Author's Note: Thank you so much for the reviews! I've received many alerts and I'm really glad some of you are enjoying this so far.


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Picture Three: Accusation

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The first week of school went by ordinarily. We received our timetables and got introduced to a few new teachers, pupils and other staff members in school. Of course, that didn't mean we welcomed every one of these newcomers with open arms. My new math teacher wasn't someone I would call pleasant on first impressions. In fact, I thought he looked pretty strange, not that I was being judgmental on him or whatever. He would apply hair gel on his head, which I found weird because his hair was practically receding, leaving a mass of greasy forehead to stare at. His eyes were narrow, and it felt like you were being constantly monitored by him in class. I'm not saying he was this completely disliked old fellow; he could smile, and he may even laugh when someone dares to make him.

Despite that, his lessons were downright boring. It wasn't such a big problem, but it made me see Fridays on the calendar as dull and unexciting as Mondays. Right at the end of the week, I had double math—double math!—before I could slack off and hang out in the weekends with my friends. His voice was monotonous and it sort of hypnotizes you to sleep. Math lessons were like sitting right in the middle of a sleeping chant.

Okay, so I may not be the most enthusiastic person academically, but I could say that I was rather competent in PE classes. I would often be chosen as team captain if there were small competitions in my class, and I guess I was pretty good at it. Of course, that didn't mean my side would always win.

Take a few days ago, for example. We had baseball once for PE, and I decided I could probably impress the teacher with my swings. Feliciano Vargas, the Italian I was talking about, was perched innocently on the bleachers that time to speculate our lesson. He had a sprained ankle, you see. Probably because he had stumbled accidentally over his own two feet in the summer; he had a reputation for bouncing jovially all over the place. He's very cheerful and honest, and hardly ever tries to hide his opinions and thoughts. You could always rely on him to always tell the truth: he almost never lied at all.

So anyway, I was on the pitch, a baseball bat firm in my hands. The pitcher—a quiet Swedish named Berwald Oxenstierna —pelted the ball at me, swift and powerful as I watched it cut through the air. Then I swung, nice and clean, and heard the satisfying crack of the impact as the ball flew high several yards away…

…and landed off-pitch to one of the bleacher seats.

Well. Even the best players make some flaws.

I looked aside at Feliciano, feeling my face break into a sheepish grin. I was hoping he wasn't aware of how off-angle it was, but who was I kidding? The teacher noticed, and I could hear him tut all the way from the other side of the diamond. But instead of the shake of the head or the fake, polite smile I had expected, I saw wide, brown eyes and a broad, broad beam. If anything, Feliciano looked sort of awed, even if it was obvious how lame my hit was. I thought he was very easy to please.

"Well, uh, that was an unlucky shot," I laughed, swinging my bat aimlessly side to side.

Feliciano grinned and limped his way to the front of the bleachers. "Wow, Alfred!" he said. The exuberance in his voice was almost overwhelming. "I never knew your aim was that bad!"

Talk about something smacking you straight on the head.

Speaking of which, my bruise at the time hadn't completely healed yet, despite it already being more than two weeks since the baseball incident happened. Man, that senior could sure chuck a comet.

I'm talking about, of course, Arthur Kirkland. We never conversed with each other since I walked him to his class on the first day of school. Eye contacts were rare, and exchanges of waves were found non-existent. Not that I ever tried to greet him or something—maybe once or twice. When he said we won't need to meet each other again? Yeah, turns out it wasn't a joke. That didn't really matter much to me, though, I mean, the guy was a complete stranger to me, add to that the fact that he didn't seem too eager to befriend me. So I ask myself: why should I care?

Oh yeah, because the next time we intentionally came across each other, his eyebrows took the form of a uni-brow again.

It was on a lunch-break, you see. I was simply rummaging through Matthew's bag to inspect what he brought for lunch when I heard a loud bang resounding from our table. Surprised, I looked up, and saw no other than Arthur Kirkland towering above me threateningly. I recalled him wearing an expression that could've easily made me lose my appetite.

Nonetheless, I smiled up at him and said, "Why, hello there! How's it going? How's senior year so far? It's Arthur Kirkland, isn't it?"

The senior briskly grabbed the back of my collar and hissed, "We need to talk."

"Really?" I asked. I never really expected that. "Well, pull up a seat and I'll introduce you to my gang!"

"No, no! That won't do," he shook his head, his grip tightening on my shirt when I tried to shuffle aside. He then looked around at my friends, who were all watching us, bewildered. "Excuse me while I borrow Jones for a minute."

Without waiting for a response, he dragged me off my seat with no sign of effort at all. I wish he would stop being so unpredictably strong. I had to stumble a few paces forward before I could regain back my balance. "Hey," I began, confused. "What's up?"

Arthur swept around and gave me a dirty look. "I thought I told you not to tell anyone, you ignorant moron."

I frowned and rubbed my jaw slowly. This wasn't starting well. "Tell anyone what?"

"Bloody hell…you forgot?"

"Forgot about what?" I asked impatiently.

"About the baseball incident, you scatterbrain!" he groaned exasperatedly. Now, I remembered about the baseball incident, of course. The lump was still visible while we were talking back then. "You told someone, didn't you?"

"What?" I spluttered. "Of course I didn't! What made you think I did?"

Arthur took a short glance past my ear, and I knew instantly what he was looking at.

"The Bonnefoy dude found out?" I gasped, craning my neck to look around at where the group of seniors sat.

Arthur nodded and huffed seriously, "Unfortunately. I'm not quite sure how, either; I never mentioned anything."

"Hey, I didn't talk about the truth either. I'm a hero; I keep my promises!" I protested.

He glared at me suspiciously for a second before querying, "Well, if you didn't tell anyone ("Which I'm pretty sure you did," I imagined him adding), then what sort of pathetic excuse did you create for that giant bruise of yours?" I wasn't sure if he was trying to be cunning and catch me off-guard or something, but I was certain he wouldn't find me blurting out the whole truth to anyone.

I grinned smugly and said, "I was fighting off a bad guy in the parking lot!"

The Brit amused me for a second by bringing his palm up loudly against his forehead. I furrowed my brows, bemused. "Isn't that good enough?"

"Jones, you idiot!" he grumbled. Thank God his voice was muffled as he slid his palm down his face. "Wouldn't there be witnesses to confirm if there really was a brawl between a junior and a thug in the parking lot? Wouldn't there be an announcement or report about this sooner? Won't the people you told the story to suspect how no one actually saw a fight like that? Oh, honestly… You really are a git."

"I was wondering when you'd call me that," I mumbled. Arthur narrowed his green eyes at me scornfully and clenched his jaws. I think he meant to scold and rant at me even more, but was holding it back. At least he had some form of self-control.

"Anyway," I said slowly, cautiously. "Can I ask you some questions, too?"

Arthur looked a bit taken aback when I said this. "Whatever."

"Well, I was wondering why it's such a big deal to keep this from Francis? I mean, if I told my friends the truth—which I haven't, so don't give me that look—we would all just laugh it off or whatever."

"Laugh it off? Oh, that's a nice one," Arthur barked out a sardonic laugh, loud enough for the people nearby to cock their heads in our direction, "That frog won't ever let me be if he found out I've done something disgraceful. I don't think I could remember when the last time I've laughed along with the twit was. But I think I'd fancy laughing at him once in a while, don't you?"

Bitter. That was the only word I could think of as I stood there and listened to him.

"I see…" I murmured. Though I really didn't. "So, d 'you want to sit on our table? You'll be more than welcome there. I think you'd like my cousin Matthew—he's awesome, and—"

"No, I don't think I'll be sitting with you for now," Arthur interrupted hastily. The change in his tone made me arch my brows curiously.

"Why not?"

"Simply because, Jones. Anyway, are you sure you didn't tell anyone?"

I nodded, and then stuck my little finger out to him. "I didn't. I swear."

He looked at my raised pinkie, baffled. "What's that for?"

"What, you don't know? Well, it's called a pinkie-swear, you know, when you lock your pinkies together and—"

"Never mind what it's for," he shook his head, batting his hand in the air. "I just needed to be assured that you didn't tell just about anyone the truth."

"Oh," I blinked, and flicked my thumb up. "Then consider yourself assured!"

"Fine, I'll believe you. Now, if you don't mind, I'll be banging my head against my lunch-tray as I sit on Francis's table," he sighed dismissively before trudging his way unwillingly to the cursed table.

… 'For now'. That was what he said: 'for now'. I wondered if that meant he would be sitting with us sometime later?

Then again, he probably won't.

"See ya, then," I called after him. Poor guy—it must be torture to sit on that table! Well, maybe, because that was how Arthur made it sound like. After a few seconds of watching the Briton move towards the table, though, I realized he may be exaggerating a bit. As soon as he reached his seat, there was a great buzz of laughter and greetings erupting from the table. But from the way Arthur blushed and snapped around the group, I could tell they were possibly teasing him and, well, making him feel absolutely… choked.

I had a sudden urge of wanting to just march in and slap them all across their faces. Because that was what heroes do, I think. Well, not just randomly slapping people, but rescuing damsels in distress—in this case, Arthur Kirkland. Alright, so he wasn't a damsel. But he sure looked distressed to me.

"Say, Alfred," a voice snapped me out of my daydream. I blinked, and found Toris standing by me, concern gleaming in his blue eyes. "What was that all about?"

"What, that? Err, actually…" I glanced sideways at the seniors' general direction, wondering what Arthur Kirkland would want me to say. "I have no idea."

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When I got home that evening, things were out of place. Scratch that, everything was so organized it felt very foreign and abnormal to step inside my room. To begin with, all of my books, clothes and other belongings were stowed away neatly in the places they should be. The tops of my shelves were dusted, my bed sheet was changed and my floor was vacuumed. I could see my carpet again! I thought, and that was definitely saying something.

Stuffs like this don't happen very often, you see. Usually, my junk would be scattered all over the place; shirts, comic books, baseball gloves… you name it, it's on the floor. Every day, I would be lying on my bed with my laptop on, and the door would open to show Mom standing with a mop and pail in her hands, her hair tied up and ready to begin cleaning. Then she'd take a brief look around the room from where she stood, grimace at me, and leave. Just like that. My room was messy enough to make even a mother lose her desire to clean.

No, stuffs like this happen when something special was about to take place.

"Err, Mom?" I began, examining the room. Apparently, she was too busy filing through my drawer of underwear to notice my entrance. Flushed, I quickly pulled her hands away and shut it close, receiving an astonished look from my Mom. "Ma, what in the world are you doing here?"

"Oh, welcome home, Al. I was just straightening up your room a little. I couldn't stand looking at the state of the pig-pen you were sleeping in, you know. Honestly, you should consider cleaning your room more often, young man; just what would others say when they see your mess?" She paused for a moment, tugging the knob of my drawer absent-mindedly despite me trying to push it close. "Your father wouldn't be pleased at all when he comes here and thinks how a tornado had wrecked your room to shambles."

"Yeah, but he's not here now, is he," I snorted.

"Oh, but he will be, Al," Mom murmured.

I perked up at these words. "Is Dad coming home?"

"Tonight," Mom said, smiling. "Isn't it wonderful? I just found out this morning right after you left for school. He wanted to make it a surprise, but just couldn't wait to tell us. How typical of him."

My Dad was a photographer, you see. He would travel all around the globe to take snapshots of everything significant that he would come across: people, signs, waterfalls, nature stuffs—the whole lot. And I must say; his works were brilliant. Some of his pictures were displayed in various books and magazines (not the girly ones, of course: he's more to the National Geography type)—some were even exhibited in major galleries! Yeah, my Dad was awesome like that. I couldn't ask for another person as a father.

I beamed at my Mom and chirruped, "Great! Can't wait 'til he comes."

I really couldn't. After a month or so without some male company at home, it gets pretty… Well, weird.

"I know, hon. Anyway, today I had to drive around town to shop for groceries, so I didn't really have time to whip up supper for you. You must be hungry… Is sloppy joe okay for now?"

I nodded and gave her a thumbs-up. "Okay."

"Good," she said, satisfied. "And try not to jumble things up again, will you? It took me a long time to shape up your room—it's not quite a vacation to clean up your mess."

"I won't," I replied. And the moment she left the room, I quickly ravaged through all of my shelves and drawers, cupboards and wardrobe to search for any missing treasures. That was one thing my Mom does when she cleans: throw out things that she thought was no use, even if it wasn't hers.

After a few minutes of looking through my room, though, I found that I was missing nothing. In fact, what I received were a new heap of things piled up on my bedroom floor, and the probability that Mom would be shouting and yelling at me in the future. Maybe.

Oh yes, I also found the Yearbook I got from my previous year in high school. I've been looking for that for ages, you wouldn't believe how long it took me. I searched through every corner and every space, and then bam!—Mom found it in a snap and placed it neatly in a row of books on my study desk. Now, I don't know about you, but I find that kind of annoying.

I grabbed the book and sat on the edge of the bed, flicking through the pages aimlessly. It was very interesting, really: some of the faces had changed, yet they were still very similar. There were many messages around the pages, too: some were saying how much they were looking forward for the next year, some saying how much fun they had that year, and a few left their final goodbyes on the pages of the yearbook.

Then quite suddenly, I wondered how Arthur Kirkland looked like in the pictures. I never exactly acknowledged his presence before, so I never really cared whether he was in the yearbook or not. Maybe he had a grumpy face on when he had his picture taken. Or perhaps he was forced to make a smile, yet turned out horribly wrong. Strangely, I can't imagine him grinning sincerely in front of the camera. Though I could imagine him making an odd face, which was supposed to be a smile but turned out to look as if he had a toothache. The thought made me laugh out loud.

But when I got to the page, something seemed to whack me right between the eyes. Arthur wasn't scowling at the camera. He wasn't wincing as if he had cavity like I had expected him to. No, he was actually beaming. And not just with his lips, but with his eyes, too.

I looked up from the book on my lap and stared blankly at the walls, stunned. And for the first time, I wondered what it took to make the grouchy Briton happy.


Author's Note: Well, sorry again for the terribly long update. I'm such a lame updater I feel like hitting myself with a cushion. Some bits were boring and… 'choppy', weren't they? Gah. Please give me some suggestions and helpful criticism to how I can improve that.

Still, thank you all for reading this and reviewing, again. You guys are great! ^^