Alfred had barely made it through his other classes, a sluggish feeling and defiance keeping him from doing any real classwork. Yet, when that fourth period bell rang, nothing stopped him hauling ass to English class. He excitedly sat in his seat beside Arthur's and awaited upon his arrival, writing more lyrics to songs that wouldn't get out of his head.

I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do, about you now. And after all, you're my wonderwall.

As the English daydream walked in, Alfred instantly noticed something was wrong. He wasn't able to put his finger on it, but he was sure of his instincts. It was like a creepy sixth sense of his.

Before he sat down, Arthur placed a hand on his lower spine and leaned back, a disgruntled expression flaunted. It slightly worried the beach boy; maybe he threw his back out, or something. Something Alfred wished was caused by his unholy intentions.

Alfred asked, "Hey, what's up? Is something wrong?" Arthur shook his head, but Alfred kept persistent, "Are you sure? You can tell me if there's something bothering you."

Arthur's fingers clawed at the hem of his sweater, and he reached for Alfred's pencil and paper. He wrote: Where do you usually eat lunch?

Perplexed, Alfred answered warily, "Uh, the cafeteria with a few of my friends. Why?"

He watched the boy pen the answer in that perfect handwriting, provided by that perfect, fragile hand. Would your friends mind if you ate somewhere else for today?

So many scenarios ran straight through Alfred's dirty mind, and he said, "No, they won't miss me too much. Why?"

No one sits by me at lunch. And I'd like to spend more time with you.

Alfred's pulse hurried, and he coughed, "Uh, really? I-I mean, yeah, I'll go with ya." The Brit smiled, and the American asked, "Is that why you don't eat in the cafeteria like everyone else?"

He took his time to reply: I don't have any friends other than you. I usually just smoke in the bathroom to pass the time, tbh.

Alfred popped his jaw from underneath his natural bite. He placed his chin in his palm and retorted, "That explains a lot, actually."

Arthur looked like he wanted to ask a few questions but, of course, he didn't.

I want to get to know you better.

God, that was cute. It was all systems go for the other teen, ready for take off. He finally had permission to actually flirt with the boy of his dreams. Alfred said with a distracting cough, "Um, yeah. W-When do you eat lunch?"

Next period. How about you?

"Yeah, me too," he concurred. "Where do ya wanna go?"

I think there's an unused classroom on the second floor. I'll show you there if you don't know what I'm talking about.

He could sense his West Coast tanned skin drain to a ghostly complexion. If he had heard, more like read, that correctly, then they would be alone together. That also meant that he would have Arthur all to himself, though it sounded selfish when he put it like that.

Al nodded and Arthur flashed a small smile. He savored the short lived moment for as long as it lasted. The teacher got the class' attention.

"Okay, stop the chit chat and let's start class!"

Alfred faced the front of the room, but stole a quick glance at Arthur through the corner of his lashes. He looked so peaceful as his mouth moved to a string of song lyrics, Alfred assumed. His foot tapped to a subtle beat as his eyes closed gently. Al was going to ask what song he was lip synching, but all he could fathom was observation after the boy stretched his lips to a sweet little smile.


As soon as the bell rang, Arthur flew like a rocket out of the classroom with Alfred trailing blindly behind. He kept a close proximity as best as he could, possibilities and daydreams revived his wild side. He would have Arthur all to himself, and no one would come to find them. So if no one would come searching for them, then that also meant that Alfred could do anything he wanted to him. No one would even know, much less hear, if anything happened. He just wished that there would be a time in their relationship where Arthur would be okay with that.

Jones' head was pulled from the clouds when he felt a yank on his wrist, an array of fingers tightening. His muscular body was pulled off to the side by the weaker teen, and was slammed to a wall behind the corridor.

Alfred sent a worried glance Arthur's way; all he did was raise a finger to his perched lips, then pointed to look behind him. The athlete peeked his head around the corner and saw his friends Yao and Ivan trekking down the halls like the assholes they always acted like. What was that supposed to mean? Did Arthur know by now?

"Oh, what about 'em?" he whipped his head back and came face to face with , as he was leaning his spine back. Alfred immediately returned the stolen personal space to the English boy, and blushed, "Uh, sorry."

Arthur's lips parted as he gaped up at Alfred's astounding stature, the difference being grand. The student only came to about his breast, which was not a euphemism for anything. Arthur turned his heel and started their journey again, without holding onto him, much to Alfred's dismay.

The crowds thinned out as time ticked on and the further they ventured. The pale blond stopped by a door, and peered into the window with the prep waiting patiently. He bobbed his chin and clawed the metal knob. The door was thrown open as the pair entered respectively.

Alfred gawked around the old classroom outfitted in its green chalkboard and outdated furniture. He eventually noticed Arthur taking a seat upon a desk in the front row, and he ran to the one adjacent to him.

"This place is so cool!" he marvels. "It's like, so old in here! Even the windows are creepy!"

Alfred raced to the creaky windowsill and peered down on the school grounds through the glass aged yellow over time of negligence. He observed a few of his friends and acquaintances mingling with the other students, Ivan's hand had brushed through Madeline's left pigtail, and she stormed off. Alfred gritted his teeth, that bastard was going to learn either the easy way or the hard way. Then, what the jock didn't expect, was that the mute was going to join him in people watching.

Arthur's fragile hands planted themselves on the windowsill comfortably near his own. His beautiful emerald jewels scanned the courtyard, a small smile graced his lips. Alfred took a moment to absorb the adorable, he couldn't get enough of looking at him.

Arthur's smile flashed to a devious smirk for a split second before he was suddenly lurching into the window frame. He used only his fingertips to cling to the frame and side jamb, standing up to the glass without anything to fall back on.

"Arthur, what the hell are you doing!" Alfred jerked his head back. He bit his lip as he tried to maneuver around the limited space the sill provided. "Get down from there! You're gonna hurt yourself!"

Jones wanted to lend a helping hand, but ended up going after the Brit rescue mission style. He approached the punk from the side and wrapped his arms around his midsection, Arthur responded with arms loosely around his neck. He slowly released him back to the tile and, although Arthur already turned around for his bag, he could not move. Alfred F. Jones had touched the guy of his dreams in a not–so–friendzone kind of way, if he could put it like that.

So many things came crashing into him, and they froze Alfred right where he was standing. He had wanted to know how it felt to hold the other blond, and he got his wish. Arthur was so lightweight, even more than he first appeared. Not to mention how close their faces almost met. Alfred was able to get a glimpse of his imperfections which were attractive, contrary to the term.

Though most of his overgrown bangs were covering his eyes, the sportsman caught a scar trailing down his cheekbone from the outer corner of his eye. Other than that, he had no other marks. His complexion was as white and pure as snow, which made the injury the only thing to stand out other than his eyes.

Alfred floated back down from space as he noticed Arthur awkwardly staring at a glass bottle between his knees, his feet kicking as quietly as the rest of his presence. The sunkissed teen returned to his seat next to the boy.

He motioned his hand in gesture, "Oh, do you want me to open that for you?"

Arthur shook his head, but kept staring at it. Alfred felt compelled to stare, as well. "Then, what's wrong?"

He turned to his rucksack and fished for pencil and paper. Making room on the desk space between them, he asked: It's nothing. I was just spacing out.

Alfred, honestly, felt a little offended when he read it, though he didn't know why. He knitted his brow, "Uh, okay?"

Kirkland nodded, as if to say, "okay". Arthur's fingers fumbled with the lid to a Snapple iced tea bottle.

The Englishman exerted his right hand to remove the lid, but he revealed a little more than what he was going for. Alfred's eyes lit up as he was able to clearly see Arthur's right hand for the first time. At last, he was able to read what was driving the jock crazy about the mysterious tattoo.

Alfred cocked his head, "'Lost'...?"

Arthur looked down at his mistake and snatched his limb back, shaking his head like a dog. The boy looked genuinely afraid of something, the inevitable? Alfred sure as Hell didn't know.

He searched for the he was writing on for their session. Please don't tell anyone!

Jones was slightly taken aback, but intrigued, nonetheless. "Why not? It's just a tattoo, right?"

He must've caught on to Alfred's method as he screwed up his face, but there was a certain peace about it. He thought Arthur was kind of hot when he was angry.

I'm begging you. Please don't say anything.

"Eh," he shrugged, worrying Arthur. "Fine. But on one condition."

Kirkland tilted his head, and Alfred demanded with a haughty smirk, "Give me your hand."

He sacrificed his limb for Goldilocks' amusement. Al couldn't fathom his predicament. He, Alfred F. Jones, was technically holding Arthur Kirkland's hand. It was so silky; it was as if he was conceived under a clear midnight sky, underneath the softest satin sheets. And his being was forever a reminder of the night.

His fingertips brushed against the top of his skin, where the lettering was etched. Just like he hypothesized, the boy had 'lost' tattooed in four shaky letters. "This is really cool! Why are you trying to hide it?"

Arthur stared blankly at Alfred as he gawked at his ink. The American realized he was in control of his limb, so he released it.

It's my first and it's really old.

"Whoa, how old were you? Did your friends do it?" He bombarded him with his questioning. Arthur shook his head.

I was 14 and I did it myself.

He lifted his eyebrows, "Wow! Did it hurt? How did you do it?"

I took a tattooing gun from one of my father's friends and did it in the bathroom.

"Whoa, that sounds so badass," Alfred praised. "I want a tattoo someday, but I don't what I'm gonna get."

Arthur wrote with a certain unknown passion. Just make sure it's something you definitely want. You shouldn't ever regret a tattoo, unlike me.

"Ugh, that's what all the old people say!" he whined. Arthur cut his eyes at the remark. "I'm just not sure what kind I should get."

Kirkland suggested: Why not something simple? How many tattoos do you plan to get?

"Um," he gave it enough thought. "Nothin' too much. Maybe small ones, or somethin'."

Maybe you and your girlfriend could get matching tattoos. Would that mean something to you?

Alfred almost choked over his own saliva. This guy he had obliviously been flirting with for the past couple weeks thought that he had someone else. Had he lost his Goddamn mind?

"Ah, I mean, it would. But I… don't have a girlfriend," Al corrected, folding his hands. Arthur angled his head up at him.

I am very sorry. You're such a nice person, and all. I was blindly assuming.

"It-It's okay. I know why I'm single," he swung his feet and looked at the chalkboard ahead. "It's complicated."

Arthur jutted his chin and mimicked Alfred's position. A moment of silence passed before the golden skinned teen spoke up.

"I may be popular, but not a lot of people understand that I have problems, too." He folded his hands in his lap and turned to the mute. "Do you know what I mean?"

Alfred realized he said the wrong thing as Arthur knitted his large brow, and emitted a glare intimidating enough to shoot through a couple of brick walls. Al sat up and brushed off his varsity jacket for background noise.

"Uh, um. Pretend I didn't say anything!"

Arthur sighed and Alfred looked around desperately for a distraction. He jumped up the board and grabbed a stubby piece of chalk, and began doodling. He turned back, "Hey, hold still, Arthur! I'm gonna try to draw ya!"

The American started drawing a poor representation of the English boy, but he did try his best on his face. Alfred stepped back with his arms extravagantly raised to display his work.

"It's done! Looks just like you!" he exclaimed. Arthur slowly approached the drawing and looked up with a frown. Alfred pinned his hands on his hips. "What's that look for? This is one of my best drawings, I'll have you know!"

Kirkland picked up a considerable length of chalk and wrote: If I really looked like that, we'd both be in trouble.

Alfred kept the playfulness in the atmosphere, "C'mon! It's a work of art! You could practically hang it in a museum!"

Arthur dotted the tip of the chalk on the board with every intention of writing, but cracked a smile and hung his head to hide it. Alfred laughed, "See? You can't disagree with me!"

I suppose it sort of resembles me, but not exactly.

Alfie screwed his face and said in a snotty tone, "What are you talking about? It looks just like you, Mr. Kirkland. And also, I take that as an insult towards my artistic ability."

Trying to hold back a smile or a giggle the entire time, the Brit wrote ironically: The person in the picture is smiling. That's the difference.

He stared with indifference stained on his expression and hands at his sides. "You smile, like, literally every time I say something!"

Arthur faced the other way and raised a hand to his mouth mid process. Alfred pointed, "See! You're a lyin' shit, you are!"

You know what I mean.

Alfred leaned his head to the side and said, "No, let's say I don't know what you mean."

The most displeased expression was fired his way. He smiled and rested his head on the chalkboard, his arms folded. He was hoping that Arthur would finally say something, but he knew his motive to be much more complicated than reluctance. He decided to stray from the topic.

"Hey, I'm gonna start callin' ya Artie," Alfred declared. "Artie" sweatered his brow and the American figured, "Artie's a lot more fun."

He faced the board and wrote: Then I'm going to call you Ally. Fair enough?

Alfred nearly choked on his spit at the pet name. He coughed, "Why Ally? That sounds like a girl's name!"

Now it's yours.

His heart fluttered like a band of butterflies from a backyard gasoline explosion. He wasn't even being called "Alfie", but something the Englishman had come up with on his own. Something that no one else would call him, and he liked the prospects of that.

"So, Artie," he stressed to wear the nickname in. Ally stuffed his hands in his letterman jacket pockets. He was going to continue, but was halted by his friend's befuddled aspect. "What's up?"

He merely pointed to his shoulder, and Alfred quickly jumped upright. He had been leaning on the chalk drawings, and the powdery substance had gotten all over his sleeve.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath as he dusted off his coat.

Then, Alfred witnessed Arthur reaching up and emerging his fingers through his golden locks. The jock stopped what he was doing for the punk to shake the chalk out of his hair. His free hand took ahold of Alfred's other arm so he keep his balance on his toes. When he was back on his feet, he turned to the board.

Sorry about that. You had chalk in your hair and I didn't think you knew about it.

"Y-You're right, I didn't know!" he agreed. "Thanks, Artie!"

He grinned and closed his eyes for a moment, long enough for Alfred to take notice in what he was wearing. His sneakers were those same large Converse high tops, and his pants were long and black, as usual. His sweater was soft grey, and had a coffin design with the text inside, "It's okay to decay". Honestly, it was fitting for someone like Arthur. Not to be rude, but Alfred thought that only nervous people wore sweaters.

He looked back at his own attire, and frowned. He just had a plain white t-shirt with an old pair of carpenter jeans, and his black Vans were nothing special, either. It made him feel a bit dated, since Arthur was always so nicely dressed. He never paid attention when it came to his clothes, only in sports and academics. What he wore never mattered, until now, anyway.

It took him a while to realize Arthur was staring at him like he was covered in hickeys. He apologized, "Uh, sorry! I was spacing out!"

The blond nodded, and the lunch bell rang as loud as an overprotective Caucasian mother with her rebellious child. The pair scrambled for their things and jogged to Arthur's next class, in which Alfred hadn't noticed upon arrival. Talking to the boy was so distracting he had almost sat down in the wrong classroom.

As he found himself in fifth period, all Alfred could think of was Arthur and how he looked. He halted all class progress to write more song lyrics and to think of a plan.

If you marry me, would you bury me? Would you carry me to the end?

Still nothing. He had to come up with something, anything, to win over Arthur's attention. He was so desperate, he could practically taste it.

So say goodbye to the vows you take, and say goodbye to the life you make. And say goodbye to the heart you break, and all the cyanide you drank.

"Everyone have this written this down? Jones?" the teacher yanked him out of his fantasy world. He nodded, though that was a lie, and the instructor proceeded in the lecture.

Well, if you wanted honesty, that's all you had to say. I never want to let you down, or have you go, it's better off this way.

Alfred felt close to a breakthrough, though he wasn't sure what. It was like a lingering thought from earlier in the day he couldn't remember. It was annoying to know he was so close to coming up with something.

Forget about the dirty looks, the photographs your boyfriend took. You said you read me like a book, but the pages are all torn and frayed.

Then, like an old, flickering light bulb, he got an idea. Through writing emo song lyrics, he had formulated the perfect plan to connect to Arthur. He eyed the wall clock and was dancing at the edge of his seat. He pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through the "M" contacts.

Hey sis! What class r u in rn?

Alfred bounced his leg up and down as he anticipated his sibling's reply. Soon, his mobile vibrated.

Study hall. Wdyw?!

He panned his eyes around as much of the classroom he could without appearing suspicious.

Wanna go 2 the mall after school?

The teacher turned around unexpectedly, so the athlete shoved his phone in his pocket as fast as he could. Thank God he had his stupid jacket. It was like the wingman that never complained.

Hell yeah! Pick me up later!

With his sister's permission, Alfred stowed his cell away, a smirk on his face. Maddie was going to help him in his plot, and there was no way she would object.


Alfred Jones had received stares and overheard whispers as he walked the halls that day. He readjusted the chain in his back pocket and toyed with his septum jewelry with the tip of his thumb. He raspily chuckled before he walked into his fourth period English class.

As soon as he opened that door, Alfred knew that all eyes were on him. He was just hoping that at least one of those pairs were hazel. The transformed blond made his way to his seat by Arthur. From the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur's eyes widen like a cat's would at a ball of yarn. He knew his job was one well done.

He sharply reposed his black flannel top, his Jimi Hendrix shirt revealed for more reactions. Al fixed the beanie barely hanging on the back of head to show off for Arthur, who was still watching, surprisingly.

The instructor started the class lesson plan, but Alfred felt too rebellious to do anything he was told. Unless, he actually wanted to do those things, he sensed that today was one of those days he would do what he wanted.

He felt his back pocket vibrate, which was a feeling he would have to get used to. He received a new message from none other than the English boy himself.

Are you okay?

He furrowed his brow and replied: wdym? I'm fine.

Are you sure?

Yes! What do u think is wrong w/ me?

Arthur leaned forward and scanned his body. You look like Hot Topic just came all over you.

So? Y r u txting me this? I don't want 2 get in trouble.

Yeah, but if we do get caught, it's not like she's going to look through our messages, much less make us read them out loud.

Alfred suddenly remembered that the entirety of the school's staff knew of his illness, so the plan made sense. He looked to him and shrugged in agreeance.

Why do you look so different? Where's your jacket? Don't tell me you got that piercing just for this.

Ally waited a bit before responding. I got it done a long time ago. And I just wanted 2 mix things up. I thought it would b a nice change.

Arthur seemed to have leaned closer compared to the beginning of class as he glanced up at him.

If that's what you want.

Alfred sat awkwardly in his seat as his sweet Artie began classwork. He had said if it's what he wanted. What did Arthur want? What else was there to try? The golden haired adolescent snapped out of it and turned to his stupid hobby of writing stupid song lyrics.

Forever isn't for everyone. Is forever for you? As Arabella just might've tapped into your mind and soul, you can't be sure.

Alfred really needed to get a better taste in music. The same taste in music as Arthur, would be preferable. Now that he was thinking about it, that was something else he didn't know about the boy. He waited until the teacher granted the class permission to converse, he didn't need to risk losing his cell phone.

"Hey, Arthur?" he called for his attention. He looked up at him with his eyes hazed over. "What kind of music do you like?"

Arthur stole Alfred's paper to write a response, but he halted. When he got the page back, it read: Arctic Monkeys, "Snap Out Of It", "Arabella".

"So you know those songs?" he sounded proud. "Is that what you listen to?"

He shook his head. In writing, he answered: I prefer classic rock, but there are some exceptions, as you can tell.

"Oh, like, what bands do you like?" Alfred attempted. He knew diddly shit about classic rock, or what was considered to be. All he could do was act like he knew what he was talking about.

Pink Floyd is my favorite band. I could listen to them for hours on end.

As he read it, Alfred let joy influence a small smile. Just imagine what it would be like to listen to Pink Floyd in Eleanor at midnight, and have Arthur sitting in the passenger seat. Alfred crashed back to planet Earth.

"Do you have a favorite song?" he asked. "Is it by Pink Floyd?"

Arthur nodded: Yes, it's called, "Wish You Were Here". You should listen to it.

"Maybe I will," Alfred grinned.

He definitely had intentions on listening to that song. He was going to listen to it so much until it reminded him of the English immigrant everytime he heard it. He would have heard it so many times before, that he would not help but to sing a line of the song when brought up during normal conversation. It would play over and over again in his head much due to the obscene amount of times he heard that song.

When he felt lonely, he was going to give it a play until his little heart was content. He was going to learn all the lyrics until he could recite them better than the Bible. And if he never saw the English cutie's face again, that song would bring their memories back in a crashing, suicidal wave.

Arthur's obstreperous smile derailed Alfred's train of thought. Though, when he landed his eyes on Arthur, they couldn't move. At a quick glance, he didn't notice anything wrong with him, but there was. His canine teeth were longer than normal, and Alfred flinched. He recollected himself as the other blond silently laughed, and took a deep breath.

"Jesus Christ, you almost scared the shit outta me!" Arthur smiled again. "Why are you wearing vampire fangs in school?"

He shrugged and wrote: They're really neat, aren't they?

"Yeah, they're pretty cool," he agreed. He leaned in, asking, "Can I see them?"

Arthur opened his mouth enough for him to see the entirety of the false teeth. "They're so freakin' awesome!"

Arthur took the paper one last time. If you want, I can give you a pair. I have a lot of costume fangs at home.

"Really? That would be so cool! And we could wear them on the same day!"

Okay, I can bring a pair for you tomorrow.

"Why not today?" Alfie suggested, Arthur quirked a brow. "Yeah, I mean. I can take you home again today, and we could chill or something."

Alfred saw the fear practically glint in his eyes as he rapidly shook his head. He babbled a string of half-finished apologies as his cheeks reddened and brain fried. For fucks' sake, he knew that there was something seriously wrong with Arthur. Why would he even ask something that personal? Jesus fucking Mary, Alfred hated himself so much at times.

As class went on, it got Jones to thinking of ways to get to the other blond. His "issue", or whatever the hell was going on in that boy's head, was blocking any opportunities Alfred had to get with him. Yet, he didn't know how to get around it.

"Hey, Artie," he strategically used his nickname to get his attention. "I know it's really rude, but, how come you're mute?"

The boy looked hurt as he wrote it down. It's because I have nothing to say.

"I think you'd have a lot to say, or at least, a thing or two," Ally reasoned. All normal social regulations snuck out the back door as he continued asking, "How long have you been mute for? Were you born with it, or…?"

I stopped talking only since the end of last school year.

"What made you decide that?" It must have been something really bad to hurt you that much.

Arthur took his time with the response: Family issues.

Alfred settled for an, "oh, okay", and went about regular conversation. He couldn't wait to get home, why was tomorrow taking forever to arrive?


"We're just two lost souls, swimming in a fish bowl, year after year, running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears. Wish you were here."

Alfred rolled his head to the side, so now it was touching Arthur's. His mild warmth transferred to his own hair. The autumn air made its rounds, and stole the glow from between the two. He mumbled, "Hey, Arthur?"

The Englishman turned his head in the grass, so that the teens were examining each other closely, lying comfortably on the hard Earth.

"Do you think you'll ever be able to talk to me?" Alfred asked. Arthur shrugged. "Because I'd like to know more about you. I just thought, maybe, your voice is a good place to start."

It wasn't lying if it was the truth. In all honesty, Alfred just wanted to kiss him, to convey to him his importance in his life. That he was more than just a person, but his whole world, through the masses of the universe and back. He desired to touch Arthur, but not just his body. What did his soul feel like? Was it as soft as his hair? Or as broken as his gaze?

"Hey, Arthur," the American daydream called for his attention once again. "Out of all the things you could say right now, do you wanna know what I want to hear from you the most?"

He nodded. Alfred's brawny hand blindly sought for Arthur's fragile one, and grabbed on for dear life. "Tell me that I'm yours."

The image became distorted as a guitar solo eventually broke the last connection. Alfred sat up, momentarily blinded by his laptop screen, followed by the vocals of David Gilmour. He rubbed his eyes for clarity and glanced around his new surroundings. His Captain America sheets were tangled in a knot and his computer played the Pink Floyd song, "Wish You Were Here", on a loop.

Jones yawned, piecing together his current situation. He wasn't by Arthur's side. He wasn't holding his darling little hands. He had not confessed to him that he was the important part of his life. He sighed, a hand over his heart.

"How I wish you were here, Arthur."


AN: So that's the end of chapter three! I'm so happy with how much attention this story is getting (it's especially impressive for just a lingering midnight thought). I would recommend that you listen to the song, "Wish You Were Here". Not just because it's badass, but it might make the final scene a little more understandable. Leave a review telling me what you think, and I'll keep working!