Soooo...I started writing this for kicks and it morphed into this monstrous thing. :D Anyways, unfortunately for some of you, I'm on a UKCan kick. Not that I'm over USCan (because sometimes people jump to terrifying conclusions and it doesn't help that I say things flippantly-like I'm giving up on USCan forever. People tend to panic when I do that), I'm just a little dry on ideas for them.

Maybe if I was inspired...Anywhoo, I'm starting to adore UKCan all over again because I'm actually a little fond of England now. Also, you can all thank a little tumblr blogged called fuckyeahukcan (fuckyeahukcan . tumblr. com) . Actually, and I've mentioned this before, if you like UKCan, go check it out. Seriously, (oh and if you don't like long author's notes, just go to the story because I'm shamelessly pimping now), go check it out. Its run by an awesome individual and its filled with drabbles and fanart and videos and a master list of stories. I'm kind of obsessed with it so you'll probably recognize my writing and there's other anons too. Its brilliant and awesome and you all need to go there. In fact, go right now. No need to read this, just go. Even if you don't like UKCan, go anyways. You never know if you'll fall in love~

Also...I wrote this all in helvetic so you can understand why its so long. Maybe. Also, thank my roommate for the title. It was either this or "Circle of Life" or "Matching Socks".

Also, Belle is Belgium (points for creativity~), Will is the Netherlands, Matthias is Denmark.

Pairing: UKCan

Warnings: AU, high school AU, inappropriate mood whiplash, language, sexual situations, OOCness, weirdness probably, other stuff, slash, mentioned drug use, relationship stuff

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or the band Rise Against. Be grateful.

It's the middle of a smoldering spring day and the metro is disgustingly crowded.

Matthew grimaced as another person attempted to tread over him before noticing the vaguely disgruntled blond teenager and murmuring hasty apologies as they jostled past him carefully. He sighed, absently scrubbing at the blond curls that clung to his perspiring forehead with the bump of his wrist, and clung to the metal bar as the train sputtered to a start and the metal rails groaned ominously as the train cars jiggled along back and forth.

He misses his car.

A baby started wailing.

So much.

In the middle of his reflections on the demise of his car (Alfred was, hereby and forevermore, banned from driving or even sitting in the passenger's seat. He was banished to the back-most seat until his broken leg heeled and he paid back every cent it cost to peel Matthew's car from the traffic light it had been wrapped around), the train bumped and someone elbowed him in the head.

Oh, right, Alfred was also the reason he was even taking public transportation that day. He was visiting his brother in the hospital, bringing him sugar-free chocolate caramels and making sure the old nurse with the hairy mole on her chin and grabby hands gave Alfred a sponge bath because the pretty nurse was too busy bandaging Matthew's paper cut.

Matthew bought that car with his hard-earned cash, damn it. He wasn't about to let his stupid younger brother swagger away without a suitable punishment after attempting to mimic Evel Kneivel on crack.

But we digress.

The train screeched to a halt at the next stop, exhaust fumes filtering through the blurred, cracked windows. Matthew's shirt clung to his lower back and he was too busy peeling it off to stop himself from slamming into the guy next to him.

"Watch it!" The guy snaps, shoving him back, green eyes sparking and nostrils flaring and, huh, wonder if that hurts with a nose ring?

"Sorry." Matthew muttered, righting himself and chancing a glance at the other male. And he is promptly stunned. "Arthur?" He says, faintly and a little horrified.

Arthur glances at him, his birds nest sandy hair and green eyes and faintly dickish, holier-than-thou expression standing out despite the grungy, black-lined eyes and practiced disdainful lip curl (oh, no, wait...that was normal for Arthur too) and leather (oh...that's definitely new...). His eyes widen and, for the briefest moment, he tenses in panic.

Then, he says, slick, smooth, and casual, "Who?"

Matthew gives him a flat, unimpressed look, like 'really? really? you think I'm really going to fall for that trick?'. And Arthur sighs, shoulders slumping, expression like 'why did I think that would work?'.

The next day at school, Matthew, unnerved by Arthur's transformation back to the stuck-up Student Council President, did his best to avoid the other teenager.

It worked fantastically until lunchtime.

"Oh fuck." Matthew let slip the moment he looked up after sitting down and realized that Arthur was sitting across from him at the lunch table. His violet eyes widened and he scrambled to his feet, the apple on his tray tumbling into his milk carton.

Arthur merely gave him a rather embarrassed, cross look and huffed, "Oh sit down, Williams."

Matthew gave him an uncertain look but the other teen was already unwrapping a sandwich. So he sat down, carefully, and started to eat, alternating between thoughts of how his anxiety was silly and unfounded (because so what if the uptight teenager liked to wear eyeliner and masquerade as a punk on the weekends?) and how Arthur would threaten him with social ostracism (which wasn't a terrifying threat, lets be honest, because though Matthew wasn't a social pariah he didn't exactly stand out even with above-average grades and athleticism thanks to Alfred's mad scientist antics and fast ball so he'd probably be threatened with death and that would be awful because he refused to die before the Habs brought home the Cup) if he dared speak a word about his hobbies.

The two sat in silence, broken only by the crumple of plastic and slurp of milk. The cafeteria was noisy all around them and Matthew waved to his lacrosse teammates across the room and wondered why he didn't just sit with them in the beginning.

"You're not a loudmouth like your brother." Arthur stated suddenly.

"If anything I don't talk enough." Matthew quipped, awkwardly laughing and then curling in on himself when Arthur just stared at him. "I mean…no. And I really could care less about what you do, in or out of school—"

"So you've been avoiding me because…?"

"I haven't been avoiding you—"

"You entered Calculus, saw me, and then walked into the doorframe trying to leave." Arthur said dryly. Then he reached into his messenger bag. "By the way, I have the notes from class. You're welcome to copy them."

"Thanks." Matthew whispered, a blush high on his cheeks as he reflected on the earlier incident. He took the offered notes. "I just…thanks." He repeated, lamely.

Arthur gave him a faint smile.

Lacrosse practice has just finished and Matthew is curled up in a little corner near the goal around his crosse, the grass sticking to his cheek.

"Williams, get out of my crease." The goalie snickers, nudging at him.

Matthew mumbles something about not being able to feel his calves and then something about how much it's going to suck to have to take the bus home and then he just watches an ant skitter across his line of vision.

Eventually his teammate drags him to his feet and off the field and then dumps him into the backseat of another player's car and buckles him in with all the seatbelts.

"You're lucky I'm feeling generous." Gilbert says, bouncing into the car and slamming the door after him. "And that I'm so fucking awesome."

"Get me home without gratuitously saying 'awesome' and I will make you pancakes as soon as I can feel my fingers."

"We didn't even work that hard." Gilbert snorts, peeling out of his parking space. "Pussy."

Thankfully the albino is silent after that, save for the occasional swear word and blaring of the radio. And Matthew would fall asleep except he knows for a fact that Gilbert will draw detailed penises on his forehead so he tries very hard to stay awake.

He suddenly feels very awake when Gilbert says, oh-so-casually, "Did you know Arthur Kirkland is in a gang?"

Matthew jerks upwards and finds himself choked by the seatbelts. He wants to ask 'what?', but, instead, a garbled grunt is all that makes it past his lips. Thankfully, Gilbert chooses not to check on his wellbeing and just keeps talking like the best narcissistic friend he is.

"Yeah. I've heard that he does drugs and beats up people and steals handbags from little old ladies. And that he wears leather."

Gilbert's red eyes regard him from the rearview mirror and Matthew realizes that he's expecting an appropriately shocked response.

"Oh no. Not leather." Matthew supplies.

Gilbert is pleased. "Yeah! Leather. Can you believe we elected him?"

"Well…the other candidate was Francis—"

"It's fucking great, Matthew! Who knew he's not a total loser?" His voice turned serious. "But he loses points for the leather pants. That is not boss."

"Did you know Artie's a part of a skinhead drug ring?"

"You haven't even been in school." Matthew said flatly, opening Alfred's cup of apple juice. "And you're on morphine. Just how-?"

"Twitter, broski. Twitter and Facebook." Alfred gave him a lopsided smile, waving his cell phone teasingly. "Now I know you're not nearly as cool as me, but you've probably heard."

Matthew just shrugged, noncommittal, and stretched out in the cheap plastic chair. "Yeah, but its whatever."

"It is not 'whatever'." Alfred mimicked in falsetto. He slapped the mattress indignantly. "This is Arthur 'I'm so British even though I moved here in the second grade' Kirkland. He's pimpin' and gangbangin' and you don't even care?"

"I really think that's all just rumor—"

"He's probably selling babies and silicone boobies too!"

"Did you know he's also wearing leather?"

Alfred gasped, blue eyes comically wide. The hospital-bound teen, leg wrapped in a heavy cast and elevated, leaned forward. "Oh. My. God."

And then he crossed himself, ignoring Matthew's quiet "We're not Catholic", and then grabbed his cell phone to text Kiku.

"Here are your notes." Matthew said, a grateful smile on his face.

Arthur accepted the notes with a nod.

The rest of the class looked on with anticipation, breath bated and shoulders tensed.

"Practice is canceled!" Gilbert hollered, speeding past Matthew. "Lighting in the sky means no coach on my dick!"

Matthew just stared after the teenager, thunder rumbling faintly in the distance.

Then he realized that his ride home had just left without him.

Oh damn it.

The metro was even more crowded in the pouring rain.

Matthew, mouth set in a pout, blinked blearily through waterlogged bangs as people maneuvered past him and got into his personal space.

A wayward elbow swung towards him and he dodged it. Unfortunately, he managed to bump into someone else.

"Sorry." He muttered before he realized who it was. "Oh, hi."

Arthur, mouth open and scathing words on the tip of his tongue, seemed to deflate. "Hello." He responded.

Both teenagers stared at each other.

Then Matthew blurted out, "You're not a skinhead who sells babies and keeps his pimp hand strong, are you?"

"I've said it once and I'll say it again. Our school is filled with fuckwits." Arthur said harshly, fumbling with a package of cigarettes until he managed to pull one out and bring it to his lips.

"So…you're not doing anything illegal?" Matthew asked, watching as the teenager lit the cigarette and took a deep drag, raising a thick eyebrow and just looking at Matthew.

"No." Arthur said, tone clipped. Smoke streamed out from the corner of his mouth, sharp and cloyingly sweet.

Matthew shoved his hands into his pocket and leaned back against the grimy wall of the subway stop as Arthur smoked next to him. The rain fell around them in quiet patters.

Then, after a few minutes of tense silence, the sandy-haired boy sighed. "I'm in a band."

The blond gave him a blank look. "Because that explains everything." He said, sarcasm rife in his words.

Arthur gave him a crooked smirk. "You've got a little bite under all that squishy, soft-spoken stuff." He gestured at Matthew with his cigarette, smoke writhing in curls of grey towards the clouds. "None of this is really new. My lungs are probably tar-filled and my liver hates me and this piercing is just a clip-on. But my car's in the shop and someone probably saw me heading to a gig so they assumed that I'm having a full-blown fit of rebellion."

"And that you're dealing drugs."

"I'm not dealing." Arthur said quietly, bringing the cigarette back to his lips.

Matthew stared at him, incredulous. But, as someone who had indulged in a little recreational drug use of his own, changed the subject. "So…what instrument do you play?"

"Play?" Arthur laughed, sharp and a little trilling. "I sing, mate."

"Matt. I do not approve." Alfred said sternly, crossing his arms and attempting to look scary.

"He's the Student Council President." Matthew rolled his eyes. "Do you really think he's a gangster? Lay off the Westside Story, brother."

"But—"

"I just borrowed notes from him, Al." Matthew gave his twin a hard look. "Now shut up and put on the game."

Matthew does not fit in an underground, grungy bar with stained floors and dim lighting.

He's terribly out of place with his khaki shorts, hooded sweatshirt, and innocent ( and slightly feminine in the wrong light) features. He has no piercings, tattoos, or bone to pick with society. He isn't really an outcast, despite his fleeting moments of romanticism and self-pity, and he's not really rebellious.

Matthew is a good kid, kind and polite and he reeks of 'nice guy' and its off-putting to everyone else save the odd pink-haired vixen that wants to corrupt him and ride him all night long like a stallion.

"Someone pinched me." Matthew hissed, clinging to Arthur's arm as the green-eyed teen easily navigated through the mob of people.

"Perhaps if your calves weren't so visible." Arthur said, entirely unsympathetic. "You could've said no, by the way."

"I thought you were going to give me a ride home."

"I did."

"Only so you could change and then drag me here. How was I supposed to think that you had anything other than innocent intentions? You drive a forest green station wagon!"

"Still. You didn't put up much of a fight." Arthur shrugged. But, upon glancing back and seeing the genuine discomfort on the other's face, he sighed and looped an arm around Matthew's waist. "Stay close." He whispered, tilting his head back so his breath warmed Matthew's jaw. "And don't make a scene."

"Why would I—"

Arthur's hand suddenly became very personal with Matthew's right buttock.

Coincidently, Matthew's face glowed red.

At least he bit back the shriek.

"What? No one pinched you after that." Arthur snapped.

"Yeah because there was no room what with your hand exploring my ass."

"Oh, as though you and your teammates don't behave in a more homoerotic manner."

Matthew immediately shut his mouth, remembering an incident involving marshmallow fluff, Ivan's car, and forty-three pounds of ground chicken.

It ended in tears, three declarations of war, two bloody noses, and the threat of a harassment suit.

"Look, no one around here messes with a taken bloke or bint." Arthur sighed, falling back on the ratty couch. "And no one would especially mess with my bloke—you—because I would ruin their day." He smiled, rather viciously.

Matthew didn't know if he wanted to be known as Arthur's 'bloke' but he supposed it could be worse.

Someone had managed to breach the band of his boxers.

Matthew shuddered and took a seat next to Arthur. "So where is the rest of your band?"

"Right here, cutie!" A girl suddenly interrupted, gliding into the room and winking coquettishly at the teen. "I'm Belle. Pleasure to meet you." She gave him a cheery smile, leaning down and kissing both his cheeks, her perfume teasing him.

Arthur looked unamused but Matthew was already a little besotted.

"She's a tramp but a decent drummer so we keep her on." Arthur explained.

"It helps that my brother is the manager." Belle responded blithely, not so gently tugging Arthur's messy spikes as she walked past him to sit in an over-stuffed armchair.

"And if her brother didn't get us regular gigs, we'd dump him for being an addict." Arthur added.

"You'd keep me on, Kirkland, for your fix regardless." A tall, ashen haired blond snorted, his hands in his pockets as he glared at Arthur. Then, lazy gaze sliding to Matthew, he smirked and said "You look chill."

"I try." Matthew replied, cautiously eyeing the taller male.

"Pineapple express or Black mote?"

"I prefer BC Bud." He said, suddenly, without thinking. Damn his recreational drug use.

But the atmosphere, while not heavy before, lightened considerably as Arthur gave him a different sort of look and the stranger laughed.

"I like this one." The blond said to Arthur. "Name's Will, kindred spirit."

And then he proceeded to wedge himself between the arm of the chair and Matthew.

"I'm Matthew." The blond said quietly, the smell of marijuana and cigarette smoke overcoming him, a little uncomfortable by the way Will was leering at him.

"He's my 'bloke'." Arthur added, smirking at Matthew when he rounded on him, violet eyes wide.

"I'm not really his 'bloke'." Matthew explained awkwardly to Antonio, recognizing the teenager as one of Gilbert's crew along with Francis (who was sick with mono and not syphilis as everyone seemed to think).

"Of course not. Who would want to be his?" Antonio laughed and patted his shoulder. "It would break Francis's heart. He likes you, you know."

Oh Matthew knew. Matthew knew all too well. Except, from the way Antonio sounded, it seemed as though Francis was madly in love with him. Francis just wanted to finish what he started in Montreal.

Matthew did not want to finish anything with Francis, especially not what happened in Montreal.

"Yeah, sure." The teenager laughed awkwardly, taking a spot behind the ratty velvet curtains as the band took their places on stage.

And then Arthur, all fluid, sinewy grace, stalked up to the microphone and opened his mouth.

Oh. My. God.

"So." Arthur said, casually, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. "This is the part where you tell me what you thought and where I might apologize for dragging you out here."

Matthew, hands gripping his knees, and expression shielded by his wheat-colored hair, just shook his head. "It was fine."

Arthur stared at him a moment longer. "Was it that traumatizing?" He half-asked, half-wondered. He sounded almost disappointed and Matthew panicked.

"It was great. You all sound great. You sing great. It was great." He breathed out, in one huge push of breath, his cheeks pink. "I'm a little in love I think—"

And that was when Arthur leaned forward and kissed him.

"Thanks." Matthew said quietly, eyes averted as he took the greasy bag of fast food out of Arthur's hands and waited, feet tapping against the floor of the car, as Arthur paid.

They drive for a little bit, not a word between them, until Arthur parks at a little spot off the highway overlooking the town. Matthew, wordlessly, passes him the French fries and then sits still, clenching the paper bag in thin fingers.

"I've been a little in love with you since the second grade when you shared your lunch with me because your brother threw my marmite sandwich into the sand." Arthur admitted, confession wavering in the still air. "I'm not bent or anything," He said hurriedly. "But…it's different with you. You…you accept people and you're kind—annoyingly so, but its almost endearing." He gives Matthew a helpless shrug and half-hearted smile. "This might be the worst time, but I want to kiss you again."

And Matthew isn't really sure and he doesn't really know how okay this is, but he can't find it in him to be mean or honest when Arthur looks so unsure and unconfident.

"Okay." He says, finally, and returns Arthur's bright smile with a softer one.

And Arthur leans forward, green eyes watching his face carefully, salt-covered fingertips pressing gently against the curve of Matthew's jaw, and covers Matthew's lips with his own, a kiss most chaste and fleeting and Matthew only barely catches a hint of tobacco and its pleasant. Very pleasant.

"Francis is going to be heartbroken." Alfred sighs.

Matthew stares at his brother. "How do you even—"

"Its all over Twitter, brosideon." The blond said solemnly, waving his cell phone. "By the way, let me know if he shouts 'jolly good' when he cums, okay?"

The nurses had to rush into the room to prevent Matthew from smothering his brother with a pillow.

"I'm a little insulted, Matt." Gilbert said casually, slinging an arm around the teen's shoulders. "You don't want a piece of this—" he paused to point at his dick, "—but you're practically creaming your panties at the thought of them brows?"

"You know what they say, Gilbert." Matthew said wryly. "The bigger the eyebrows, the bigger the—Christ, it's a joke. A joke!—don't tweet it and don't…don't hashtag penis—don't hashtag me!"

"Hey, Williams, your boyfriend is waiting for you!" Matthias called out, a smirk on his lips.

"Just so you know, we don't approve." Tino said quietly, grabbing his sleeve. "And Berwald is so disappointed."

"I'm sorry?" Matthew replied, so very bemused.

"It's a little like poetry." Matthew mused, spread out on Arthur's bed, shifting through his lyrics with keen eyes. "'I've seen the future, it's fading faster…'" He recited.

"No place I'd rather be, than right here, right now." Arthur finished, his voice curling around the edges of the words and dropping an octave, slightly scratchy but still managing to make Matthew shudder as the other teenager got onto the bed on one knee, bending down so that his lips were at Matthew's ear. "No time that I'd rather be…right here, right now." He whispered, dark and heated. His body was curved over Matthew's, his hand resting on the other's waist.

Matthew gave him a smile, feeling a little warm and giddy as he rolled over and pulled Arthur down to the bed.

It gets easier and easier to welcome Arthur into his life. The other seems to be holding himself in, balancing on eggshells and Matthew has no idea why but there's something utterly charming and sweet about it.

Arthur's eyes always seek him out in the crowd during performances and it makes Matthew squirm a little knowing that Arthur is singing at him, to him, for him and he's always left breathless.

Once Matthew gives in, everything starts to move faster and faster and it culminates to a heated encounter against the hot metal of Arthur's car outside the club where his band had just gotten done playing.

"Fuck." Matthew swore as Arthur pressed him up against the car, one hand at his belt loop and the other tugging at the curling strands at his nape.

Matthew, not really wanting to be idle but also enjoying the feeling of being pushing up onto the car, tangled his fingers in Arthur's hair, gripping the gelled strands and moaning hard into the kiss. Arthur's lips smooth across his, abandoning their activity to press frantic kisses to his jaw to just below his ear and then down his neck. Matthew, panting open-mouthed, pulls him closer with one leg, grinding against his pelvis, as Arthur pushes up his cotton shirt to get at Matthew's skin.

"Sod everything else, love." Arthur hissed, pressing against Matthew's open lips with his fingers, teasing him and stretching him just a little wider. "You're so hot like this, Matthew." And he kisses him, wet and hot and there's tongue and it's nice enough to make Matthew's knees buckle.

And coherent thought seems to be beyond Matthew so he just mumbles something nonsensical and a little whiny and struggles with Arthur's belt buckle and blushes rose-red when Arthur says, "You make the prettiest noises."

The next thing he realizes is that he can feel gravel under his knees and it stings a little but he's got Arthur almost unzipped and the other has fingers knotted in his hair and, okay, maybe they're both a little high and drunk because Arthur is telling the faeries to shield their eyes and Matthew is inclined to agree.

Then he manages to tug Arthur's pants down to his knees and, all of a sudden, he's nose to dick with Arthur's clothed erection and he doesn't really now what to do and his chest sort of seizes up and he sobers quickly, realizing that he's about to suck cock in semi-empty parking lot with flickering lights and the sound of the club bleeding a dull rhythm a few hundred feet away.

But he just sits there, coming down from his high, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes with Arthur's hand in his hair and Matthew realizes that he really, really doesn't want to do this like this right now. So when he glances up at Arthur, violet eyes damp and painfully wide, the teenager immediately slips down next to him, pants still undone, and just sits next to him, shoulders touching, pinkies touching, the feel of the tire at their back steadying them.

Arthur changes a little when he pulls off his oxford sweater and button up. With each loop of the chain around his waist, his uptight nature sheds away and there's a little more danger to him. By the time his ratty shirt is pulled on and hair is dragged into a fine mess, his bruised eyes are a little more predatory and Matthew almost doesn't recognize him.

He doesn't know which Arthur is real and it's dizzying to try and find the edges of the fantasy when everything is blurred and unsteady and soft all over.

But this is the Arthur who sings to him and steals away his breath, holding it just out of tongue's reach and makes Matthew hum and sing, strumming him like a guitar and coaxing the sweetest melodies from parted lips.

"Darling." Arthur whispers, dragging blunt nails down the curve of Matthew's back and mouthing at his pulse. He's relaxed, languid and warm and he gives the blond in his lap a half-lidded smile and buries his head into the dip of his shoulder.

Gentle petting and warm kisses are what Matthew wants. He enjoys the frantic, primal necking in dark corners and bite of brick at his back and the feel of calloused fingers gripping at skin, just skirting the edge of an uplifted shirt, but he loses part of himself in the rush of the moment and he's not okay with that. They always go a little too far and when he pushes Arthur away, he catches the ephemeral irritation in the other's expression and he feels guilty but its smoothed away soon enough by the deceleration of their heartbeats.

"I really don't approve." Alfred sighed, lounging on the couch with his leg resting on a pile of pillows. "I don't see how you could even want him. What happened to that babe from Mexico?"

"You slept with her." Matthew said flatly. "And now she hates your guts."

Alfred seemed to be trying to recall that memory. "…Oh." He said finally, dragging out the 'o'. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, bro, she was really bad at giving head." The teenager said brightly.

"I'm going to keep dating Arthur and ignore the fact that you seem to believe that you have any say over my life."

"Sure, sure. But can you get me some more soda? I'm parched."

Matthew did.

But he shook up the can first.

Helping his brother change out of sticky, soaked clothes was worth the high-pitched, girlish shriek his brother made when he got a face-full of soda.

"Don't fall asleep." Arthur chided, worn fingertips fussing with a wayward curl.

Matthew murmured something sleepily and gave the other a relaxed smile. "Just kiss me awake."

At school, Arthur is all wool and starched collars and grumpy. He isn't one for huge displays of affection (even though Matthew is half-terrified that he'll bite the head off a dove at a gig and present it to the blond, bits of feather fluff and bird blood all over his lips) but he's a solid, warm presence at Matthew's side in the library.

Matthew turns to kiss him.

Arthur ducks his head.

Matthew just stares at him, a little hurt and surprised. But he just smiles like its no big deal.

And then he slams his book shuts and storms out of the library while Arthur just watches him leave.

And that makes him a little angrier.

"Can I talk to you?"

"I'm practicing." Matthew responds, gripping his crosse and staring out at the field where his teammates are scrimmaging.

"…Right." Arthur sighed, breathing out and adjusting his stance, green eyes squinting in the bright midday sun. "Don't be cross, pet."

Matthew frowns harder. "I'm not cross. Now go away before I show you my crosse."

"But you're not Catholic."

"You're not very punny." Matthew said automatically, blanching. "Just go away."

"I'm just not one for public displays of affection, Matthew."

"Says the guy who had his hand down my pants in the middle of the club last night."

Arthur coughed a little, a faint flush at the tips of his ears. "Yes…well…that's different."

"No, its not."

They stand in awkward silence for a full minute before Arthur seems to go 'fuck it' and leans over and kisses Matthew's cheek.

"Happy?"

But Matthew's giving him a brilliant smile and he feels suddenly put on the spot and, yes, okay, apparently he's out of the doghouse and back in good graces.

Well, he's back in good graces for a little while. He manages to fuck up on the same issue the next day and the day after that and Matthew slams the door in his face when he tries to go to talk to the blond at his house.

"Can I at least explain?" He shouted through the door, one palm splayed on the dark green door.

The door is pulled open and Matthew is glaring at him with stormy eyes and he says in a clipped tone, "Can you do it in ten words or less?"

"Yes." Arthur says, confident and sure. "I love you."

And Matthew hates to admit it, but he sort of melts a little because he's always been a little romantic and that's the sort of thing girls dream about.

Except that he's not a girl. But it's still sweet.

…It made more sense in our respective heads, okay?

And its not a particularly fairytale-esque moment because the crazy Italian painter across the street is chasing after his beautiful model who is clothed in only a white sheet and just dashed out of his house and is trying to get into her car as the painter begs for forgiveness and his brother is trying to burp the ABCs behind him (and his Ds sound like his Zs) and there's no sunset or sunrise, in fact its muggy and Matthew is still sweaty from practice.

But Arthur is in an argyle sweater vest and patent leather shoes and Matthew, though unsure in the beginning, sees the boy who confessed to him and not the punk rocker and he forgives.

On the first day of summer, Arthur picks him up and says he's getting a tattoo.

Matthew follows him, a little hesitant, and watches as the tattoo artist with willowy arms decorated with swirls and blood and angel wings cleans a spot on Arthur's lower back.

"Last chance." Arthur gives him a wolfish smile. "I could be yours forever if you just say the word."

Matthew laughed, airy and a little soft in the buzz of the parlor.

In the end, Arthur gets a thorny rose and it's a little girlish but also a little ironic so Matthew supposes it balances out.

Will tells him that Arthur is chasing the dragon.

Matthew doesn't want to believe it.

If Matthew was a girl, he'd probably sob into Arthur's abandoned sweater vests and beg for his boyfriend back.

But he's a guy and…ah, fuck it.

"I don't know which of you I'm dating!" He snapped, fingers gripping the soft wool.

Arthur gives him an impassive look, torn jeans low on his hips and chest bare.

Matthew storms out before the first tears can fall.

Thankfully the relationship is too old for Twitter to care.

It's also too fucked up to sum up in 140 characters.

"Trouble in paradise?" Alfred asks as they drive in their parent's car to his physical therapy.

He misses the appointment that day. He says that he forgot.

He actually spent the entire time doing his best to comfort Matthew as the boy sobbed into his arms, slumped over the steering wheel, as the rest of the cars blurred past the ancient sedan on the side of the road.

There are many things Arthur wants to say to Matthew. He wants to tell him that his older brothers hate his guts because their father only loved Arthur's mother after breezing through three other nationalities. He wants to tell Matthew that it killed him to wear those stupid, perfectly ironed shirts and that he felt like a prat and a tool as Student Council President. He wants to say that graduation was a relief and that he didn't apply to college even though everyone assumed he'd go to Oxford because he had the grades and ambition and grit, but he didn't apply. He wants to say that his only escape was music and then, after, Matthew it was Matthew. He wants to beg Matthew to not leave him, please, forgive him because he needs a little of that mercy and even more of that love but he can't be the type of person Matthew deserves.

He wants to say that every moment felt like a lie and that the only time he felt genuine was behind the mike, on stage, with Matthew in his eyes.

But they all reek of excuse and inadequacy so he stays quiet and parks his car just out of sight so he can watch Matthew play lacrosse with his friends and he simultaneously loves and hates his free laughter and smiles.

"So, Francis is probably going to ask you out." Gilbert explained, attempting to trip Matthew with his lacrosse stick. "Since you and Artie are on the outs."

Deftly dodging the other's attempts, Matthew made a face. "Why? And we're not really on the outs."

"What? You didn't dump him after you found him in bed with a transsexual prostitute?" Gilbert looked shocked and then disappointed. "C'mon, Matt. I know you forgive easy, but that's not cool."

"He didn't—where do you get this shit?" Matthew lamented, shaking his head. "We've just been busy and, yes, you can tweet that. Also, tell Francis that I'm not interested."

"Hah! Like that ever stops him."

It was funny because it was true.

"What do you mean you're not going to college?" Matthew asked, terrified of the answer.

Arthur shrugged. "Just not right now." He's avoiding the other's eyes and he feels a little ill because Matthew is silent and the silence is threatening to swallow them whole.

"And you're telling me now?" Matthew's voice raises several pitches and Alfred is already walking over, concerned. "You…you…bastard." And a summer's worth of frustration, pent-up and straining at the seams, floods out in one single sentence. "Do I mean anything to you?"

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not." Matthew snapped through the door. "You say that but you never mean it and I'm tired. I'm sick and tired and I want my Arthur back."

"I am Arthur—"

"No." Matthew hissed, low and vicious, tearing open the door and giving him a bitter, hateful glare. "You're not. My Arthur is the one who brought marmite sandwiches to school for lunch and played soccer during recess. My Arthur opens doors for girls and fights with Francis and my brother. My Arthur always gets me strawberry milkshakes because he thinks they're sweet just like me. My Arthur knows who he is and doesn't play poker with my heart!" He takes a deep shuddering breath, golden bangs falling into his eyes. "Maybe once you were my Arthur, but now you're just a stranger."

And it's the worst-case scenario and Arthur knows he shouldn't but he regrets the first words out of his mouth. "I think it's best if we broke up."

And something in Matthew's face twists and crumples but he just says, "Maybe you're right."

"You know it was the right thing, bro." Alfred said quietly, sitting down next to his brother and spreading a soft cotton throw over them. "Wannabe punk rock, drugs, and no prospects to speak of at the moment. Anthropologists would say he's not a good mate."

Matthew said nothing, eyes bruised and knees pulled to his chest. The crime show on television has just ended and now its some reality show and girls are calling each other 'bitches' and 'sluts' and normally it'd make him feel better but he really just wants some ice cream and to go the shooting range but its closed so there goes that idea.

"We have moose tracks." Alfred says, bumping their shoulders together. "A full carton of it."

Without hearing a response, the boy hobbles off to the kitchen and retrieves the ice cream, two spoons, and changes the channel to some cheesy Sci-fi movie.

Matthew feels a little bit better. But he still misses Arthur.

Arthur is still kicking himself and feels like garbage.

On the bright side, he writes some of the best songs he ever has in his rut of depression and angst.

"'I still have your taste in my mouth. I'd kiss you awake but I want this dream too much.'" He sings, a little brokenhearted and a little bitter but mostly regretful and he thinks that, for a teenage relationship, it hurts too much to be meaningless.

When the song finishes and Belle's drum solo tempers out and Antonio's guitar stops strumming, Arthur sort of sighs, eyes shutting, as he grips the mike stand, raucous applause thundering in his ears and he doesn't want to open his eyes again because he knows Matthew isn't there and he feels cold.

There's a party at the very end of the summer and when the lacrosse boys tumble in, tan and fresh-faced, right behind the hockey players, Arthur catches sight of Matthew right in the center, Gilbert to his right with a friendly arm around his shoulder. Matthew sees him, something soft and pitying in his eyes when he sees Arthur in a crisp white shirt, rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned, and jeans and he slips away from his friends easily and makes his way to the corner that Arthur has taken refuge in.

"You look good." Arthur says, absently dragging his fingers through his short hair.

"No, I don't." Matthew laughed tonelessly. "I've been dumped before and its never hurt this much."

And Arthur wants to pull him close and bury his face in the other's hair and count the seconds on Matthew's heartbeat because he's aching and still more than a little in love and its second grade all over again and the little invisible boy is smiling at the weird new kid and his stomach feels light and funny all over again.

"I'm not going to make you choose between your music and me, or even the drugs and me." Matthew said quietly, voice hushed and if Arthur wasn't so intent on the other he'd miss it under the blasting of the music. "I don't have that right—"

"You do." Arthur interrupted suddenly. "You could, I mean. I mean…" He trails off, taking a deep breath. "I could try…for you. I'm not really perfect and I'm not pleasant to be around and I'm selfish and I don't deserve you. I will gladly be whatever you want."

"But then you wouldn't really be you." Matthew said gently, reaching out and lacing their fingers together. "Its not fair to ask."

"I want you back. Let me at least try again."

And maybe, against his better judgment, Matthew acquiesces.

"Only if you can let me, as well."

I've written a lot of nonsense, but I think this takes the cake.

Who wants more mochi sex? -shot-

Seriously, someone take my laptop away.