A/N: Oh gosh so many of you left such lovely reviews for me! It really did inspire me to get the next chapter written for you guys. Getting reviews like that makes me really happy and always makes me want to write more. But yes, thank you so much! It makes me really glad to know you guys are enjoying the story so far. I hope I continue to satisfy you!

Warnings: Bullying, triggers for self-hate and suicidal thoughts, and swearing.

Ever since that moment in the bathroom, a brief sixty three seconds in Arthur's life, he began to see Alfred everywhere. After that incident, Arthur had returned to his table, and it took his eyes no time at all to spot Alfred in the crowd of students. He found himself watching from a distance, studying Alfred's mannerisms. The boy didn't seem very talkative. The large Russian sitting before him was the only company he had at the table. Alfred didn't seem too eager to chat with him though. He simply kept his head down and nodded along to whatever the boy said. Arthur did not see a single smile pass those lips.

Arthur remained in his own world for the remainder of breakfast, simply occupying himself by watching the two outcasts.

Unknown to him, the trio at his own table had noticed this by now. They had grown quiet, moving their gazes from Arthur, and began to give each other silent glances that actually spoke a thousand words. They all seemed to know that something was different about their leader.

And Arthur continued to notice the boy. He began to see Alfred throughout the day, as if some strange coincidences kept bringing them together. He found himself trailing behind the boy at a distance in between classes. He found himself climbing the back stairwell and entering a hallway, just to find Alfred digging through his locker. He found himself occasionally glancing into classrooms as he walked by, to find Alfred perched at a desk with his head shoved in a thick textbook.

Yet, it seemed to Arthur that no matter how many times he saw Alfred in these instances, the boy never seemed to notice him. Alfred seemed absorbed in his own bubble, and therefore, did not pick up on Arthur's presence at all.

Arthur began to learn a lot by simply watching. From breakfast until lunch, Arthur simply sat in the background and observed Alfred. He found that his prediction of Alfred living in his own little world was correct. The boy spoke to no one, and seemed to simply throw himself into the world of books.

No one talked to Alfred; they simply talked down to him. Arthur heard many things that day by mistake. He heard a quarterback call the boy fat and knock his books out of his hands, right as Arthur was coming around the corner. He saw Alfred pry his locker open, only to have it slammed shut by two boys, right in his face, his fingers nearly crushed in the process. The halls were alive with things Arthur never noticed before. He noticed now that if he was trailing Alfred, he could hear things coming out of the mouths of students traveling in the opposite direction, who had just walked past the short teen. Girls and boys alike would snicker and gossip. Arthur heard far too many insults. He began to understand rather easily that the others liked to find the most sensitive spot and attack it. And that seemed to be Alfred's weight. Oh, but Arthur heard plenty of other harsh words, but the boy's weight seemed to be the biggest target.

Perhaps that was why, Arthur wondered to himself as he sat at his lunch table. Perhaps that was why Alfred kept to himself so often. It seemed rather obvious to Arthur that the remaining student body liked to pick on the boy and treat him badly. Alfred didn't seem to have any friends at all, besides that Russian boy. And Arthur could only assume what the boy was going through. To constantly be the butt of every joke and insult and bullying tactic, Arthur was certain the boy probably lived life in fear. He was probably afraid of what was going to happen next, when he'd be targeted next, what people were going to say next.

And the entire situation created a strong queasy feeling that settled harshly in Arthur's guts. It wasn't right. None of it was. Alfred was harmless and yet the world seemed to knock him down anyway.

Arthur could not get the boy out of his head. He was haunted by that nightmare, by what he had seen, and by those stunning eyes that seemed to scream in agony. And as the day dragged on, Arthur allowed himself to think. He thought about all that he had witnessed. He began to wonder about Alfred. Was it hard for him to keep going? Did he ever think about taking that step off the ledge? Did he have anyone to talk to about all that? What was his home life like? Was Alfred even okay, or was he just pretending to be?

There are two kinds of evil, and Arthur knew that. There are people who do evil things…and there are also people who see evil things and do nothing to stop it.

It was on his way to gym that afternoon when something inside Arthur erupted to life. Perhaps he had thought too much about the insults he heard. Perhaps it was seeing the boy's face when the locker door was slammed shut before him. Maybe it was on the way to gym when three boys grabbed Alfred on the back stairwell and shoved him down the stairs. Perhaps it was right then, as Arthur Kirkland stood at the top of the stairs, and saw the boy lying on the floor. Maybe it was the way Alfred tried not to cry and rose, shaking, onto his hands and knees, to collect his belongings, as Arthur continued to watch, and the rest of the world simply ignored the teen. Perhaps it was at that split second that Arthur decided he was the one that could provide a change. He would be the one to fight back.

Arthur followed Alfred down the stairs, and then into the gym. The journey to the locker room was not long, and Arthur chose his typical spot to get changed, near a few of the benches sitting near the wall. The other boys were laughing about something, but Arthur wasn't sure what. He stole a glance out of the corner of his eye at them, and had to admit, they made him more than slightly sick.

Stripping off his shirt above his head, Arthur began to change, glancing over in Alfred's direction, more curious than anything. The boy stood alone in the corner, his back to the remainder of the world. Arthur had never really noticed Alfred before, especially physically. Alfred seemed tiny; he was short and his back was not very wide. Arthur studied the curve of the boy's abdomen. Alfred may have had some chub on him, but Arthur could not say the boy was fat. His shoulders were round and soft, and his skin, sans the acne on his forehead and the slight appearance of stretch marks on his side, looked smooth and clear and, well, perfect.

It was then Arthur realized he had been staring. Alfred was staring back at him, looking like a deer in headlights, his cheeks rapidly darkening in color due to a rush of blood from a blush. Arthur said nothing. He simply flashed the boy the biggest smile he could muster, and went back to changing.

Gym took its usual course. Stretches, warm-ups, a few laps that needed to be ran, and then a group activity. That was how it always went after all. Today was basketball. Arthur had to admit, he wasn't the best, but he could dribble and pass and shoot if he had to. Alfred was on the opposite team today and Arthur noticed, as he ran up and down the court, that the boy simply placed himself on the sidelines and refused to move. Someone at some point threw the ball at Alfred on purpose and it hit him square in the chest, and the kid simply stood there frozen with the ball cradled in his hands.

Needless to say that had not gone well the remainder of his team.

Gym always flew by for Arthur. It seemed to go by even faster today; the entire day had. Perhaps it was due to him being so preoccupied with Alfred. Arthur had to admit, when everyone filed back into the locker room, he felt more than just a little nervous. He had been planning on what to say, but he was not sure how it was going to sound. He wasn't sure if he should even go through with it.

The loud yelp that greeted his ears instantly changed his mind.

Arthur turned a bit, frowning, shirt half pulled over his head. Alfred stood between two quarterbacks. What Arthur instantly noticed was that Alfred was yet to have a shirt covering him, and one of his arms desperately tried to hide himself. He was standing on tiptoe, trying to reach the bag that held his clothes, being held far out of his reach by one of the boys. Whenever Alfred got too close, the boy would simply knock him down and throw the bag to the other quarterback, and the process would start again.

Alfred's face had turned bloody red with embarrassment, clearly ashamed and being humiliated. The boys seemed to be enjoying themselves plenty, especially when Alfred's eyes began to visibly fill up with tears. The laughter got louder and a few boys started joining in, and it was not long before Alfred was crying.

It was at that moment something stirred deep in Arthur's guts. The soccer player dropped what he had been doing and approached the group that was forming, shoving a boy out of the way to get into the middle of the circle. He approached what appeared to be the ringleader, a boy around six feet and nearly twice Arthur's width. A slight hush fell over the group as Arthur moved closer, his shoes soundless on the floor. The blonde prodded the bigger teen in the chest with a pale, slender finger. He simply glared up at him, those emerald eyes acidic and suddenly very dangerous.

"Look. You and I are both seniors here. Almost all of us are. And it'd be a real favor if you would stop making the rest of us look bad. This is not elementary school. Grow up."

At times, Arthur was glad for his popularity. He seemed to have an unseen power that gave him strength others did not have. Slowly, very slowly, the boy before him lowered the bag to Arthur's level. Without a moment's hesitation, Arthur snatched it away. He threw it to Alfred, who thankfully managed to catch it, and instantly used it to shield himself.

For a moment, no one moved. Arthur had started to walk back to his spot, now stripping down his shorts to change back into his dark colored jeans. The stillness was beginning to irk him. With a sharp snarl he looked over his shoulder, and barked, "what are you lot still doing just standing there?!"

Instantly, the room began to move again. The remaining boys went back to changing. Arthur noticed the room was quieter. Calmer. It seemed like the others were trying to be less noisy as if to keep Arthur from becoming aggravated any further.

One by one, the boys began to leave. Arthur watched them go out of the corner of his eye. In the meantime, the soccer player had placed himself on a bench, absently tying and retying his boots to pass the time. And at last, Arthur got what he wanted. All that was left was him and Alfred.

Arthur watched him grab his bag and make a beeline for the door. It was then Arthur hopped to his feet, and took several paces forward. Alfred noticeably backed up a few in response. Arthur frowned at that, mutely looking the boy up and down for a moment. And then all he did was sigh.

"Look, you don't have to be scared of me, boy. I'm just trying to help, okay? I just wanted to say I'm sorry for not helping you out sooner." Arthur folded his arms across his chest. "…So, I guess what I'm just trying to tell you is that you can count on me, okay?"

Alfred blinked. He blushed a little and shrugged, but then nodded very slowly, as if mutely agreeing. Arthur frowned at that reaction though. Was the boy just going along with whatever he said to get him to shut up and leave him alone?

Arthur didn't move for a long moment. He unfolded his arms and then put a hand on his collarbone, absently tracing it as he tried to think. Alfred was just staring at him, that same glazed look in his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I guess I'm not really the best with this stuff." Arthur smiled a little, looking down at his shoes for a split second. Oh, God. His heart was hammering all of a sudden. His stomach felt too tight and knotted. "Um… Well, I'm Arthur. Arthur Kirkland—"

"I know." That was all Alfred said. He interrupted and then instantly fell silent once more. The fear seemed to have melted away now, but all that was left was a heavy sadness that seemed to be radiating off the boy.

"…Well… Can you tell me who you are?" Arthur asked gently. Alfred did not seem to want to answer. He simply dug the toe of his shoe into the tile and kept his gaze down. "I just wanna know your name, is all. Your actual name, not Jones or whatever those kids call you."

"…It's Alfred." At last it came out, and the boy seemed to shrink further inside of himself. His shoulders squeezed up inside his pinstripe shirt and his hand tightened violently on the strap of his bag. "Alfred Jones."

"Alfred, huh? You don't seem like an Alfred." What was he saying? His body felt warm. Was he talking too much? Should he just let the boy leave? Ugh, he was probably only embarrassing himself. "Okay, well… Um… Oh! Hang on."

Arthur then bent over, digging through his backpack. There was a soft rip as he tore out a slip of paper from a notebook, and dug out a pen. After a brief moment of scribbling, Arthur handed the strip over to the chubby teenager. He then threw the pen back into his backpack.

"That's my cell number. Um… If you ever wanna just chat or hang out, feel free to text me or call me sometime or something." Arthur suddenly grinned. Unknown to him, he was turning pink with embarrassment, and he folded his arms again. Could Alfred hear how loud and hard his heart was beating? "It was nice meeting you though. I guess I'll see you later, okay?"

Alfred stared down at the slip of notebook paper in his hand for a long moment. He seemed to be processing something. At last he looked up and simply nodded. And it was then that Arthur watched him leave. Alfred took off with hurried steps, clutching his bag for dear life as he ran out of the locker room.

When the door closed, Arthur released a breath he did not know he had been holding. He felt… He felt warm, fuzzy. He felt really nice. A rather dopey smile crossed Arthur's lips all of a sudden. With a long, happy sigh, Arthur stooped down to grab his bag.

He was not typically one for nervousness. Arthur was one who often thrived on impulse. He was good at talking to people, and people always talked back. He was a charmer and had excellent people skills. But talking to Alfred… His tongue proceeded to get twisted, he had problems thinking straight, and an even worse time communicating. He wanted to just keep talking until his lips fell off.

If he was being honest with himself, he was curious as to when Alfred would first contact him. The thought of Alfred calling him made his insides flutter. The way he'd get to hear Alfred's voice again and get to actually talk to him… Arthur's smile widened a bit.

But, unknown to Arthur at that time, Alfred had no intentions of contacting him. He had crumpled up the slip of paper and threw it in a garbage can before he had even left campus.

It was some kind of a joke. It had to be. There was no way in hell the Arthur Kirkland had willingly gave his number away to some loser like himself.

Alfred bit harshly down on his lower lip as he sat on his bed. He was cast on his back, staring up at his ceiling. He studied the posters he had there. They were all space related. He had one of the moon and its phases, a map of the universe, a view of earth from space, the Carina, Soul, and Orion Nebulas, and a few of the Northern Lights.

He had wanted to be an astronaut ever since he was a little kid. He had dreamed of that clunky white suit and being submerged in a place almost void of human life. It would just be him, his crewmates, and the stars.

But things changed, just a little. For now, he wanted to simply be an astronomer. His brain thrived on science. It made sense to him. He loved it. The thought of being able to spend the rest of his life doing something he loved sounded heavenly.

And, well, having crewmates that actually treated him humanely sounded like a dream come true.

With a grunt, Alfred pushed himself up. He tried to ignore reality for the moment. He tried to ignore the sound of the television that echoed in the silent house from downstairs. He tried to ignore how itchy and dry his eyes felt from crying. He tried to ignore how alone he felt, how hurt he felt, how angry he felt. He tried to ignore the full feeling from overeating, and tried to ignore how heavy and huge he felt.

Most of all, he tried to ignore how much he hated himself.

The feeling of a teardrop on his cheek did not seem to faze Alfred at all. He simply scrubbed it off with the back of his hand. He felt entirely miserable. He felt… Alfred couldn't really say anymore. He felt constantly weighed down. He was always exhausted and upset and crying. He was always miserable and it was getting harder to find light in the dark.

He closed his eyes. Almost instantly he was bombarded by scenarios he did not want to remember. The bullying, the insults, the punching and kicking, the pain all flashed through his brain in seconds. Spots of his skin were suddenly throbbing, even though the bruises there had long since faded away. He could remember being laughed at, humiliated, pushed to the dirt, and walked on.

Something in his heart squeezed painfully tight and a few tears leaked from behind his eyelids.

Go ahead. No one would miss you. The little voices in his head were getting too loud again, and Alfred tensed violently on the bed. He tried to block it out, he tried to ignore it, and that made it angry. His mind was screaming, reeling, bellowing. Everything suddenly felt like it was suffocating him. It felt like there was not enough air in his lungs. Alfred began dry heaving, struggling to breathe properly, the anxiety completely shutting him down. The tears began pouring, and the sobbing erupted from his mouth only moments later. Do it, you know you want to.

Oh, God. He couldn't do this, he couldn't do it anymore. It sounded too tempting, it really did. Everything suddenly seemed too dark, too hopeless, and he was struggling so badly to fight back. Alfred was practically wailing as he hunched over the edge of the bed.

His hand shot out to his desk and began a violent, desperate search for a phone. His hands were shaking. His mouth felt so dry and his eyes were producing an ocean. The little voice seemed so large now, too big for him to handle, and he was terrified.

He found his phone buried underneath a mountain of schoolwork, and flipped it open as fast as he could. He only had a few contacts, so it did not take long to find who he was looking for. As soon as Alfred hit the call button to dial Ivan's cell, he tried his best to suck it up, but he just couldn't stop.

One ring. Two. After the third and fourth Alfred felt a sickening drop in his stomach. Finally, on the fifth, he heard that sharp accent, and Alfred couldn't control it anymore.

"Ivan, I need you to come over. Please, please, I can't do this anymore—" Short fingernails dug into clammy skin. He began to scratch, almost violently, trying something, anything, to keep the thoughts at bay. He felt like he was going to be sick. He wanted out, he needed out. The boy was crying his heart out, no longer able to hear Ivan over his own sobbing. "Please Ivan, it hurts, it hurts."

Ivan was screaming. His twisted English sounded so muffled, so contorted, and Alfred could not understand him. He could barely hear a thing sounds the voice spewing words at him and the sound of blood rushing through his ears. The line went dead of all of a sudden. Alfred's phone crashed to the floor, and, bawling, the boy shoved his face into his hands.

There were hands. They shoved him around, and pushed him into the dirt. There were words being hurled at him. There were tears tumbling down his cheeks as his body started to change, and the acidic insults increased. It was too much, like a knife ripping through the tissue of his heart in rough, jagged movements.

"Al?! Al! Alfred, look at me!" More hands. He barely had the strength to hold his eyes open, let alone pick his head up off the floor. Blonde tresses that were showing signs of gray fell into icy blue eyes. Aged hands were shaking him violently by the shoulder. He felt so heavy, but it felt so good. "Alfred, can you hear me?!"

"Ah, damn. Looks like you're still stuck here. What a shame." Laughter. Hands that pushed him down. Kicks, punches, spit landing on his cheek. "Whatever. We'll keep hoping."

"Alfred, is there anything you'd like to tell me?" The pen was clicking rapidly. "Do you know why your father brought you here today? How are you feeling?"

He barely made it to the bathroom in time to vomit.

He was shaking violently now as he slumped to the floor. His limbs were trembling, palms too, and the anxiety left him with a partially closed throat and erratic pulse. The sweat tumbled down his face and he rested his head on the toilet seat, his stomach still violently fighting back. The tears did not want to stop, and neither did the thoughts.

Eventually, he calmed down slightly. His pulse stopped throbbing in his ears. He could finally breathe. He swallowed roughly, feeling beads of cold sweat drip down the sides of his face. He was still trembling a little. The peak of the panic attack had passed, but he was still getting little aftershocks. His stomach still flopped a little and he swallowed another wave of stomach acid, doing his best not to puke a second time.

He rested a sweaty cheek on the rim of the toilet and closed his eyes. He felt so heavy all of a sudden. It felt like something was sitting on his chest. Something big and heavy, like an elephant. He still felt like he needed to cry some more, but nothing came out. His eyes were sticky and itchy but no more tears fell from his ducts. He felt so empty and exhausted. He needed to sleep. He kept his eyes closed and finally willed his stiff, rigid body to relax.

There was a slam from downstairs. Alfred paid it no mind at first until he heard that voice, thick with accent, screaming his name. Alfred picked his head up, and simply screeched 'Ivan' at the top of his lungs to get the boy's attention. He then simply put his head back down and closed his heavy eyes.

He could hear Ivan ascending the stairs. His footsteps were loud and clunky and Alfred could hear heavy pants coming from his mouth. At last, Ivan made it upstairs, and came crashing into the bathroom. Alfred didn't move or say anything.

"Alfred?" The taller teenager set foot into the bathroom, his black combat boots sounding heavy on the gray tile. Ivan shuffled over to where Alfred was sitting, and squatted down next to him. Alfred's eyes creaked open. They were glazed over. "Are you okay?"

Who was he kidding? The boy had just called him practically screaming that he wanted to kill himself, of course he wasn't okay. Ivan bit down on his lower lip worriedly. This had not been the first time Alfred had acted this way since they had met. Alfred had called him various times to ask for help, just needing someone to talk to, to 'distract him for a while'. But Alfred had never called him screaming and crying like that before.

And Ivan would be lying if he said it wasn't worrisome.

Alfred looked a mess. His hair was tousled. His cheeks were red and marked from tears. His eyes were bloodshot. Ivan could smell vomit on the boy's breath. He looked sweaty, but so very exhausted.

"Alfred?" Ivan spoke again. Alfred had yet to say a word. The shorter teen's eyes creaked open again. "Want to sleep?"

Alfred didn't say anything. He just nodded. He shifted his weight a bit and at last picked his head up. Using the toilet for balance, Alfred attempted to heave himself up. Ivan remained squatted on the floor. As soon as he saw Alfred's legs shaking he instantly stood up himself, offering the boy an arm to wrap about his shoulders.

"Come on." Ivan said softly, helping to support the boy. Alfred's head lolled sideways and rested against Ivan's huge shoulder, and he tried his best to walk, but his legs didn't cooperate very well. Ivan helped lead him back to his room. The Russian helped him back onto the bed.

Alfred crawled under the covers, burrowing as much of himself into the mattress as he possibly could. Ivan stood next to the bed awkwardly, just watching for a moment.

"You can leave or sit down if you want." Alfred's voice was a tiny whisper in the stillness. Ivan instantly moved, choosing to seat himself on the unoccupied side of the bed. He simply sat there and watched Alfred for a moment. The boy's chest was barely moving, his breathing sounding so shallow. His eyes were closing again.

For a moment, Ivan thought the boy had fallen asleep. Alfred was entirely silent and the sheets on his bed had seemed to engulf his chubby frame. Ivan wasn't sure of what to do. A part of him wanted to stay but another wanted to leave.

"I'm really sorry." Alfred spoke out of the blue suddenly. His eyes cracked open and Ivan saw a teardrop roll down his face, following the crease of his nose. "I'm sorry to be a pest, Ivan. I really am. I didn't do anything, I just… God, I'm sorry to waste your time."

"You aren't." Ivan's voice was equally quiet. He slowly flopped down on the bed and looked up at the posters on Alfred's ceiling. "I glad you okay."

Alfred hiccupped softly. His chest gave a faint tremble under the covers and he curled up a little more. Ivan was staring at him again, wanting to ask questions, wanting to talk, but he knew better.

"I want to sleep forever." Finally, it came out. Alfred did not dare to open his eyes. His voice sounded so small, so sad. "Like a really deep sleep…where all my dreams are really happy. Where everything is happy. And it'll feel really good and everyone will like me and I won't be sad anymore. I won't be tired anymore. I'd just sleep and sleep and…I'd… I'd never wake up ever again."

Ivan did not know how to respond to those words. He simply did not know what to say. There was nothing he could say.

Alfred fell asleep. Ivan did not notice at first until Alfred began to snore softly, which brought Ivan out of his thoughts. He sat up a bit, studying the boy's face for a moment. He had seen Alfred pass out like this a couple times before, and if he was being honest, he liked it better that way. Seeing Alfred sleep, rather than being awake, made him look so much more at ease. He wore a peaceful expression majority of the time when he slept, and even now, after suffering, he at least looked a little happier.

Ivan leaned over a bit more. He gently grabbed the thick frames of Alfred's giant glasses, and slipped them off slowly. The most Alfred do was stir a little, before settling down. Ivan folded the glasses up and reached over to set them on the nightstand.

Ivan then focused his attention back on Alfred. The boy looked even younger without his glasses on. He looked younger and healthier and, if he dared to admit it, all the more appealing.

It made Ivan a little sick. He felt so uncomfortable these days with how he viewed Alfred. He liked protecting Alfred. He liked talking to him and helping him and being there for him. He liked hearing Alfred talk and, on those days that seemed more like a blue moon, seeing Alfred smile.

He really liked Alfred, and knowing that made him uncomfortable. It was not the type of 'liking' that made him want to kiss the boy or anything of the such, but… He wanted Alfred to smile. He wanted to see him happy and he wanted to hug him until the sadness burst out him.

That was different, right?

Ivan sighed a bit and heaved himself off the bed. Alfred mumbled something in his sleep and rolled over, curling up into a little ball under his duvet. Ivan studied him for a split second longer before he stepped away from the bed.

Alfred had an interesting room, and Ivan knew it, despite only setting foot in it a few times. The posters hanging on the ceiling fascinated him and yet confused him. Alfred's walls were a very soft blue color, so pale it almost looked white. Alfred's bed was decorated with a simplistic black and white theme, and the railing was a deep onyx color to match. His bedside table looked rather bare. Upon it were the clunky glasses, an alarm clock, and a novel with a bookmark peeking from between two pages. The desk was on the opposite side of the bed. Alfred had books and papers piled sky high. There was also a black lamp and a ceramic cup full of black pens and mechanical pencils.

What caught Ivan's attention the most was the wall furthest from the door. There was a window in the center, covered by dark curtains. But what seemed so bizarre were the tack boards. Alfred had two of them, and they were huge, one mounted on each side of the window. There were photographs secured there by pushpins, and Ivan walked closer to inspect them.

The pictures showed various timeframes, but most of which were from when Alfred was younger. It was not hard finding the boy in the photographs. Alfred's hair had that same swooping cowlick, and was still the same glowing color. But what was different in Ivan's eyes were the smiles that plastered Alfred's lips. He was playing with a boy that was his same size, a bit of hair curling in front of his face. The pair were together in majority of the shots, looking almost too alike. At first Ivan thought it was the boy's brother or something similar, but Alfred had never told him he had siblings.

Other shots were similar. There was a man and woman in some of the other pictures, and Ivan paused, assuming that they were Alfred's parents. Alfred never talked about his mother, but had told Ivan once that she was still alive. There was no denying the man was Alfred's father. They both had that same cowlick, those icy blue eyes, and smiles that seemed to light up the world.

Ivan paused and glanced over at the bed. Alfred appeared to be nothing more than a giant lump under the blankets, his snoring soft but audible. Ivan then glanced at the pictures again and frowned.

How could a boy so full of light and smiles suddenly turn so dark, empty, and sad?

Chapter 3: End.