Hello, everyone . . . it's Nightfall again.

First of all, please let me apologize profusely for not updating this fic since September. SEPTEMBER.

That . . . that's kind of long. I blame school and extracurriculars for screwing me over and completely taking over what little life I originally had in the first place - that is, assuming that I had a life to begin with.

Thank you so much, to all of you who reviewed, faved, and/or alerted. You truly are the pushing force behind the writing of this second chapter; otherwise I would mostly likely have left this entire story to languish and eventually fade into oblivion, and that's never a good thing. Every time I entertained the thought of just letting this story slide and fade back a little, I'd get some sort of FF alert that would surprise me and make me think, "Whoa! There are still people reading my crap?" and the like.

So, yes, it took me almost four months to churn out this chapter, and it was definitely not easy. School and my daily life sap my creative energy, and it took many, MANY hours of sitting in front of the computer with a blank expression on my face, surfing YouTube and tumblr, and listening incessantly to indie/alt rock. (I'm looking at you, DCFC, Keane, and Built to Spill. What on earth would I do without you?)

I'd also like to apologize to the people who I haven't PM'ed in, uh, four months. Don't worry, my social life in reality is suffering the same way. D:

I shall cease rambling for now - I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Sunlight drifted in through the half-open window, settling in golden motes across the mahogany surfaces of the desks. In the unexpected warmth of the afternoon, it was like a spell: a cloud of lethargic languor alighted upon the classroom, leaving nodding heads and drowsy eyelids in its wake.

Arthur Kirkland, however, was perfectly awake. Leaning back against his chair, he tapped out a quiet rhythm with his fountain pen against the desk as he surveyed the professor standing at the head of the room, wondering if he had yet noticed that over two-thirds of his class were no longer paying attention. The lecture had long ago devolved into incoherent rambling over some literary theme or other, and Arthur had ceased to take notes, occupying himself instead with drafting one of the many papers that he still had to complete before the term's end.

Raising his head, he cut a glance across the room at Francis Bonnefoy, who was seated on the opposite side, his desk placed slightly apart from the others—the reason for this being that every professor in the university knew full well of his wanton behavior, and had taken precautions to ensure that he would not be trifling with his fellow students in the middle of a class. He, too, seemed quite awake, if rather disinterested. Arthur watched him fidget about in his seat for a few moments, sigh impatiently, then remove a small mirror from his pocket and glare critically at his hair.

Arthur snorted and turned his eyes back to the open notebook before him. There was no danger of Francis falling asleep now, he knew; his incredibly inflated vanity would keep him occupied for hours.

He had meant to return to writing his draft, but he found himself turning instead to the back pages of the notebook, where he'd scribbled down several ideas for a novel he'd had several days earlier. Arthur's lips curved into a small smile as he gazed at the words that contained his hopeful dreams, and he brushed his fingers against the page.

Not yet, he reminded himself. Not until you finish the term and graduate . . . but soon.

The clock chimed three, stirring Arthur from his thoughts and sending many of the other students jolting from their seats in alarm. The professor, too, gazed about himself distractedly, as if he had been woken from a distant trance.

"Ah—good day, gentlemen!" he bellowed after his already-retreating pupils. "Remember to review the class notes, and your expositions are also due the next time we meet!"

Arthur heaved a quiet sigh as he leant across to retrieve his satchel; yet more work that demanded his precious time to complete.

Clipped footsteps announced the approach of Francis Bonnefoy as he drew up beside Arthur's desk, concealing a lazy yawn behind a delicately angled hand, as if the mere act of sitting through class had exhausted him.

"Our dear professor seems to be losing his wits more and more with each passing day," Francis declared, slanting a glance across the room. "Did you even listen to half of the drivel he was babbling about today?" He shook his head disgustedly as they left the classroom. "I am far too beautiful to have been in there for so long. All of this being closeted indoors for hours on end—oh, mon Dieu, it will do horrors to my complexion."

"Perhaps you would appreciate the class more if you listened, you frog," Arthur snapped, "as opposed to admiring your hair at all hours of the day. I haven't any idea how you are even still passing."

Francis pouted, placing a protective hand over his carefully arranged blond hair, which he wore at a supposedly fashionable length so that it could be tied back with a ribbon. "Perhaps you think that I am the one losing my wits, Arthur? You wound me—you of all people should be aware of my cunning intelligence."

Arthur snorted.

"I beg to differ," he retorted, pulling open the door that led out into the university courtyards. Bright sunlight fell across the threshold, blinding him momentarily. "When you informed me that your profession of choice was literary critic, I nearly died right then and there, out of sheer amusement."

"Must you always be so cruel to me, my friend?" Francis sighed heavily and stepped outside onto the path, turning back to face Arthur. "Very well, since we are making no headway on this subject of conversation, let us move on to another." He tilted his head at Arthur as they walked, letting his gaze linger searchingly upon him. "Your charming young companion. The handsome Américain. You are meeting him shortly, are you not?"

Arthur stopped abruptly and whirled to face him sharply, narrowing his eyes.

"You stay away from him," he ordered. "Haven't you got a couple of girls to go skirt-chasing after? Or have you tired of flirting with the teachers, you filthy libertine? I've enough to do without having to worry about you violating Alfred."

Francis let out a loud, delighted laugh. He put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, but the other man shrugged it off crossly.

"How defensive you are, Arthur!" he exclaimed. "I was merely asking a very simple, very innocent question—but here you interpret it as an attempt on my part to make an advance upon your dear Alfred. Fear not, mon cher; I am fully aware of how your romantic life has suffered these past few years. I certainly will not try to take a potential lover from you. The fact that he has not fled from you within a month says much about this relationship of yours."

"Why do you find it so difficult to hold your tongue, Francis?" Arthur snapped. "My affairs are my own. I can do without your insulting and unnecessary comments."

"There is another thing," Francis noted after a pause. "Why is it that your own vile tongue is never evident around him, Arthur? I have asked you this once before—several times before—but you have always declined to answer."

"That is because I am not obliged to," Arthur said coldly, striding down the winding stone path away from him. "And perhaps it is because I find Alfred to be far more pleasant company than you are."

"More pleasant company?" Francis echoed, hurrying after him. "Who could ever entertain better than myself, Arthur? Non, I feel the reason why you keep such a tight check on your temper around him is because you are afraid of repulsing him."

"Then you would be incorrect." Arthur's voice was tense. "Why don't you keep a check on your own words, Francis."

"Whatever you say, Arthur." Francis drew out a labored sigh that made it almost insultingly evident that he did not believe him. "Just know that it is impossible to hide your true nature from the world forever." He glanced off to the side, his blue eyes narrowing slightly in recognition. "Ah, and speaking of your petit amour . . . here he comes now."

Perhaps more grateful than he'd care to admit for the opportunity to end his current conversation with Francis, Arthur turned to see three figures strolling through the gate at the far end of the courtyard. One of them was a powerfully built man with slicked blond hair, whom he recognized immediately as Ludwig Beilschmidt. A slender, brown-haired young man with rather hunched shoulders walked beside him, seeming very small in comparison. Arthur knew him as Toris Lorinaitis, a somewhat timid and nervous character, but Alfred had mentioned that he was an especial friend of his. Alfred himself was strolling beside Toris, looking almost unbearably handsome with his face glowing in the sunlight and his dark-blond hair shining like burnished gold. The sound of his laughter was audible even across the vast rows of bright flowers.

"Good afternoon," Arthur said as they drew near; he glanced out of the corner of his eye at Alfred, whose smile widened in response. A quiet snort at his side drew his attention, and he turned to see Francis watching with raised eyebrows indicating that he had not missed the exchange.

"Kirkland. Bonnefoy." Ludwig nodded at each of them in turn in his taciturn way, barely pausing as he sorted through a sheaf of papers tucked in his arm. Toris smiled shyly, while Alfred shuffled a little impatiently, seeming to be unable to keep his eyes off Arthur.

"Ah, Alfred, mon cher," Francis enthused, sweeping forward to the other man's side. "I trust that you remember me?"

Alfred tore his gaze hurriedly away from Arthur and considered Francis for a while, tilting his head to the side. "Oh! Uh . . . hello, Francis. I haven't seen you in a while."

"A shame, is it not?" The Frenchman sighed, placing his hand on Alfred's arm. From the corner of his eye, Francis saw Arthur glowering at him. "Do not let this stuffy old Briton take up too much of your time. I do so enjoy the conversations that we share, however few that may be."

"Oh . . . of course," Alfred said awkwardly. He cut a quick glance at Toris, as if begging for help, but the other man could only offer a tiny, bewildered hitch of his shoulders.

"If you'll excuse me," Arthur cut in sharply, "I am afraid Francis and I must take ourselves off." He gave a quick jab at Francis's arm. "Come, do you want to be late for Latin class again?"

Ludwig straightened the sheaf of papers in his arm. "We must be along as well, Mr. Jones, Mr. Lorinaitis. We have our report on general relativity to present this afternoon."

"Very well," Toris agreed quietly, while Alfred grinned at him.

"You can't ever call us by our first names, can you, Ludwig?"

Francis lifted his hand in a wave. "Farewell, Alfred. I hope I shall see you again soon. And the same to you, Toris, Ludwig."

"Alfred, I will see you tonight," Arthur called after him as the three men made their way across the courtyard, and was pleased when Alfred turned and waved cheerfully at him in response before disappearing through the door.

Francis smirked smugly at him. "Such a delightful young man, he is. If he can be wooed by someone such as yourself, I would certainly have no problem with him, oui?"

Arthur leveled a furious glare at him.

"What the hell was that about, frog-face?" he hissed in a voice unmistakably full of venom as he grabbed Francis's arm none-too-gently and steered him towards the east-facing door. "That was disgusting—must you take your coarse, blatant flirting to my Alfred? Haven't you enough gullible youths and barmaids to practice your obscenities on?"

Francis tugged his arm free and stepped a pace away, feigning an expression of wide-eyed hurt.

"Arthur, Arthur, how could you think that your dearest friend would ever do such a thing to you? I was merely being friendly and acquainting myself with your sweetheart. After all, you are clearly enamored of him and I can see that we shall be spending a great deal of time in each other's company in the future."

"There is a very thin line between friendliness and coquetry," Arthur ground out, "and you are treading on it. Leave us both be."

"Do you not think that you are deceiving the boy, acting this way?" Francis's tone suddenly grew serious, losing all traces of his previous teasing. "This is not something you can take lightly, mon ami. Have you considered what could happen, should you lose your temper with him? It is all very well now, with you happily in love and feeling mild and good-tempered, but love does not always follow a smooth path—as we both know well."

"Do you think that Alfred cannot accept me as I am?" Arthur snapped, stung by Francis's words. By now, they were nearing the lecture hall where their class was to take place, and he lowered his voice. "I assure you, I am not hiding anything from him. And I have no fear of anyone taking him from me—least of all you."

A slow smile of amusement spread across Francis's face as the two of them entered the vast lecture hall and seated themselves in the back row.

"Is that so?" His voice, though soft, rang with gentle mockery. "Rest assured that it shall not be me who attempts to steal him from you. It seems that even you sometimes forget the most basic rule of l'amour. As our professor would put it—omnia iusta sunt amore belloque."

"Are you all right, Alfred?" Arthur asked, glancing over his shoulder.

He was answered by the glint of a streetlamp's light refracting off the other man's glasses in the dark, as well as a shaky intake of breath. The great building before them stood impassively waiting, its windows glowing with inviting golden light that spilled out across the steps fanning out from the doors and onto the pavement. There were far grander ones on the wealthier avenues, Arthur knew, most exclusively reserved for the highest of high society, but as far as privileged social clubs went, this one did quite nicely—elegantly faced with white stone, with beautifully tiered columns and the serene features of a Greek muse carved above the mantel, and arched frames inset with curving windows.

Of course, he'd seen his share of exquisite architecture back home in England, having lived in an impressive manor for most of his childhood and been shipped from one expensive boarding school to another. He hadn't given any thought before as to how imposing such a display of affluence might seem to someone of a humbler background.

"You . . . you're certain they'll let me in there?"

The younger man's voice was tinged so openly with fear and hesitation that Arthur instinctively took his hand and pressed it briefly, comfortingly. The poor boy; of course he was daunted by the sight of all the grandeur and refinement that he himself had always taken for granted. He wasn't to know how to behave in such a situation, so naturally he would feel more than a little intimidated.

(It was a refreshing change, actually, being out with someone who did not pompously flaunt his wealth at every turn, who would not bore him silly with talk of snobbery and ill-spirited gossip, who did not think that money and privilege could secure adoration, who was drawn to his person and not to his esteem.

Still, he had to wonder whether or not he was being too forward—inviting a man whose acquaintance he had made barely over three hours ago to this party. Did Alfred think that he was pompous? he thought with a sudden rush of panic. Perhaps inviting him to such a setting had been too presumptuous; he certainly didn't want to appear as if he were showing off or anything of the sort, though Alfred did seem to genuinely like him and hadn't raised any protest against Arthur's courtship of him—)

"You are my guest," Arthur told him. "I am sure they will let you in. It isn't particularly formal company that we'll be meeting with, besides; do not worry. I know you shall enjoy yourself."

Alfred lifted his head, meeting Arthur's encouraging smile with uncertainty in his blue eyes. Finally, he managed to summon the wavering ghost of a grin in return.

"A - all right. If you say so."

Arthur gave his hand another reassuring squeeze (good lad) and led him up the steps. As they passed through the doors into the foyer, he caught sight of a group of young men, laughing raucously as they hung their coats up on the wall. Tensing, he quickened his pace, intending to walk past them as quickly as possible, but halted as he realized that Alfred was no longer moving. He glanced back to see what had arrested his companion, and saw that he was standing still in the middle of the foyer, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in the scene.

Arthur smiled and tilted his head, following Alfred's line of sight to the enormous cut-glass chandelier which hung, resplendent in faceted brilliance, from the ceiling. He did not usually give it particular attention, but he supposed Alfred had never seen such things before. The younger man's fascinated gaze trailed over the fine oak paneling and heavy wine-colored draperies, seemingly enchanted with everything it took in.

("It is a lovely hall, is it not?" Arthur inquired of his dinner companion as the pair swept through the doors—this night he was the son of a prominent jeweller, his very tone dripping with the suggestion of diamonds and rubies weighted upon heavy brass scales when he spoke.

"Lovely?" The man snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "Do you truly think so, Mr. Kirkland? You must never have been to Longfellow's Club, further downtown—now there is where you shall see decent décor. Fine imported paintings on the walls, gold and silver laid out on the tables . . . it would put this place to shame, indeed." He gave a disgusted snort. "This is all so mediocre.")

"This is all so beautiful, Arthur. . . ."

Alfred's soft, awestruck whisper shook Arthur from his thoughts. "Hmm?"

"The chandelier." Alfred's eyes were alight with enthusiasm. "It looks so delicate. And the patterns on the floor, it must have taken such a long time to lay out . . . " He cut himself off abruptly, blushing as he realized that he was rambling. "Oh—I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Arthur smiled warmly. "If you admire the chandelier, though, you might like the one in the main hall. Come, I think it is about time we went in."

They were greeted by the soft notes of a classical piece when they entered the room. It was vast, though somewhat lower-ceilinged, with the chandelier that Arthur had mentioned suspended in its centre, throwing jeweled light from myriad glass drops over white-clothed tables arranged about a raised stage, with a bar serving drinks in the back. A magnificent grand piano blossomed its rich ebony tones from upon the stage, and as Alfred and Arthur approached, they saw that a man was seated at it, his eyes closed and his fingers gliding masterfully above the keys.

"That man is Roderich Edelstein," Arthur murmured to Alfred. "He does not attend my university, but is studying music at a different school. He is a professional pianist and comes here often to play."

Roderich Edelstein finished his piece and stood up from the piano, to scattered, appreciative applause from those below the stage. He was a serious-faced young man with dark brown hair and glasses perched at an imperious angle on his nose, dressed in a deep violet coat embroidered with gold. His very posture exuded elegance and sophistication; he was well-known among the community for his private musical education and an illustrious ancestry traced through Austrian aristocracy. Arthur had often visited the club just to listen to Roderich play—his music had the charms to soothe a savage breast, as the saying went.

"Arthur." Roderich, descending the steps of the stage, had caught sight of him. He crossed the room to shake hands with him. "It is good to see you."

"And you," Arthur responded. He gestured towards the piano. "The piece that you were playing a moment ago sounded wonderful."

"Thank you. It is a piece in the impressionist style, by Claude Debussy. Have you ever heard of him? A French composer. Exquisite music." His eyes drifted over Arthur's shoulder, landing on Alfred. "Ah—I don't believe we've ever met, have we?"

"This is Alfred Jones, a new friend of mine." Discreetly, Arthur nudged him forward, smiling reassuringly when Alfred glanced back at him hesitantly. "He has been good enough to accompany me to the party tonight."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones." Roderich offered his hand, which Alfred shook. Arthur gave silent thanks that Roderich seemed in an amiable enough mood tonight, and had not made any comment on the quality of Alfred's clothing or anything else that would have caused him to feel self-conscious. "You are not studying at Arthur's university, are you? I thought that I would have seen you before, if you were . . . it seems that these irresponsible university scoundrels are always about the place, drinking their evenings away."

Arthur chuckled uncomfortably as Roderich sent a very pointed look in his direction, which Alfred followed with some confusion. He would rather have died than confess it, but he could not deny that on (far too) many occasions, he had been found in a thoroughly humiliating state of inebriation, engaging in somewhat-less-than-appropriate behavior.

"Please . . . Roderich, do not embarrass me." He spoke as charmingly as he could, hoping that the pianist would grasp his meaning and refrain from revealing any further instances of indignity.

To his credit, Roderich said no more about the subject, which was tremendous restraint for him; he had lectured the university students many a memorable evening on the absolute disreputability of their character (which inevitably would lead up to his haughty proclamation of "I shall now express how utterly disgusted with you all I am through the piano" and several hours of Chopin or Beethoven).

"I - I actually don't attend Arthur's university, but I'd like to become a physicist," Alfred said, stuttering slightly.

Roderich looked impressed.

"A physicist—that is the very profession that my friend Ludwig Beilschmidt is studying towards. I confess I know little about the field, but perhaps when Ludwig arrives, you could speak to him about it."

"I'll do that, thank you."

A burst of laughter pealed out at the other end of the hall, and they turned to see a slight, pale-haired man, attired in a dark blue suit, charging through the doors. His eyes were wild with mirth, and he seemed not to care that many in the room were turning dirty glances in his direction or moving well out of his vicinity. A taller man with slicked blond hair followed him, sighing wearily and passing his hand over his forehead.

"Mein Gott," Arthur heard Roderich mutter disgustedly from behind him. "There goes that fool again. He hasn't any sense of decorum or modesty at all. How he dares to come here behaving that way, I'd like to know. . . ."

"Who is that?" Alfred asked, looking bewildered.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt." Roderich pronounced the name as if eating something bitter. "Otherwise known as the first person that society would like to ostracize. A rude, mischief-making miscreant who obviously has never grown up—I cannot see the barest hint of a resemblance between him and his brother. I would not be surprised if he were drunk already."

They watched Gilbert's demented flight across the floor, cutting between tables and bounding past chairs. His brother, Ludwig, trailed after him, weakly imploring, "Please, bruder, do not embarrass yourself . . ."

Gilbert only cackled and ascended the stage in one dangerous leap, coat-tails flapping. He peered out over the room, a delighted expression appearing on his face when he caught sight of Roderich, whose enormous scowl should have by all rights burnt the eyebrows off his forehead.

"Why, hello there, aristocrat!" he crowed. "Come to play the piano for us, have you?" He fluttered his hands in the air before him in a mocking imitation of Roderich's skillful fingers.

Roderich reddened, but managed to keep his glare fixed firmly in place.

"Why are you even here, you miscreant?" he demanded. "Other than to completely disrupt this party, I mean. Ludwig!" He confronted the taller of the two brothers. "Why did you bring him?"

"It was not my choice, Roderich." Ludwig sighed heavily. "You know very well what my bruder is like. It is not easy to talk him out of the prospect of alcohol and readily annoyed people."

"What? Are you not pleased to see me, Roddy?" Gilbert crooned, spreading his arms wide. Arthur was put in mind of a large, manic bird. "I know you enjoy my company, even if you won't say so yourself!"

"Do not delude yourself," Roderich said coldly.

Gilbert snorted and sat down with a graceless thud on the edge of the stage, rolling his odd wild eyes. "Very well, then, if you are going to be so uptight all night. . . . Where is Basch? Now, he is always up for a bit of excitement!"

"I do not know," Roderich sniffed haughtily. "He said that he had to remain home to look after Lili, though my understanding is that he refused to come in order to avoid you."

Gilbert sulked visibly before narrowing his eyes at Arthur and Alfred, who were standing beside Roderich.

"Oh, hello, Arthur. Lovely to see you. How unfortunate it is that you are just as uptight as Roderich—that is, until you have had a couple of drinks poured into you." Cackling gleefully, he leapt off the stage and approached them. "But who is this? I haven't seen you here before," he mused, addressing Alfred. "I suppose you came to make the acquaintance of none other than the awe-inspiring Gilbert Beilschmidt?"

"He came to meet civilized company," Arthur snapped, "and I hardly think that you meet the standards. In any case, this is my companion, Alfred Jones."

"Companion, eh?" Gilbert smirked and raised his eyebrows suggestively. "So you have got yourself another one, Arthur! He looks a good deal more intelligent than the last one, so let us hope that you can keep him longer. Now, Alfred, is it?" Gilbert wrapped an arm around Alfred's shoulders, pulling him away from Arthur and leaning in conspiratorially. "Believe me, you would much rather spend time with me than that tedious lot. I will tell you that right now, before you waste too many of your hours on stupid, straight-laced highbrows like Roderich. Whenever they begin boring you, you ought to come find me and my friends. Now, we know how to have a good time!"

"A - all right," Alfred answered, stumbling backwards in surprise as Gilbert suddenly shoved him away and vaulted forward to greet a tall, elegant man in the midst of a group of others standing at the doors. Arthur recognized them as the group he had seen in the foyer, and only just managed to refrain from swearing aloud.

"Francis!" Gilbert clapped the man enthusiastically on the shoulder, causing him to wince slightly. "Gott sei Dank, you are finally here. Perhaps this party will not be wholly ruined, after all."

"Mon Dieu, are you drunk already?" The newcomer scowled disapprovingly. "As much as I appreciate your affectionate greetings, I do not enjoy having to deal with the havoc that you cause immediately after arriving at a party."

"Ah, but we have more important affairs to deal with tonight." Smirking, Gilbert draped one arm over Francis's shoulder and beckoned him to lean in closer. "Unfortunately, Basch could not make it; I suspect he's still sore about our little prank involving him and Roderich at the last party. However . . . Arthur has brought his new little gentleman-friend with him tonight."

Arthur glared, bitterly observing the way Francis jolted with surprise at those words and looked disbelievingly at Gilbert. The situation was difficult enough for Alfred without Gilbert prancing off to Francis and gossiping about him like a man's buttinsky mother-in-law.

Under normal circumstances, Arthur would have confronted Gilbert and given him a good dose of verbal (and most likely, physical) virulence, consequences be damned, but tonight was different; tonight he was with someone he genuinely liked, and he felt a curious need to keep up appearances.

He swallowed his fury and, seeing that Alfred was beginning to look flustered and uneasy, took his hand gently, narrowing his eyes at Francis as he approached to let him know not to expect any sort of welcome from him.

"Hello, Francis," he said coolly.

"Arthur, mon ami," Francis purred in a voice as silken as the azure suit he was wearing, "how charming it is to see you again. How are you this evening?"

"I was having a fairly lovely time." Arthur placed a slight emphasis on was.

Alfred's eyes flickered between the pair; no doubt he had sensed the tension crackling like dry summer air off of a cat's fur.

Francis pouted. "Now, Arthur. There is no need to be so ill-tempered. This is a party, is it not?"

"I know what you want, you salacious frog," Arthur snapped. "And to spare both your and my time, I will address the point directly, before you and Gilbert go on tittle-tattling like a pair of old wives. Alfred Jones," he said, gesturing to his companion, "has done me the honor of accompanying me as my guest tonight. As he is new to the company assembled here, I trust that you will not make unseemly impressions and disgrace yourselves."

Francis's eyebrows lifted as he gazed at Alfred, and his eyes went half-masted for a moment. "My, my! He is quite a bit handsomer than your last escort," he murmured, eyeing Alfred with such blatant interest that Arthur was seized by the urge to hit him. "Wherever did you find him, Arthur? I would never have expected to see you accompanied by someone of such attractive appearance."

Alfred reddened, apparently very uncomfortable under the intensity of Francis's attention. Arthur knew all too well the disconcerting feeling of being visually undressed by the Frenchman's gaze, having been subjected to it many times himself at the beginning of their mutual acquaintance before he finally struck Francis in the face (leaving a bruise of considerable size and endurance) and told him in no uncertain terms that the same would happen again if he did not cease staring inappropriately.

"I did not find him anywhere," Arthur replied sharply, resenting the way Francis seemed to be suggesting that he had merely taken Alfred along to show him off, as one might exhibit a piece of jewelry or an expensive garment. Oh, he had never forgotten how cruel and keen-edged the probing tongue of society was, but it did not make him hate it any less.

"No?" Francis formed the syllable with delicate precision, clearly inviting further clarification, but when none was forthcoming, he sighed and turned instead to Alfred. "Very well, if you insist on being so close-lipped . . . Now, Alfred, as I assume you and Arthur are so very close, I am sure he has mentioned me, his dearest friend?"

". . . not exactly," Alfred said after a lengthened pause.

"My dear, I am Francis Bonnefoy." Francis smiled ingratiatingly. "Do pardon my idle curiosity. You must understand that when I hear tell that Arthur has found himself a new companion, I would of course be interested. Tell me, how exactly did you meet darling Arthur?"

Alfred stiffened, but Arthur had already intervened: "He does not have to answer to you, so you can kindly leave off with the interrogation. I have promised Alfred my company this evening, so if you'll excuse us."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned abruptly on his heel and walked away, guiding Alfred with him.

"I should be delighted to see more of you in future, Alfred!" Francis called after them; Arthur could hear the smirk in his tone and gritted his teeth, attempting to direct his mind away from the double meaning that that statement encompassed. "Arthur, I shall be by later. You cannot ignore me forever, you know."

"I can bloody well try," Arthur muttered savagely as he made his way with Alfred towards the back of the room, well away from Francis and other prying eyes. "Now, Alfred, shall we have something to drink? Or a meal, even, if you are hungry."

"A drink would be fine, thank you."

Alfred was quiet for a moment, and Arthur thought to ask if he was well, but decided not to press it for the time being. When their champagne arrived, amber-colored and frothing, Arthur picked up his glass and clinked it against the side of Alfred's.

"Thank you for coming here with me tonight," he said. "I know that this all must be rather overwhelming, but I do hope that you are enjoying yourself."

Alfred nodded vehemently, choking slightly as the champagne slid too quickly down his throat. Arthur stretched his hand across the table to pat his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Alfred managed at last, glancing up at him with a wry expression. "I don't drink all that often, really, though this wine is very good."

"I thought you were employed at a pub," Arthur said, amused.

"Yes, but one of us needs to remain sober." Alfred laughed, the tension in his face dissolving as he did so. He seemed more at ease now, perhaps because they had distanced themselves from Francis and the others.

"I apologize for that . . . ah, little incident back there. With Francis." Arthur nodded his head in the Frenchman's direction, lowering his voice. "He has always been an insufferable, intrusive git. Unfortunately, he was the first person to 'befriend' me, technically, when I arrived here, and ever since he has been completely unable to keep his nose out of my private life. If it was not already common knowledge that he flirts widely, I would have thought that he had designs on me himself."

"I wouldn't be surprised." Alfred hesitated, parting his lips if he were about to say something else, but closed his mouth again.

"What is it, Alfred?" Arthur asked gently.

"It's nothing, really. I . . . I was just wondering why Gilbert and Francis were so interested . . ."

He trailed off awkwardly, but Arthur understood what he was asking. He set down his glass, inwardly cursing Francis with all his might.

"Well, Alfred . . . there are the obvious reasons, of course. You are new to our company—and certainly they find you fascinating and handsome . . ." He felt himself flush at that, and lowered his gaze to the table in heated embarrassment, though a stolen glance at Alfred revealed that he had similarly reddened. "Then there remains the fact that I haven't had much luck in the way of beaus for quite a while. Francis has often teased me because of it."

Alfred's stunned expression in response was enough to make the color flood back to Arthur's skin once more.

"That cannot be true," he said in disbelief, before clearing his throat and looking shyly away. "Ah, I mean . . . I don't see how anyone would not want to be with you."

Arthur swallowed and focused his attention on his champagne glass, well aware of his burning face.

"That—that is very kind of you to say, Alfred. I confess that I haven't much of an idea as to what others have thought of me in the past . . . but I do know that you are the first person I have ever truly enjoyed spending time and talking with."

Alfred's strikingly blue eyes were on his then, wide with astonishment. Arthur's heart knocked lightly against his ribs as he gazed back at him, and he found himself inexplicably unable (or unwilling) to pull away.

"Is that true?" Alfred asked tentatively, cautiously, almost as if the words would burn his tongue if he spoke too quickly.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps it was the sheer incredulity of this entire remarkable evening. "Yes."

"Excuse me, Mr. Kirkland?"

And suddenly, there was a brief tap on his shoulder. Caught off guard, Arthur twisted about in his chair only to see Ludwig Beilschmidt, who was standing there stiffly with a vaguely uncomfortable expression on his face.

"I am sorry if I am interrupting anything," he said, "but I felt obliged to apologize for Gilbert's behavior earlier. My bruder speaks loosely and irresponsibly when he drinks, but he does not mean it." He sighed heavily. "I do not know what has gotten into him tonight; I hope that you will pardon him."

"It is quite all right," Arthur said hurriedly, to put him at ease, though in truth there was nothing he would have liked better than to have Gilbert forcibly removed from the premises. He watched the pale-haired man standing in the distance, once again engaged in quarreling with Roderich, and idly wondered why no one had thought to do so already.

"None of you have any sense of humor!" Gilbert was loudly accusing. "If I didn't come to these parties of yours, there wouldn't be any merrymaking whatsoever. Everything would be left up to you and your stuffy rules, and you would be doing something absurd like . . . like rationing the alcohol!"

Ludwig shook his head resignedly as Gilbert and Roderich continued to bicker. "Please do not be alarmed if he begins singing or dancing," he muttered, looking very pained. He turned to Alfred. "I hope that my bruder's antics have not put you off from joining any of our future gatherings, Mr. . . .?"

"Jones," Alfred supplied. "Alfred Jones."

Ludwig shook his hand. "I am Ludwig Beilschmidt. It is a pleasure to meet you."

Recognition sparked in Alfred's eyes, and he shot a swift, panicked glance at Arthur before taking a deep breath and blurting, "Uhm—Mr. Edelstein says that you're interested in physics?"

"Oh, yes." Ludwig nodded. "I am fortunate to be working with a very good physics program over at Mansfield University. Recently we have been investigating Schrödinger's equations and theories. Are you also a physics student?"

"My knowledge is very basic," Alfred said honestly.

"Perhaps you would like to speak with several of the other students in the physics program," Ludwig offered, gesturing towards a group of men at another table. "We are always pleased to meet new physics enthusiasts. Mr. Kirkland, if you would not mind?"

"Not at all." Arthur smiled genially as Ludwig led Alfred towards the other table, seeing how the physics students looked up at their arrival and stood, introducing themselves and exchanging handshakes. Alfred glanced back over his shoulder at Arthur, who nodded encouragingly and lifted his empty glass, indicating that he would have it refreshed.

He had just pulled away from the bar to return to the table with his drink when he found himself suddenly accosted by Francis. Arthur looked away in disgust.

"So we meet again, Francis. Why is it that I cannot have even a few seconds of peace alone without you intruding upon it?"

Francis raised an eyebrow. "I am certain that Alfred has yet to experience this cruel side of your tongue." He reached out and patted Arthur's hand, only for the Englishman to snatch it angrily away. "Stay and entertain me, mon ami."

Arthur hesitated for a moment, before finally leaning back against the bar, sipping his champagne and refusing to meet Francis's eyes.

"I have never seen you like this before," Francis mused, smoothing one hand through his hair. "Usually when you come accompanied by another man, you will act terribly bored throughout the entire affair and then become sickeningly drunk by the end of the night. At this time, your companion will have long fled in revulsion, and I will take mercy on your pitiful state and drive you home."

"Must you forget that I often do the very same thing for you?" Arthur retorted. "There has been many an evening when I have had to haul you home myself either because Gilbert called one too many drinks for you, or because you were drinking away the sorrows of rejection."

"Ah, but you are drunk far oftener than I." Francis tapped the side of Arthur's glass. "How many drinks have you had, hmm?"

"This is my second."

"Only your second? And how many are you planning to have?"

Arthur drained the rest of his champagne and set his glass decisively down on the bar. "I am finished. I will be driving home tonight."

"Oh? So you are actually planning to stay sober long enough to drive. Now, why would you do such a thing when you have me to drag your misbegotten drunken self home instead?" Francis teased.

Arthur glared at him in growing irritation. "I must also drive Alfred home, if you must know."

"Ah, so it all becomes clear." Francis leaned his arms against the bar. "How absolutely gracious you are tonight, mon ami—wishing to spare your new companion the sight of your maudlin misery. Perhaps you have learned by now that it is very off-putting to others."

Arthur fumed silently, curling his fingers together as if he wished to strangle Francis.

Francis seemed to realize that he had crossed a line, and his tone softened. "We all understand how much you despise high society and consorting with those who belong to the elite, but do you think this is wise, bringing your new, lesser-class companion into this world—the ways of which he is completely unfamiliar with? You know how quick tongues are to wag here, and the damage that this could do to your career—do tell me your reasoning behind all of this. Did you simply grow bored with your prospective suitors on the privileged end of society? Are you intentionally trying to create a stir?" When Arthur failed to respond, Francis's voice sharpened with frustration. "Or did you tire of being poor, pitiful, undesirable Arthur Kirkland, forever unbeloved?"

Arthur pushed away from the bar in one violent movement. "I'll not stay to be insulted."

He attempted to pull away, infuriated when he discovered Francis's fingers grasping his sleeve, preventing his escape. "Leave go of me at once, Francis!" Arthur hissed. "Keep your damn hands to yourself."

Francis released him slowly, a strangely pensive light in his eyes.

"Very well, mon ami," he said coldly, finally giving up, his arm dropping to his side. "Evade me, if you will, but you will not forever evade the rest of the world . . . and certainly not your precious swain."

Arthur had spoken much more with Alfred that night—and such pleasant things they said—but this was what he had not told him.

He said nothing of his childhood, the glistening years of his youth spent in studious comfort, raised in his wealthy English family home where he'd watched for so long the dusk-hued roses climb the trellis outside of his bedroom window (look, my love, you are almost as tall as they are now); the days spent with his string of private tutors with their scholarly dark eyes, who chalked the board with exercises and expectations that he readily drank in; the nights spent reading classic works by flickering candlelight while his infant brother Peter frolicked on the carpet, closely watched over by his nurses.

He said nothing of his mother, who had devotedly raised him with tender pride, who had sat beside him many nights to read silently along with him, whose soft voice and perfume had wreathed about him as if to shield him from harm, whose loveliness put even the roses to shame. He'd watched the way that other men stared at her, approaching to offer social niceties from trembling lips or simply adoring her from afar.

She might have married any one of them, but instead she had let herself be wedded to Arthur's father, who took her as his second wife. Remarriage was of course common for those whose first spouse had died (a streetcar accident, the world had whispered vaguely to Arthur from outside), but the fact that his father had already had three sons with his first wife threw a tangle into the whole affair.

Arthur and his stepbrothers had shared a bitter, long-enduring enmity throughout their childhood, as they each vied for their father's attention and fought brutally once they were out of his sight. As Arthur's father had little attention to give to his young sons, they were often left to their own devices, which inevitably resulted in violent rivalry between Arthur and his much older stepbrothers. He'd been tripped as he entered rooms, shoved roughly aside in the hallway, and hurled against the side of a wall, where they had spat at him, telling him that they would never accept him as a part of their family, that they resented him and his mother both for daring to replace the memory of their own mother.

Arthur had never been possessed of bodily strength, but there was one field in which he utterly outperformed his brothers in every aspect, without a doubt: intellect. His intelligence had been the one thing that made his father take notice of him, and his slightest gesture of praise or approval made Arthur's heart swell with a fierce, exultant pride that even the jealousy of his stepbrothers could not dampen. Here he was safe, here they had no hope of surpassing him, and this realization had warmed him and soothed his savage temper beyond anything that his stepbrothers could do to him.

He knew that they would one day inherit his father's business, but he satisfied himself in the knowledge that they would botch it completely and do, at best, a mediocre job (and then they'd have to come crawling back to him pleading for his help). He might have been merely a thin, weak, powerless little boy, Arthur had reasoned, but he would find his grounding as an adult. He would succeed, he would triumph in the end—and his stepbrothers would be left to grovel at his feet.

At least, that was what he had always believed.

Devastating illness, combined with the crippling strain of financial burdens and grim bank notices piled four feet high on his office desk, claimed Arthur's father several years after Peter, his fifth son, had been born. Arthur had been but a youth of eighteen, on the very cusp of adulthood, prepared to seize the future and the education that was rightfully his.

However, it was at this time that the scandalous truth was finally revealed to them all: his father had been a frightful gambler. He had exhausted his wealth in clandestine deals made in saloons and betting-houses, and left his business in a shambles, dangerously near to ruin. In his will, he had parceled out most of his possessions and his estate to his first three sons to run, as well as to Arthur's mother. To Arthur he had left a small sum; to Peter, an even smaller sum.

With the Kirkland estate on the brink of destitution, and the men that its former master had left to manage it utterly incapable of doing so, Arthur realized that everything that he had ever worked for, the labors of his childhood and adolescence, was about to fall to the ground. His stepbrothers, shutting Arthur's mother out of the entire business, attempted to bring the company back up to a profitable state, but they were all dreadfully inexperienced and lacked any sort of efficiency and skill necessary. Desperate and wild with panic, they came to Arthur, begging him to aid them, to save the situation before it dragged them all down into poverty.

Thus it was left to the stepbrother that they had always loathed, the quiet, serious lad that they had taunted for his love of literature and tormented for the difference in their blood, to assuage the damage alone. Arthur, nearly nineteen, swiftly developed into a shrewd, merciless businessman, with an impressive understanding of economics and commerce and finances. With a ferocious determination he had set his mind to the task, knowing that the future of his family—and indeed, his own future—lay solely in his hands and that he was the only one who could deliver them.

It took him a year—a full, arduous, grueling year's worth of struggling to make ends meet and violently forcing revenue ever higher and cunning strategy and subterfuge—but by its end, Arthur emerged triumphant. His father's company was stabilized once more and producing successfully, and the once-impending threat of ruin had been removed. He had saved them.

Weary but suffused with the elation of his victory, Arthur returned to his stepbrothers—only for them to turn around sharply and suddenly drive him out of the business.

The attack had caught Arthur completely off guard. With a terrible sense of betrayal, he screamed at his stepbrothers, demanding to understand the reason for his ejection. They coldly informed him of his reasoning: their profit was secure, they no longer needed him to manage the company, and his presence would merely interfere with future enterprises. They'd refused to affiliate with him henceforth in any way but familial (which was legally dictated), and threatened to cut off his share of the profit unless he promised to remove himself from their dealings.

Bitter and proud, Arthur had left, swearing eternal hatred against his stepbrothers, and sought out the consolation of his remaining family. His mother had since married another man and was living quite happily in London, raising Peter, who by now was seven, with him. Arthur's new stepfather was coping well financially and seemed willing enough to do whatever his new wife wished in order to please her, a factor that Arthur decidedly approved of.

Arthur's mother had welcomed him, took him into her arms as if he were that insecure little boy of eleven again, and invited him to live with them. He thanked her gratefully, but refused—he had given up his education the year that he had devoted to reviving his late father's business, and he intended to return to it and eventually pursue a career in literature. He had no wish to return to his prior university, however, for he would surely be mocked and looked down upon, as the scandal had been common gossip, oft-whispered of by those most vicious-mouthed of society.

And Arthur realized that he had grown sick of that life—this world, where he had learned to ignore for so long the slew of evils that slithered along the shadowed underbelly of humanity: the greed, the treachery, the deception, falseness, infidelity. Adulthood had darkened his eyes, and the streets now looked to him to be naught but barren and empty, full of people with oh-so-empty faces and even emptier hearts (and he realized that he no longer wanted to ignore).

Disillusioned at heart, ill with a sort of anguish, Arthur decided abruptly to resume his studies in America. Nowhere else could be further from this place that no longer felt like home, he had thought wildly. All he wanted to do was lose himself, delve into another realm with none of the flaws of this one, just to leave, leave, leave.

Reality caught up with him soon enough as he'd paced down those foreign, unfamiliar, bustling streets for the first time. Unlikely that the folk here would be any different from that lot that he'd left in England; perhaps they'd even be more condescending, more spiteful.

Even as he voiced these disparaging thoughts to himself, though, he could not help the spark of hope that leapt within his heart at the sight of these new skies, new buildings, new people. He still felt an emptiness inside, but of a different sort, the sort that whispered possibilities to him and not hopelessness.

For the first time in a long while, Arthur had let himself breathe in deeply, tasting the new air, and he dared to hope. Despite everything, his own foolish dreams plagued him still, and he had not yet given them up.

Hope you liked this chapter, even though I kind of rushed through the ending. There was originally another section I was going to put in after the last one, but it would've made it sound too long-winded and rambling (not that that isn't my usual writing style!). My only regret is that this missing section was quite USUK-romance-y, in my own awkward way of writing it. (; I'm going to have to stick it in later or something . . .

"Omnia iusta sunt amore belloque" - Latin for "all is fair in love and war." I love sneaking the classics into my stories in every single way possible, ahahaha.

The song behind this chapter is "Little Bribes," another DCFC song. Used/changed the phrases:

"and oh so empty were the faces"
"Those foolish dreams, you know they plague me still."

So now we all know that Arthur's got quite a lot to hide from Alfred. Interestingly enough, they're more similar than they think - they both are intent on pursuing their dreams, have suffered family issues, and don't really like high society. It's really just up to time to see whether or not they both truly love each other for all the right reasons and can live with it - not because they admire each other because they're everything that the other is not.

This is probably the main reason for Francis's concern - he came off as very pushy, I think, keeping his nose in Arthur's business and asking the same questions repeatedly every time we see him, but he understands more or less what's going on. You can interpret it as amicable concern for Arthur's emotional stability or attempting to score with either Arthur or Alfred. XD

And we introduced all of Arthur's "clubbing buddies," ahahaha! Gilbert would just make the awesomest fun drunk ever, in my opinion. XD Notwithstanding that he's already always guzzling German beer (with the most disturbing noises ever in the Japanese version).

Please review and tell me all that you liked or didn't like, and what I should clarify or change in my story. I really do appreciate every single one that I get, and they literally are everything that keeps me going here.

I'm just rambling on now . . . hopefully the next time that I see you guys I'll be less tired/stressed/anxious/verbose/hyperactive/incomprehensible/infatuated/whatever-it-is-that's-making-me-go-crazy.

Thank you so much for reading!