Clockwork Stranger

Part IV

Hello once again,

So, yeah, long pause in the updates. Sorry about that! Real life and all for my beta and I. ;) Always a a joy to deal with. Anyway!

Reviews:

Ahr0: girl, I'd be dead of fright and you know it.

blackcat: Lol, says I update fast, then I don't update for over a week. xD Sorry, doll! Oh gosh, inspiration... wow, probably Supernatural and the curiosity it forms in me. The show generally has some decent research done on their lore and some neat twists on old legends that I really enjoy. :)

PiffBee: Haha, portal, eye, warding sigil; it can be all sorts of things. Hehe, given the darker nature of this fic, I think good-aligned nature is out. ;)

alguien22792: Confusion makes for the best of stories xD

Guest: Lol, witty. I'm sure he'd love it with a passion. ;)

SS: OH MY GOSH I MISSED YOU TOO! Haha, I know how to please a fellow awesome fangirl. ;) And seriously, I love writing a creepy, sort of demented Arthur. That dark, yet charming and sexy attitude blended with some smugness, but with the capability of being a decent human being is my favorite personification of him. AND WHAT? WHO TOLD YOU SUCH AN AWFUL LIE? This is why we don't spread rumors, guys. Of course the US has Kit-Kats! I would just die without my deliciously fattening waffle bars of goodness! xD Your school is just dumb. No offense, but really? At least our kids do it in a secluded area. And I love/missed your essays!

Yanelle: Yeah, pretty much. Make a believer out of him yet.

Heroic Pen: Not going to lie, I love horror, it's just a terrible mess and a half to write. As to MH and Slendy, it's more the appearance, mannerisms, symbols and so forth- just to really bring out that fear I know a lot of folks have simply because of Slenderman. :)

Onward then!

Part IV

Another two weeks passed before Alfred spoke with Arthur again. It wasn't as if he hadn't tried though. Every morning in math class he would glance over, wondering about what Arthur knew, about the mark on his own hand, about the waking nightmare haunting the jock. Every lunch period Alfred found himself wandering aimlessly, and usually ended up beneath the shade of the bleachers. But Arthur was never there. The scent of smoke lingered, and sometimes Alfred would find the still smoking butt of a Marlboro, but never Arthur. And for some reason, that left an odd feeling in Alfred's chest. One he couldn't, or rather, didn't want to identify.

It wasn't like he needed Arthur's help. No, Alfred didn't need anyone's help. Like the bastard said, Alfred would figure it out on his own. He'd find some way to cure himself of this horror, and get back to enjoying his senior year. But, maybe, if Arthur was willing, he could at least try to make this easier on the younger. Did he have to make himself so hard to find?

Alfred didn't entirely understand how he'd set Arthur off the last time. He'd come to Arthur, asking for help—and Alfred F. Jones did not ask for help—so why couldn't Arthur just try to work with him? Sure, Alfred wasn't entirely open to the idea of some demonic symbol causing all his grief, but there had to be something. Arthur knew what that something was and damn it all, Alfred had to find out!

This couldn't go on. He barely slept, lost his appetite over most meals, and was already seeing his grades slip. He just didn't have the energy for homework after practice, didn't have the focus to read the assigned books. He'd lost all sense of organization, or what little he had, and was so scattered he was losing more points on not turning in what work he did rather than what he couldn't complete. And while Alfred never had the most stellar grades, they were impressive compared to the rest of his teammates. Now they were deteriorating rapidly, and that worried the blue-eyed teenager more than he cared to admit. He was an athlete, not a scholar, but knew if those falling grades slipped too low, he'd be facing expulsion from his beloved teams. That was something Alfred wasn't sure he could handle right now, or ever really.

He had to shake those dreary thoughts from his mind though. This wasn't the time or place for the idea of failure.

Exiting his car, Alfred stuffed the keys into his hoodie's front pouch, clicking the lock button as he did so. Tipping his head back, Alfred stared up at the narrow cross glistening in the morning light atop the steeple of his church. The deep golds and dying violets splashed the white roofing with color, and cast a long shadow across the parking lot. Standing before the tall building, warmly tucked into his hoodie and leaning against the sturdy frame of his beloved Mustang, Alfred felt a sense of peace descend upon him that he hadn't experience in weeks. His fingers brushed the simple gold cross that rested on his chest, taking comfort in the familiar smooth planes.

He'd been here plenty of times since the night he'd first seen the shadows. But for some reason, he actually felt reassured. Alfred couldn't say there was anything particularly different about this average Sunday morning, other than the wave of normalcy he felt splashing his macabre life. Regardless, Alfred wasn't here to ponder why he was reassured. The troubled teenager was here to simply enjoy it, fall back into routine and hopefully move on from these ordeals.

Unhitching himself from his car, Alfred started towards the familiar building, head bowed in tired, but content humility. As exhausted as he was, he didn't think he even had the energy to hold his head up anyways. He'd only finished his work shift a few hours ago, and lacked sleep in that interval. Not from lack of trying though, that was certain. Sleeping was hard to do when every flickering shadow sent his heart rate into a terrified frenzy.

And so, upon entering, Alfred immediately flopped down in the closest pew without an ounce of grace. The blue-eyed teenager was more than tempted to lie down across the hard wood, take solace in one of his favorite places, and finally sleep in peace.

Naturally, that idea came to a grinding halt as sharp voice caught his attention.

"You look like Hell's been chasing you," Arthur observed nonchalantly.

Alfred's head shot up, eyes wide with surprise that quickly narrowed in ire.

"The fuck are you doing here?" he growled out, and then suddenly flinched. Arthur cocked a brow as the younger turned his eyes to the ceiling and profusely apologized. Arthur couldn't help the sarcastic chuckle that rumbled from his throat.
"What's so funny?" Alfred snarled, hands balling into fists with a dangerous warning. Arthur didn't seem to heed it as he continued to taunt his easily offended counterpart.

"You. Or rather, your ridiculous belief that talking to the rafters will somehow redeem your wayward soul."

"I wasn't apologizing to the fucking ceiling, you douche! I was—"

"Yes, yes, apologizing to God. I'm sure he'd be so proud if he actually existed."

"If?" The sharp clench of Alfred's jaw and the disgusted way he glared at Arthur actually had the emerald-eyed student feeling a bit guilty. So maybe Alfred was a tad ridiculous for talking to some divine deity in the clouds and his zombie son, but at least he had faith. While Arthur didn't believe in any higher being, he thought it was impressive for Alfred to put so much devotion into so ethereal. The boy only ever seemed to put his very heart and soul into two things: sports and God. The art student thought it was endearing on some odd level, but knew to keep that thought to himself.

"Yes, if," Arthur affirmed after a moment's pause. He watched Alfred sidelong, his emerald eyes shimmering with a hidden interest. Unlike Alfred, Arthur didn't become physically riled up. Mentally, he seethed, but on the outside he tended to come off as aloof or cold. Usually walking away from a situation rather than engaging it further was when he hit his break point. But he was curious to see what Alfred would do without the option to become physically aggressive. Would he yell? Maybe threaten Arthur? Attack him in the parking lot, perhaps?

But the blue-eyed youth did none of these things. In fact, he greatly surprised Arthur by unclenching his fists and sighing. It was a weary noise, wracked with soul-deep fatigue, and had a guilty swell panging Arthur's heart. Had he taken this dangerous game of poking the proverbial bear too far?

"Whatever," Alfred grumbled without any bite. He tipped his head back, turned to the side so Arthur couldn't see his face, and then shut his eyes. Mass wouldn't begin for a little while, so he decided to try and catch a little sleep, Arthur be damned.

Curiosity and guilt made for a writhing combination in the older's gut, and it made him very uncomfortable. He shifted on the hard pew, continually glancing from his Sharpie decorated hands to Alfred, and then back to his hands. The awkward silence that descended between them felt strangely foreign to the older. Once upon a time, they'd been friends. But that was in elementary school many years ago, and Arthur couldn't help but wonder why they'd drifted apart. It was probably silly to ponder such a thing, seeing as they were very different people now, but he couldn't help it.

"What are you doing here anyway?" Alfred mumbled, suddenly snapping Arthur to attention as he shattered that silence.

"Me?" Arthur stupidly responded, feeling ridiculous when Alfred scoffed.

"No, not you. I was talking to the church mouse," he scathed with bitter sarcasm, still facing away from the emerald-eyed man.

"Does it matter why I'm here?"

"Yeah. You said you don't believe in anything, so why would you come to church?"

"Because I can," Arthur returned simply, his tone neutral.

"Just so you can make fun of good Christians?" Arthur didn't see, but he could very well imagine Alfred rolling his eyes, his gut seething with disgust.

"Don't flatter yourself. I poke fun at good Jews and Muslims as well. Churches are simply easier to find than say a synagogue or a mosque."

"You're sick in the head," Alfred growled.

"I've been told that more than once. But does it really seem like I care?" Arthur quipped, crossing his leg over his knee with an air of regality. The art student winked at Alfred when the younger glanced back at him. Alfred merely sneered.

"Quit acting so smug. You're not impressing anyone here with your faithlessness."

"Stop acting so entitled by your precious religion and I just might humor you."

"I'm not—" Alfred gusted out an angry sigh, and faced away again, effectively ending their poor excuse for a conversation.

Another lapse of ill-fated communication stretched out between them. Alfred seemed to welcome it though, as he finally had a chance to close his eyes and try to relax. It was fairly difficult, especially since he could feel Arthur staring, but he tried to ignore it. And just when he thought he was going to whirl around and snap from the uncomfortable feeling, Arthur spoke.

"I come in hopes that I will hear some Latin."

"Latin?" Alfred's eyes fluttered open, and his lips quirked in a curious frown. "You come out here this early on a Sunday morning to hear a language you can't understand?"

"I don't understand many things, but that doesn't make them any less beautiful."

"But how is it beautiful if you don't know what they're saying? What's the point of that? It's like watching a Spanish soap opera without knowing Spanish!"

"The enigma itself is beautiful," Arthur returned quietly, voice soft in a gentle somberness.

"You sound like a crappy poetry book."

"Is that necessarily a bad thing?"

"Yeah, it's vague and kinda creepy."

"Latin is beautiful though. Languages are in general, but Latin is by far my favorite."

"It's not all that great," Alfred snorted, "and now you just sound weirder than before. If that's even possible."

"But my love of it is for the same reason you look up at the stars and feel amazed and curious. You're staring at dots of light in the sky, yet it's beautiful and mesmerizing."

"No, you're looking at stars, just big spheres of hydrogen and light. I know exactly what they are. There's no 'beautiful enigma'," Alfred mocked.

"And yet every time you stare up at them, you gape and wonder."

"Well—"

"Because, really, how can you not?"

"I—"

"You're seeing stars millions of years away from their present time. Light takes so long to travel, that we may as well be staring at the past."

"That's—"

"Yet we have it ingrained in our minds from a young age that space is part of the future. The paradox is astounding and mysterious."

"Arthur—"

"Looking at the past, the future and present all at once, fixated at a single, bright light in the night sky is simply beautiful because you can't truly fathom time in such a sense." Arthur smiled. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Alfred blinked, dumbfounded as how to respond to that. What was there to even say? The small quip of philosophy from the atheist left him speechless. It wasn't overly long, flared or entirely pertinent to what Alfred had ever pondered on such a scale, but he found that he liked it. The physics of light traveling and time relevancy were complex. But the idea of seeing something beautiful in the convergence of time, and the mystery behind what it revealed was… well, nice.

"I—" Alfred sighed, feeling strange agreeing with Arthur, but unable to deny it. "Yeah, I guess so."

While the response was lackluster, Arthur heard the small revelation in Alfred's tired voice. The cocky arrogance had been replaced with something much more appealing. The general openness to agree with Arthur was a small event, but the art student felt a much broader connotation behind it. Maybe Alfred actually had the capacity to be a halfway decent independent thinker after all, the older hoped.

But he would have to wait to see that side of Alfred develop more at a later time.

Alfred suddenly straightened up and faced forward as Mass began. Neither had been paying much attention to the time or the people filtering in, but as Arthur looked around, it was quite obvious. They sat at the very back, and were mostly alone, seeing as the closest person sat two pews up.

The emerald-eyed student didn't bother even trying to engage Alfred again. He'd said plenty, with better results than he'd have thought possible. No need to push things too far, and he quit while he was ahead.

But as Arthur drifted back into his own mind, Alfred was attentive to the first few passages and windy preaching. It didn't take long for exhaustion to work its way back into his systems, sluggishly disarming him. The blue-eyed teenager tried to focus, shifting and squirming to wake himself up. It hardly helped though, and before he knew it, his eyes were fluttering shut.

Alfred was vaguely aware of the Mass still continuing, and of Arthur's voice trying to coax him into waking, but it was futile. Even Alfred had to admit that to himself as he felt sleep tug relentlessly at his mind, dragging him to blackness until he passed out entirely.

It took a few more shakes of the shoulder and whispered commands for Arthur to realize there would be no waking the exhausted teenager. Arthur huffed a sigh before giving up and letting Alfred sleep. While there might be repercussions for falling asleep in church, Arthur, quite frankly, didn't give a damn. He mentally challenged any deity or pious mouthpiece to reprimand Alfred for dozing off in a supposed house of the holy. The boy was desperate for rest, and if it had taken finding comfort in his faith to actually sleep, then Arthur wasn't about to let anyone disturb that.

He suddenly blinked in surprise.

When had he become so defensive of Alfred? When had this innate urge to protect the younger suddenly manifested itself? Sure, he'd been willing to put a little faith in Alfred, hoping he could be changed, and yes he did miss their old childhood friendship, but this was very different.

He should have hated Alfred. Isn't that what had started all of this to begin with? He'd been so infuriated by the jock that he'd released his curse on him. But now it all felt entirely shallow, and Arthur swallowed down the lump in his throat. This shouldn't be happening, not after what Alfred had said and done to him. And yet—

Arthur made a startled noise as Alfred slumped against him. The younger was still sound asleep, only he'd keeled over, effectively dumping all his weight on the older's shoulder. His head rested awkwardly against Arthur's neck where the art student could feel his shallow breaths dust his collar through the thin V-neck he wore. It evaporated all rational thought from Arthur's mind as the blue-eyed teenager's generous warmth quickly soaked in, and managed to lull Arthur into complacency. He didn't budge or try to move Alfred as the boy slept peacefully against the man he was supposed to hate.

Besides, Arthur couldn't entirely deny Alfred had some appeal. After all, the emerald-eyed man had no shame in admitting he found the younger attractive. Fallow-gold hair, always clean and neatly combed, bright blue eyes, brimming with subtle intelligence and a body well adapted to his physical lifestyle were all positives in Arthur's opinion. And after tinkering with the jock's mind a bit, Arthur only found all of those perks amplified by the idea that maybe Alfred wasn't as close-minded as he originally thought. He seemed to like his notions on his fascination for the esoteric thought of time and stars.

So he let Alfred sleep against him for the rest of Mass without complaint. The boy didn't even stir as the people began to shuffle from their pews noisily, chatting amongst themselves rather loudly.

Arthur smirked dangerously at the first person to shoot them a dirty look. The older man looked aghast at the sight, but was quick to turn away at the intense leer directed at him from narrowed viridian eyes. And while most people didn't even seem to notice, too wrapped up in their conversations to glance around, Arthur diligently glared at everyone who did. Their sneers pissed him off to no end. How dare these people try to judge them, especially in such a place. It wasn't their job to determine Alfred's sanctity by merely catching him in a moment of weakness; Arthur didn't explicitly care what any of those so-called good people thought of him. They could all burn in their imagined Hell for—

"I don't believe I've seen you here before," interrupted a now familiar voice.

Arthur tore his vicious gaze away from the last few people leaving to glance up at a tall figure. The man had curly brown hair flecked with dapples of gray, and bright, kindly eyes. His stance was entirely relaxed, but still retained an air of natural, just authority. Arthur found he already liked the man, considering he looked upon the two boys without a hint of abhorrence.

"My first time here," Arthur affirmed.

"And why did you decide to visit today?"

"I was in the mood for Latin," Arthur quipped. The man smiled brightly.

"Always a good reason to attend church," the man winked. "I personally love Latin as well. Such a magnificent language, and so rare to find someone your age who I know will agree. Oh, and pardon my rudeness, won't you? My name is Father Roma."

"That's a shame," Arthur agreed, "but you're certainly forgiven. I'm Arthur." The art student glanced down as Alfred stirred then. He nuzzled Arthur's collar in his sleep, but his breathing remained even.

"I see Alfred has taken to sleeping during Mass," the curly-haired man chided gently, smiling all the while.

"I doubt your God will mind."

"My God?"

"He's certainly not mine."

"Is anyone your God, young sir?"

"Not that I know of."

"Any particular reason for that?"

"Too many disappointments to count, and too many rules to break."

"Sounds more like you're talking about the government."

"What else would organized religion sound like?"

Roma sighed heavily, but his cheerful smile still lit up his face.

"Therein lies your problem. You have no faith, not just about God, but in so much," he chided without malice. Strangely enough, he was right, and Arthur felt his stomach worm with unease. He'd known Roma for all of five minutes and already the man was reading him like an open book. It wasn't with any kind of hate or disgust though, which the emerald-eyed man was grateful for. Still, Arthur didn't take kindly to being scolded for what he thought. Roma had no right to reprimand him for such a thing.

"I haven't any faith because there is nothing to have faith in. I believe only in what I can see, and I've seen plenty."

"You're young—"

"Trust me, Father, age means nothing. I have seen more than I care to admit," and with that, Arthur effectively dismissed the conversation. Roma looked pensive for a moment, his forehead wrinkling in deep thought as if he was at a loss for a proper response, but Alfred stirring drew his attention away. His tawny eyes alighted on the blue-eyed teenager, watching as he yawned and straightened up.

Alfred blinked a few times to clear sleep from his eyes and focus his bleary vision. As the world came into its usual state of sharpness, Alfred quickly cleared his throat and greeted Roma.

"Uh, hey, Father. How are you?"

"I am well, Mr. Jones. I see you brought a friend," Roma winked at Arthur, who scowled in turn.

Alfred scoffed, suddenly realizing how close he was to Arthur, and inched away.

"Yeah, friend," Alfred scathed, trying to forget the way he'd been mesmerized by Arthur's ideas on beauty earlier. They'd fluttered around his mind, even as he slept, making him dream of endless voids of stars. He forced down the memory of how it had made his heart twist in his chest and silenced his voice with fascination.

"Now, now, Mr. Jones, is that anyway to react? Arthur seems quite nice."

Both of the students shot Roma a skeptical look—for entirely different reasons, but still—and the pastor grinned. His smiling lips parted to speak, but a woman from across the aisle called for the Father. Clapping his hands together and twining his fingers, Roma moved into the aisle. He nodded politely, and bid them a brief farewell, along with encouragement to get along. Alfred's nose crinkled at the absurd advice, but glanced to catch Arthur's expression.

The jock was entirely caught off guard though. Arthur was watching him sidelong, emerald eyes hooded, but shimmering with curiosity. He didn't look upset or perturbed by Roma's quip at all. Alfred hadn't been expecting acceptance written in his pale features. Alfred's insides knotted up as he realized it was probably the kindest look Arthur had shown him since the third grade.

"Quit staring at me, fag!" Alfred snapped weakly. Arthur didn't even flinch as he sat up straight, replacing his curiosity with aloofness.

"You were the one who just fell asleep on me."

"You let me!"

"You looked tired is all."

"Oh, so monsieur Antichrist is a saint now, huh? You let every tired guy sleep on you?" Alfred suddenly barked back, eyes narrowing. Still, Arthur responded coolly.

"No, but you're not 'every tired guy' now are you?" he cocked a brow, " and what's with that name?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Don't pull your gay shit on me, Arthur. I'm not a queer. And it's because you're fucking devil spawn, that's why," he snarled, trying to muster up his anger. It wasn't too hard when Arthur barked with malignant laughter. Alfred's blood boiled in his veins, heating his face, and he was ready to deck Arthur and show him who—

"I thought it was kind of nice," Arthur murmured, looking at Alfred through unreadable emerald eyes. Roma's words nipped at the fringes of his mind, herding his words to spill out with a much kinder tone than usual.

"What? Wait—"

"You didn't seem to find me uncomfortable either."

"No! I didn't mean to fall asleep on you!" Alfred insisted, holding up his hands as if they could somehow protect him from Arthur's words and his own squirming emotions. "It was an accident!"

"I know. Even so, I want you to know that I didn't mind, and there's nothing wrong with how you feel."

"I'm not gay!"

"I didn't say that," Arthur smirked, "but you jumped to insist on that rather quickly, didn't you?"

"Well, I have to make sure you know to keep it in your pants, you freak," Alfred retorted, feeling as if he were still giving ground, despite his hurtful responses. He just wanted Arthur to stop. He didn't want to think about this. He didn't want to think about how soft Arthur had felt, or how warm his body was or even that the art student had been entirely okay with it. You didn't just let your enemy sleep on your shoulder like that. That was something, well, not what enemies did. Alfred left it at that, bringing his scrambled thoughts under control.

Arthur scoffed in response.

"I said I was fine with you passing out on my shoulder. How you take that as me desperate to have sex with you I don't even want to fathom," Arthur rolled his eyes, crossing his arms before his chest.

"I doubt that," Alfred quipped.

"Doubt what? Doubt that I don't want to have sex with you?" Arthur blew out a sigh of exasperation. "Right because everyone wants to fuck you, isn't that right?"

"Yeah," Alfred snorted as if it should have been obvious. In actuality, he didn't entirely think that way. Sure, he was well aware that he certainly looked good, but he wasn't that cocky to believe everyone wanted to spread their legs for him. But he wasn't about to submit to humility in front of Arthur.

The art student simply rolled his eyes, entirely done with this vexing conversation, if it could even be called that. Borderline argument sounded so much more accurate, but Arthur didn't feel the need to bring that up as he moved to stand.

"Where are you going?" Alfred suddenly asked as the older moved past him, then quickly corrected himself. "I mean, not that I care, or anything."

A snort of obvious insight, and the emerald-eyed atheist was glaring sidelong at Alfred. It wasn't hard to guess Alfred's temper was a bit of a facade.

"Home. Where else?"

"I don't know," Alfred admitted, shrugging, and suddenly losing most of his annoyance as Arthur's harsh expression softened.

"Go home, Alfred. Get some sleep, please," and he walked up the aisle, passing through the doors without another word.

Alfred watched him go, still feeling strange. No. Strange was too mild for the way Alfred's body felt hot and cold at the same time, how his gut was writhing, how his mind whirled. Sleeping on Arthur's shoulder shouldn't be having this effect on him. Listening to the man talk about beauty so openly shouldn't have left him complacent and accepting. Arthur was a mongrel, a heathen, exactly the kind of wicked person he'd been trained to loathe. Accepting and being conflicted about anything Arthur said or did was wrong. Alfred just felt wrong.

But he fought down the urge to simply cast Arthur down from his mind, and even as he rose to leave couldn't simply feel one-sided about this. Damn it all! Why did he have to fall asleep on Arthur? Everything seemed way too complicated now. Nothing was black and white these days. And thoughts of Arthur, his pale complexion, startling viridian eyes, bright gold hair, the way he weaved words—

"Fuck!" Alfred whined as he passed through the doors. This wasn't helping at all!

The blue-eyed teenager jammed his hand into his pocket, fishing for his keys as he grumbled profanities. Arthur was just messing with his head, he rationalized, unlocking his Mustang. Climbing in, he tried to steel his resolve.

The little fuck is just messing with me. He just wants to see me squirm,Alfred nodded, and twisted the key to ignite the engine. As it roared to life, Alfred sank back in the seat, comforted by the familiar leather and purr of his beloved Mustang.

Clearing his mind of the plaguing ideas about Arthur, Alfred eased the car out of the parking lot and drove home confident that he could simply forget the burn of emerald eyes watching him with something more than expected loathing.

Arriving home, Alfred spent most of the rest of his day sleeping. He decided he wasn't following Arthur's advice merely because the art student had told him to do so. Oh no, absolutely not. He hadn't simply decided to get over his anxiety about falling asleep over a sincerely whispered order either.

But lying down, Alfred had not only insisted to himself that he wasn't thinking about Arthur, but only napped briefly to avoid the risk of his recurring nightmare from haunting him again. And, much like the plan about forgetting his enemy, so did sticking to merely a twenty-minute nap.

Those few minutes easily spanned hours until the sound of the garage door opening startled him awake. The jock suddenly braced up on his hands, eyes flung wide, expecting black tendrils to be grabbing or terrible claws reaching for him. However, the only thing that greeted him was a dark room and his rumpled pillow.

Alfred's hand clutched the sweaty fabric over his heart, willing it to slow its furious tempo. Terror had him gripped by the throat, making his shuddering breaths wheeze from his constricted lungs.

The back of his hand suddenly burned, and Alfred found what little breath he had stolen on a sharp gasp of agony. The frightened teenager curled up, hand drawn to his chest as it seared and pulsed blood-red. A strained whimper escaped him as he found he was unable to unfurl himself; his muscles had all locked up.

"Alfred, I'm home!" his mother called as she ascended the stairs. But Alfred couldn't force a reply from his lungs.

"Alfred?"

He opened his mouth, and tried to force at least some sort of acknowledgement. But the only thing that came of that was another coughing fit. His chest spasmed, and his body shuddered with each wracking cough. The raw burning inflaming this his throat was splashed with something hot and metallic tasting. Through his trembling lips, tiny flecks of blood splattered his pillow. It painted his tongue in crimson, making him nauseous at the awful taste and barely stifling a cry as pain ripped at his chest.

"Al, baby, are you alright?" his mother asked from just outside his door, concern lacing her voice.

A flare of panic bolted through Alfred. His eyes were wide with a wildly pounding heart and heaving chest. The jock looked like a wild animal, body crouched over the blood stains, shoulders hunched and teeth bared. Blood-tinged spittle dripped from between his teeth as he tried to stifle his coughing when his mother finally walked in.

She was immediately at his side, cooing his name as Alfred hid his face in his sleeve. The blood stains were too dark to decipher on his jacket as his mother pulled the arm away.

"Alfred, what happened? Are you alright?" the woman worried, voice strained with fear.

"Y-yeah," he managed, turning his head away to cough again, this time swallowing down the blood. He couldn't let his mother see. She had already been hovering over him as she noticed his grades slip and her son rapidly deteriorate before her eyes. She didn't need to watch her son hack blood and tremble like a leaf too.

As another attack assaulted his body, tightening his quivering stomach muscles and doubling him over, Alfred bowed like a bridge. He pressed his forehead to the bloodied pillow, gasping and panting between wheezing coughs.

His mother gently guided him to lie on his side, seeing as Alfred's spine seemed locked into a fetal curve. She brushed her hand over his forehead, feeling the sweat along his hairline and the feverish dampness to his skin.

"Al, you're sick," she whispered, grooming his hair back as her son's coughing slowly subsided. The mark on his hand dimmed, the dying scarlet faded to black as Alfred was finally left in peace. He couldn't find his voice past his cracked and bloodied throat, but watched his mother through heavily lidded eyes. His bright blues were dimmed in pain, the aftereffects still searing fiery trails through his chest.

The soft hand through his hair slipped away to touch the mark on his hand as he flexed it. His mother lifted his limp hand, thumbing the black sharpie that refused to be erased.

"Is... is this a tattoo, Al?" she asked. She'd noticed it for weeks now, and how it never seemed to erase. Biting her lower lip, she gazed down at her sick son. He looked small and weak, still curled up and shaking. Her voice was low though, and she could only hope Alfred understood she wasn't here to reprimand him in his moment of weakness. She was worried about him. That's all.

Alfred didn't know how to respond. Even if words could reach his lips, he wouldn't have known what to say. Telling his mother that the man who had drawn it on him insisted it was many things—a portal, an eye, a beacon—certainly wasn't going to work. Trying to explain that it caused him terrible pain and sent him into a tailspin with a fever and bloodied coughing wasn't any better.

The only way to answer was to nod his head to mean yes. He buried his face into the pillow in shame, feeling his mother's grip tighten a bit, but quickly dropping his hand. The shaking teenager pulled it to his chest, tucking the mark away from sight. He couldn't look at it, couldn't look at his mother.

She reached over, and gently rubbed his arm.

"We can talk about this later. Right now you need to rest. I'll bring you some Tylenol to help you sleep, alright?" she assured, patting Alfred's broad shoulder. The only response she was returned was a slow nod of the jock's head.

"Okay, I'll be right back," and she gave Alfred one last soft pat before rising from the edge of the bed. As she left, she flicked the light switch and smiled at the blue-eyed teen.

"I'll call the school too. You don't need to be straining with lectures and practice with a fever that high or that bad of a cough," and with that, she quietly shut his door to do just as she'd promised.

Alfred shuddered a sigh, turning his head to wipe away the blood still staining his teeth. As he brought his hand down, he felt the mark pulse, throbbing with a terrible heat that scorched his skin. Wincing, he tried desperately to will the pain away, to banish the unbearable flare searing him into a shaking mess.

Slowly, agonizingly so, the pain dimmed, and his muscle released. The sharp, shooting jolt of an all over body cramp splintered throughout, but it was nothing compared to what he had just faced. This was manageable, this he could keep under control.

Comforted by that thought, Alfred slowly let his skittish mind unwind. It cautiously drifted back to church earlier this morning, which eventually lead to Arthur. As if the very notion of the slender art student had triggered it, the soft creak of the floorboards pierced the quiet at that exact moment.

Alfred's hooded eyes shot wide open, fear dilating his pupils as he whirled.

A terrible scream lodged in his throat, choked by fear and bile.

Looming at the threshold of the darkest shadows of his room was a massive, black shape. Slithering inky tendrils uncoiled from its sides, unfurling like squirming snakes. Low, white noise scratched his ears as the shadows spread like a terrifying cage. Alfred's heart pounded in his chest, the blood chilling in his veins. He tried so desperately to scream. But it was worthless. Blood forced its way from his throat instead of a scream, making the frightened teenager choke and strain for breath. His body shook as the tendrils neared closer and closer, reaching out for him.

Instinct and raw fear had him thrashing and struggling to back away. But there was nowhere to go as his back hit the headboard, letting the shadows crawl closer. They spread to worm with a sickening fluidity, crawling over his sheets like a horror straight from his nightmares. And just as they came so close Alfred could feel their chill, he finally forced a terrified scream from his tattered lungs.

The door suddenly opened. A choked sob escaped Alfred as his mother rushed into the room, a bottle of pain-relievers in her hand. She dropped it as she was instantly beside Alfred. Her hands cupped his cheeks as the shaking teen stared straight ahead. His eyes were fixated on a single point where the shadows had been blackest, where the figure had stood a second ago. Nothing, not even a trace remained of it, and hot tears of confusion and fear welled up in his eyes.

"Alfred!"

But the cry fell on deaf ears; Alfred was lost. His moist eyes wouldn't leave that spot. Every sense screamed and writhed, from the fading static in his ears to the tang of blood in his mouth, everything felt wrong.

He barely felt his mother gingerly lower him to the bed, forcing him to finally look away.

Vaguely, he knew she was calling his name, she sounded like she was crying, but Alfred wasn't sure. He felt her dab away the blood staining his mouth, felt pills and a glass of water held out to him. Without conscious thought, he swallowed them mechanically. They burned sliding down his throat.

His mother begged him to close his eyes, to sleep, as she pressed his shoulders down, and laid his head on the bloody pillow. No matter how hard he fought it, darkness descended. It peeled away his senses one by one; stripping him of his vision last as he finally succumbed to his tired body.

Alfred bolted straight up, his eyes darting wildly about. The jock clutched at his racing heart as he looked around. There no seething shadows, only the comfort of his familiar room.

Another nightmare, he figured, just another nightmare.

Alfred slowly found his heart rate returning to normal and groaned weakly. He felt just as drained as when he'd gone to church. But now a burn laced his throat, making him rub at it tentatively. It reminded him too much of his nightmare.

The blue-eyed man felt a cough itch its way up his scratchy throat. He covered his mouth, but quickly pulled it away as he tasted blood and wet warmth coated his palm in scarlet.

His breath hitched as he felt his skin crawl with chilling fear.

The black of his pupils swallowed up the blue, just as the shadows had tried to gnash into him. He stared down at his bloodied hand, eyes frantically searching for some kind of answer, desperate for it to be written in the crimson staining his hands. But there was nothing, no explanation, no reason. Alfred's eyelids squeezed shut as he tipped his head to bang against the headboard, and begged God for an answer.

When only silence remained, Alfred was unsure of what to believe now. Everything seemed like an eternal nightmare these days.

End of Part IV

Again sorry for slower updates. I hope the bit of extra length is some compensation! :P As always, reviews greatly appreciated!