chance you'll tell me where you are to speed things up?' He bit his lip, watching as the message sent. Above it were roughly three dozen other things he'd sent over the weeks. Offhanded comments on the weather, or how the Brit's guitar was all out of tune and would be a bitch to fix if he waited much longer. All without a response.

Two hours into the drive, Alfred's phone buzzed. It was from a certain Englishman, and it read:

'Don't bother coming.'