Alfred stretches his arm across his chest, shivering. He knows he'll warm up as soon as he starts running, but he can't skip stretches, or else coach Braginski will be mad.

"What are you making faces about?" Antonio asks, at his side. Antonio's breath puffs out from in front of him as he jumps from side-to-side.

"It's fucking cold," Alfred says.

Antonia stops moving. "Oh. Is everything okay?"

"What, am I not allowed to complain about the weather?"

Antonio's eyes are wide and warm, filled with concern. "You sound really annoyed."

"No, really, I hate the cold."

"Is there something else that's going on?"

"Seriously, Antonio, I'm fine."

"Oh, okay." Antonio begins his agility warm-ups again. A few moments later, he says, "It's not because I'm captain, is it? You're not intimidated or anything?"

"Antonio, stop," Alfred says, stretching out his leg. "We've been classmates for years. Of course I'm not intimidated."

'Well, I mean, I feel like I haven't talked to you as much lately."

"I've been busy."

"A lot on your mind?"

"I guess."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, Antonio. God."

Antonio shifts to the side, obviously giving Alfred some space. Alfred says. Already, he's beginning to feel like shit for having been so rude to his friend.

"Fine," Alfred says. "Things have been weird with Arthur, I guess. It's screwing me up a little bit."

"Arthur? Your brother?"

"My legal guardian."

"Weird how?"

Alfred pauses. He stops moving without realizing, and stands in the track field with his hands on his hips.

"I don't know. I don't like the gu- the person Arthur's dating. I don't think they're good for each other, and Arthur doesn't seem to care."

"Hmmm. What makes you think that?"

"It's kind of hard to explain."

"Explain what, Mr. Jones?"

Alfred realizes with a start that coach Braginski is standing in front of him. Braginski has a black whistle around his neck and wears a white muscle shirt despite the bitter fall wind, as if to show off his ability to withstand the cold, and scorn his students for not doing the same.

"Will you, perhaps, explain why you aren't doing your warmups?" Braginski looks Alfred up and down, a slight sneer on his face. "I don't think I should have to remind you we're in the middle of competition season. Should be pretty clear, da? We had a meet last week and we have another one this week." Braginski tilts his head. "A meet you couldn't participate in because you didn't bring in your green form."

Green form. A blush rises to Alfred's cheeks. The form was essentially an okay from the school nurse saying that he was fit enough to participate in track. He had been supposed to bring it in at the beginning of the season, but kept forgetting.

"I have to go to the doctor's," Alfred mumbles. "The nurse can't sign off on it until I get an updated physical."

"You should get to it, da? Unless you don't want to participate in this meet either."

"Do I really need to bring it?"

"You do. We can't have you dying on the field from a medical condition, da?" Braginski's smile is placid and tight-lipped, but Alfred imagines that his teeth are as sharp as a shark's. "You need to have all the necessary forms if you want to complete."

"Fine," Alfred mutters.

Braginski stands there, and Alfred realizes he's standing still. He begins doing his warm-ups again, staring stonily at Braginski's retreating back.

"Why are you so stressed out?" Alfred smiles, feeling especially confidant in his dark blue track sweatshirt and svelte black t-shirt. "It's just a checkup."

"Do you think I'm stressed?"

Alfred scans Arthur's form, sitting tight and taught on the comfortable plush chairs. Arthur's black shoes tap the floor with a jerking, mechanical precision. His journal small enough to be tucked into the pocket of his lab coat; he can't even think of writing in it.

"You always get like this when I go to the doctor's," Alfred says. "I don't get it. I mean, you work in a lab all day, don't you?"

"Not exactly. I work with technology."

"Then the lab coat is just for show?"

Arthur shrugs. His shoulders are thin and narrow.

"They don't really care what we wear," he says. "Francis wears a suit."

"Hah. You'd think they'd give you uniforms." At Arthur's blank expression, Alfred continues with, "You know, for uniformity and precision and all that."

"No," Arthur says, his voice soft and vague. "They quite encourage creativity, actually."

There's an awkward silence. Alfred glances at Arthur, taking in the slight scowl on his face, the glint of his teeth as he grits them into a grimace.

"You know," Alfred says, his tone unnaturally light and conversational, "I don't even know what you do for work."

"It's complicated."

"I can follow it."

"I've already explained it to you."

"I don't remember."

"Well, then you must not have understood it."

Alfred pulls his jacket closer around himself. "Then explain it to me again."

Arthur doesn't respond. His breathing is short, caught inside his chest.

Alfred leans forwards. "Arthur?"

Arthur closes his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is stilted.

"I'm fine, Alfred. I'm fine."

"You look pale." Alfred reaches a hand forward, pushes up Arthur's hair, feels his forehead. His skin is cool and dry underneath Alfred's hand. "Maybe you're sick."

"Well, good thing we're in a doctor's office, then."

"Alfred Jones," a nurse calls.

"Yes, that's us," Arthur says, standing up as if he had been sprung from a box. He casts a look over his shoulder. "Come along, Alfred."

Alfred and Arthur make to step into the offices, but the attendant holds out her hand. She has long, ice-blonde hair with a black ribbon.

"Who are you?" she says, addressing Arthur.

Arthur starts. "I-I'm Arthur Kirkland. I'm his legal guardian."

"I'm going to need some proof of that."

"It should be on the file."

She flips through the papers on her clipboard. "Yes. That's right. Thank you, Mr. Kirkland."

They begin walking forwards again, but the nurse stops. Alfred almost crashes into her.

"You don't have to come with us," she says, looking at Arthur.

Arthur pauses. "Well, he's still under eighteen-"

"We already have your consent. Besides, it's just a checkup."

"Well," Arthur tries again, "We haven't been here in years, and I just thought-"

"And why is that?" The nurse purses her lips. "They're supposed to be yearly checkups, Mr. Kirkland."

"Look, we're just here because I need an updated green form. For track." Alfred says, lamely. "Arthur- I mean, I don't really like going to the doctor's. And I'm never sick. I'm like, super healthy. So I didn't think I had to go."

"You've never gotten sick?" The nurse rolls her eyes. "Never mind."

She begins walking again. Catching up to her, Alfred says, "No, really, I'm in perfect health."

"I find that hard to believe."

"I swear it."

She stops in front of an examination room. "Step inside here, please."

They step inside, Arthur trailing inside. The nurse makes as if to say something, but decides against it.

"Wait here," she says. "A doctor will be here shortly."

When she closes the door, the sound is metallic and final. It settles in the room; combined with Arthur's nervous adjustments of his hair and clothes, the atmosphere feels tangible enough to taste.

Alfred sits on the exam table, the blue rubber thick and spongy beneath his hands. As Arthur sits in the guest chair, Alfred's eyes roam the posters and pamphlets on the wall behind Arthur's head. Their edges are blurry, leaking color; he squints, trying to make them clearer.

"Are you all right?" Arthur asks. "Do you have something in your eye?"

"No, I'm fine. I just can't read the poster behind your head." Alfred points. "I mean, I can see the beer glass, and I guess it's probably about, like, the dangers of drunk driving or something, but I can't read the text."

"You can't?" Arthur cranes up his neck, reading the posters at an angle. "You're not that far away."

"It says something like… 38 people die… or is it drive?"

"27 people die of drunk driving accidents a day," Arthur reads, clearly pronouncing each word. He blinks, confused. "Can you really not see?"

"I guess so." Alfred pulls at his sweatshirt. "I can't read the board, sometimes, at school. My science teacher said might need glasses."

"That's impossible." Arthur's voice is flat. His eyes are glassy, opaque. Alfred can't read his expression.

Alfred blinks. "I mean, not really? A lot of people I know wear glasses. I guess it's weird it just started now. Most of my friends who have glasses already got them-"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Arthur's voice has risen. Still, his body remains almost eerily immobile.

"I was going to," Alfred says, stumbling over his words. "I just kept forgetting. I don't know. It didn't seem important."

"Of course it's important. It's your health, Alfred."

Alfred slides off the examination table. He approaches Arthur, takes Arthur's hands in his. When he pulls Arthur up, Arthur's hands are bony and shake slightly in his palms.

"Hey," Alfred says, "It okay. It's just my eyesight. It's not a big deal."

"I'm not upset."

"Like hell you are." Alfred slides his hands away from Arthur's, places them on Arthur's shoulders instead. "What's going on?"

"I just wish you would have told me. That's all."

"It's got to be more than that."

"It's not. Honestly." Arthur smiles, one side of his mouth pulling higher than the other. "Hospitals make me a little nervous. It's nothing to worry about it."

"Oh God," Alfred says, his voice hushed. A mental image flashes in his mind; Arthur in a hospital bed, holding his brother's hand. The stomach pump (Alfred has never seen one – he can't quite visualize it) whirling in the distance. And then the cold, final beep of the flatline. "Oh God, Arthur, I'm so sorry."

"What?"

Alfred pulls Arthur into a hug. He hears Arthur's sharp, surprised intake of breath.

"Your brother," Alfred says. "He died in a hospital like this, didn't he? No wonder you're worried."

Alfred feels Arthur's shoulder-blades beneath his hands, tense and pushed close together. Arthur breathes out, relaxing slightly. He rests his chin on Alfred's shoulder.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Alfred asks, softly. "You could have told me."

"I didn't want to trouble you."

"Of course not, Arthur. Of course not. I want to know these sorts of things. I want to know about you."

Arthur shifts, stepping away from the hug. Alfred's hands drop back to his side, and they seem useless and bloated.

"That came out wrong," Alfred says. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pressure you. But you know you can talk to me? If you want to."

"I know, Alfred. Thank you."

Alfred sits down on the examination table, heavily. "Jesus, Arthur, if I'd known-"

"There's no way you could have made that connection." Arthur smiles a rueful smile that looks almost sardonic in the flat hospital lighting. "I'm surprised you even remembered my brother."

"Your little brother who killed himself? Of course I remember."

And he does. Alfred had been younger, then, pestering Arthur about his family. Eventually, Arthur had turned to him and said, "I had a family, until my little brother killed himself. It completely split apart the rest of us, and I never spoke to my family again. Now, hush. Eat your soup." Alfred had been confused with Arthur's clinical tone, the borderline-mocking bite in his words. Now, Alfred wonders if it was Arthur's inability to talk about these kinds of things that made the situation who feels unnatural.

"I mentioned him offhandedly." Arthur sighs, cracks his neck. "I shouldn't have. It was too much responsibility to place on you."

"I was fourteen. I wasn't a child."

"Still. I regret telling you about him, sometimes."

Alfred reaches out a hand, and Arthur steps towards him. Alfred takes Arthur's hand in his and squeezes him, lightly.

"Why?" Alfred says. "Do you think I'll end up like him?"

Arthur winces.

Alfred pulls lightly on Arthur's arm, and Arthur sits beside him.

"You know I wouldn't do something like that." Alfred's voice is hushed. "You know I would never hurt you like that."

"I know that, sweetheart."

"Then there's no reason for you to be worried, is there?"

Alfred gently squeezes Arthur's hand. Arthur leans against Arthur's large frame.

They sit there in a shared, comfortable silence, quiet enough that Alfred can almost swear he hears Arthur's heartbeat. When the doctor comes, and Arthur leaves the room, Alfred feels the phantom afterimage of Arthur's fingers interlaced with his.

A/N: This is turning out to be more of a mystery story than I expected, haha. I definitely want to take my time to develop the relationships and make sure everything comes together.

Also, I used to have song lyrics before each chapter, but apparently that's against 's terms of service. Whelp. If you're curious, the songs I've used so far inspiration include "Strange Love" by Halsey, "Honest" by the Neighborhood, and "All We Do" by Oh Wonder.

Thanks to those who haves stuck around! I appreciate your reviews. I'd be especially curious to hear where you think this story is going, as well as if you have any suggestions :)