Chapter 14: Who knew?

Alfred could not comprehend the situation; didn't even try nor want to. Arthur's lips, both soft and demanding, were on his, hands clasped in a desperate grip to keep the American close. The question why fluttered meaninglessly around his brain, fading in and out of his consciousness. But, with the heat of Arthur's body against his, higher powers (lower, more like) seemed to push the question out of his mind. Along with any remaining common sense. The lust; Arthur's body...they were all he needed to know. All he wanted. And he craved for more.

More Arthur. More heat. More skin.

The selfish, greed filled mantra filled the blue eyed male's mind as his body moved accordingly. Hands found their way onto Arthur's smaller frame, one tugging at the sandy haired locks at the back of the older teen's head - gripping at the soft blond, keeping the male's lips in place. Another at his waist, pressing their bodies together as if unconsciously wishing to meld the two together.

"Arthur," Alfred all but moaned the Briton's name around his lips, bringing the other impossibly close.

With Arthur in his arms, Alfred could feel his heart soar. It was if all his dreams, all his desires, had come to focus in that single moment – concentrated in the single entity known as Arthur Kirkland. He felt like a child who had just been rewarded a toy for his hard work, but, his mind told him: Arthur wasn't a toy, he was a something else – something unexplainable. His body leaning into the kiss, deepening it and adding tongue, Alfred cursed his lungs. In spite of his utmost wish to continue to tongue-fuck the other male (sensually, of course), his body rivalled his mind, burning with a passion that Alfred did not quite wish for. He gasped, body sucking air through the mouth where Arthur's tongue had once been. Once more, Alfred swore at his lungs for their inability to hold out longer. And, as he leaned in for another kiss, he cursed his sight as well. Because, if he had been a blind man, he would not have seen the emotion in the green eyed male's eyes.

Lust? Yes, it was there. And that was an emotion Alfred welcomed and anticipated. After all, for a teenage male to not be even the least bit aroused in this situation would either be strange, asexual or homophobic. All of which, with the exception of strange, Alfred was sure Arthur was not – if reading porn books in public and kissing a guy was any explanation. But, what Alfred had seen underlying that was not something he would wish nor welcome.

Resignation.

Not love. Not desire. Just utter and complete submission.

It was as though Arthur's eyes conveyed himself a tortured man, inwardly begging for death to overcome him. And, at that realization, the force that kept Alfred's rationality at bay simply faded.

He shoved the smaller male away from him lightly, managing to choke out a single word in his body's desperate attempt to replace the air that Alfred had lost in the action of holding a kiss. "Arthur?"

At the sound of his name, the student council president glanced up, his lips still beautifully swollen from his previous actions. But, as blue melded into green, Alfred could only confirm his suspicions. Arthur didn't want this. So why was he doing it?

Alfred awaited an answer, frowning slightly when the smaller male seemed to remain in a daze. Arthur's eyes seemed to be glazed over in an aftershock of the kiss and, despite the sight of resignation in green pools, Alfred was glad that, out of everything, disgust was not present.

"Hey. Artie? You there?" Alfred asked, shaking the other male lightly, an action that the Briton seemed to respond to. Though, fortunately or otherwise, the fact that Alfred had pushed away did not ease the previous pissed off vibes that the smaller had radiated before the kiss. Arthur voiced the repeated question that was at the forefront of Alfred's thoughts.

"Why?" Arthur questioned, his eyes narrowed, iris's darkened to a forest green. It was as if he was finding difficulty contemplating the reason of Alfred's rejection. And that the fact that he himself was the one responsible for pulling the American into an aggressive kiss was untrue. In response to the spoken question, Alfred frowned, bringing his eyebrows to a tight knit above his eyes. His expression was disbelieving and confused; in wonder of the reason why Arthur would be the one questioning their actions.

"Dude. C'mon, that's not fair," Alfred whined, the post-rescue, chick flick, and not to be aforementioned lust filled euphoria dwindling in his growing state of confusion. He did sort of rescue the princess – in the beginning. So, he supposed, he did deserve the kiss, but, not an obligatory one. "If we're gonna have some hot one on one action, it hurts if you don't really want it! I mean, you're acting like do…but I'm a hero! I can tell you don't really!" The American stared into emerald eyes in earnest. "I want you to be honest with me!"

The tension to Arthur's shoulder's eased a slight bit at the response, though the pain seemed to remain present both physically and mentally. His gaze dulled as he bit the inside of his lip; the darkness behind them permanently etched. Then, with his eyes still dimmed, Arthur laughed. Loud, jubilant and sudden: a genuine laugh.

One that completely conveyed just how broken the green eyed male was.

"Oh, really?" Arthur snorted, placing a hand at his stomach to calm the racks of pain that came with his laughter. Alfred twitched back at the sound, cringing at the green eyes that only accented its lifelessness.

"Hypocrite."

The Briton stated the single title as an accusation, his entire focus trained on the blue eye male in front of him. Hands reached out as they did before to grasp at the American's collar, jerking him downwards so their eyes were just an inch of each other; barely short of a second kiss.

"You realize you're a bleeding hypocrite, don't you?" Arthur muttered, his breath falling on Alfred's face. It's scent was a mix of earl grey and peppermint, just a hint of blood behind it. Even in his current situation, the American couldn't help but wonder if Arthur had bitten his lip as they kissed; he had not tasted any of the red liquid in their vivaciousness.

At the back of his mind, Alfred pushed away all thoughts that cried out that Arthur, short tempered, blond haired Arthur Kirkland could be a possible threat to his well-being. That maybe, that his current situation belied a danger that Alfred F. Jones, despite being a hero, could not understand. And, the possibility, with all that was going on with the character of Arthur Kirkland: the beating; the responsibility of being a council president; the stress of multiple jobs and school; as well as the death of someone dear to him, Arthur Kirkland, in some way could be damaged.

Unstable.

"What?"

The sound of the question was hardly louder than the wind; it's volume a reflection of Alfred's uncertainty. He could barely wrap his head around the situation. Just seconds ago, they had been kissing. Just seconds ago, Alfred had believed that maybe all would be well. What the hell was happening?

And why couldn't he understand any of it?

"Really?" Arthur rolled his eyes with a snort; a semblance of the arrogant, familiar student council president just barely beginning to surface. He allowed the blue eyed male freedom from his grip as he took a minuscule step backwards. "I repeated myself twice and you still don't understand? Git."

Alfred processed the situation in his head, noting the familiar banter that was returning to the situation. This was the beginnings of an argument; an argument that had repeated itself endlessly since they had first met. All Alfred had left to do was defend himself: say he wasn't an idiot- a hero, instead – and all would become well.

Stable and monotonous once more. Just one sentence was needed: 'I'm not a git!'

I'm not a git. I'm not a git. I'm not a git!

"I…" Alfred began. "I don't understand."

The American stared up at the green eyed Briton, repeating his words with more confidence, a second time 'round. "I don't get it! How am I a hypocrite? Why are you acting so weird? It's like you're PMSing! First we were kissing, then you weren't happy with it and now you're mad! I don't get it!"

Unfortunately, in the case of Alfred F. Jones, more confidence in his words, meant less tact. And it was Arthur's role in such situations, to answer with words just as condescending as Alfred's confidence. And that was just what he did. But, the familiar tone was lost with Alfred's answer.

"It would have been better if you'd had just taken that chance, fool. You might've been able to forget this entire bloody situation."

Arthur sighed, his hair drifting over his face, just barely covering the intensity of his emerald eyes. The light of the evening had caused shadows to cast over the smaller blonde's visage, causing the grimness of his face to deepen.

"It's not sodding fair?" Arthur accentuated the question, mirroring the American's previous words with a sneer. "It's not fun if it's one sided?"

Alfred swallowed, not at all fond of the direction the conversation – if you could call it that – was going. He had heard it all too much before. Just because a person was popular didn't mean everyone loved him. Hell, Arthur was someone who exemplified the point.

"Why, that's not true." The Briton carried on with his words, brushing his hair out of his face, revealing a surface of mirth glazing his eyes. "Having fun doesn't at all have to do with emotions, does it? All you need is whatever feels good – whatever it is. I mean, I'm sure you've had 'fun' with multiple people before, without reciprocating their admiration for you: people not unlike the ones who just left the roof.

Alfred was right. He despised the path where the conversation was heading: what Arthur was implying.

"What are you trying to say?" Alfred asked, though he was fairly certain of the answer. He may be one to lean towards ignorance, but, experience in the modelling field had forced him to face all types of accusations. And what Arthur was doing was the one he faced the most. And the one, as a hero, he utterly hated.

"What I'm trying to say is…" Arthur answered. "What's the point of acting like a hero, when everyone knows you're not even close to one?"

The Briton hunched his shoulders forward, peering into the frown that he himself had placed on the blue eyed male's face. "Don't even bloody lie. You were going to accept the invitation that I was offering, weren't you? You're a hypocrite for stopping when you've probably accepted multiple ones before mine."

Alfred was not a short tempered person. He wasn't one to anger easily. But, at this point of time, he truly, truly, felt justified of doing just that. And being one who acted on impulse, he did. At the implications, the American's outgoing demeanour sobered, bringing on a posture that one would associate to a person about a decade older. For the probably the first time in the span of months since the Briton and American first met, Alfred spoke in an even tone, absent of even the tiny whine that tended to accompany his voice when he was upset.

"You're wrong. I'm not like that. A hero isn't like that," Alfred grit out, his eyes reflecting the belief he held in his own words. But Arthur was persistent. He just would not stop.

With a tilt of of his head, the Briton replied with the same light mirth that reflected off his eyes. "Ah, but you're not a hero, are you?"

The American opened his mouth to counteract the statement; but, before he could respond, Arthur continued.

"A hero is defined as someone who saves people. Thus, for a hero to exist, there must be people in trouble, correct?" Arthur explained, gazing right into the taller male's eyes. Alfred was beginning to get more agitated. But still, Arthur did not silence himself; it was America after all: the country of free speech and all that. "But, there's no one here to save, Alfred. Did I ask for help? Did I say that you were needed?"

The smaller of the two flicked the other on the chest, ignoring the sharp intake of breath in the man in front of him.

"There is no tragedy in this story for a hero to exist. Therefore, you are not a hero, Alfred F. Jones." Arthur stated simply. "You are nothing more than an icon that the population exploits for entertainment. Eye candy. A whore of the public."

For the moment, Alfred forgot.

The very reason that he had run up to the roof; the wishes he had to save a person.

And, when Arthur was on the ground, a bruise blooming on his cheek; he still did not remember.

All he saw was the man who insulted him. The person who did not respect nor thank him.

And thus, the feelings of minutes earlier could no be recalled.

"Shut up! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!" Alfred yelled at the figure on the ground, his vision blinding in anger. Why would the man say such things? Why could he insult him like that?

The American lifted up him arm, leaning forward for another blow. But he froze when Arthur did not flinch nor blink at the incoming attack. It was unnerving. So, instead, Alfred yanked the smaller male up by the collar, looking the other in the eye. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Arthur responded calmly, as if the current situation was unworthy of any emotion. "Oh, a lot of sodding things. Where would you like me to start?"

Alfred grit his teeth, dropping the Briton to the cold cement ground. "I don't like you anymore."

A short silence was exchanged between the two before Arthur responded with a simply smile. "If it's any consolation, I never liked you."

The blue eyed teen ground his teeth harder, swallowing his anger with an empty expression. "...fine."

With that single answer, Alfred shot a look of grievance towards the fallen male. He turned his back to the door, leaving with a flap of his bomber jacket just as he entered. Lucky for him, he didn't hear the words that Arthur muttered once the door slammed shut.

"I win."

Arthur rested his head on the hardened cement, staring up at the sky that was beginning to cloud. He reflected on his actions: the kiss.

He didn't know why he did it.

Hell, he didn't even know what spurred it on. It was as if his body had reacted on its own, fulfilling some sort of innate desire that he didn't understand. But the moment his mind had caught up; the moment he realized the situation he was in, regret and confusion was what hit hardest.

Why was Alfred not pushing him away?

Then Arthur remembered the game: the game in which Alfred declared that Arthur would fall for him.

And the Briton understood. It was a ploy; saving him; being kind to him; pretending to love him.

With that idea eating away at his thoughts, the green eyed blond resigned himself to kiss. Yet, Alfred had to be the one to push him away. To ask: what was wrong? To say: it was not right if the two of them did not want it – acting as if he cared about Arthur's well-being.

It was just an act. It was not real. A simple fling that Alfred F. Jones happened to took fancy to. So how dare he act that it was something more. How dare he make it seem that what they had was more than a simple game. Make Arthur think that maybe the American deserved his trust.

Arthur found it unforgivable. So, he made the first offence: attacked his enemy. Verbally; mentally; emotionally.

And he won.

"I win." Arthur laughed to the air, knowing full well that no one would hear him. He wondered if anyone would even care if they did. "I didn't fall in love with him. He hates me now so he'll stay away. I won."

The Briton staggered to his feet, taking his first step towards the exit. He stumbled, gravity throwing him back to the ground. It hurt. It really did. No matter how tough he acted; nor how sarcastically he brushed off pain – it didn't change the fact that it was still there.

Arthur coughed a bit, rubbing his chest as if to warm the air in his lungs. Then he tried once more to bring himself to stand. But, once again, gravity seemed to enjoy his presence. So he remained as he was – grounded.

The green eyed teen couldn't help but think how fitting it would be if it began to rain: yet neither from the sky nor his eyes did the water fall.

The world simply moved on; ignorant of everything that was happening below it.

Alfred stormed into his home, dropping everything at the entrance corridor; his coat, his bag. He was pissed off, and anything that heard him slam the door knew it.

"Eh? Al, what's wr-"

The American stomped past the worried form of his twin, not bothering to give an answer as he retreated to his room; shutting the door behind him. He yelled out irrationally, letting out a small percentage of his anger before diving onto his bed.

Posters of superman; batman; the Avengers – any superhero nameable to the average American citizen stared down comfortingly at him in silence though the teenager felt no consolation.

Arthur Kirkland was a rude, insulting bastard. And he was wrong about him.

Alfred nuzzled his face into his pillow – a red and white cushion of the American flag. He had tried to be nice to the Briton. He had made an effort to befriend him; but Arthur continued to be all-around hateful.

He couldn't understand it.

His face still buried into his bed, Alfred simply laid without a thought; waiting for his anger to past. Whether it was a minute or an hour, it did not matter to him. But, the moment he was calm enough to think, he did the one thing he hoped most people did when they were angry at someone.

Google them.

The American flipped open his computer, running the web browser and navigating it until he reached the google search bar. The moment he typed in the 'A', his own name popped up in the suggestion – a saved search from previous visits. In his defence, it was 'cause he was curious about what his own fans thought about him.

He hit enter, waiting for the page of results to load: the first being a link to an article.

Murder mayhem or simple mayhem?

Arthur Kirkland,14, son of the prestigious international modelling company Kirkland corps. CEO has been informally accused of the murder of Jeanne Deark, 15, in a tragic fire that raged in the west end of the city. The cause of the fire is currently unreleased by the authorities but it is known that the building destroyed was an abandoned apartment building that was scheduled for demolition. Though it is unknown why the two were present in a desolate structure, the public is accusing the young boy of murder based on circumstantial evidence. In contrast, the police are saying that accusations are unfounded...

Alfred swallowed, struggling to wrap his head around the information.

Arthur Kirkland was related to the CEO of the Kirkland corps. - a co-founder of the Bonneland modelling agency. Did that make him his superior?

Not only did the Briton's girlfriend die; he was accused of her murder as well. It must've been untrue though...'cause there was no way he would be free if he did, right?

The American went back a page, clicking on a second link: another article.

Was his innocence bought?

Recently released information has dictated Arthur Kirkland not guilty on all charges. The son of the CEO of Kirkland corps. was found to be not guilty on the accusations of arson and the murder of Jeanne Deark – a model on the American based company Bonneland modelling agency. An enraged public are incriminating both the court and Kirkland corps for possible corruption and bribery in the teen's release. How negatively the effect of this is having on the international agency is unknown but, the British company assures that they, by no means, were involved in court.

Alfred slumped back onto his bed, stumped by everything he had just read. He didn't know what kind of conclusion he should draw from the information. How he should look at Arthur knowing what he knew.

Now he understood the warnings. The words of caution to stay away from the one called Arthur Kirkland.

This was the reason. Not just the student council president's attitude. This.

But was any of it true?

"You killed her!"

Before the blue eyed male had time to organize his thoughts, his computer broke the choking silence. Alfred scrolled down the page of the article website, finding that a video had already loaded and begun to play itself without his knowledge.

The first that Alfred noticed was Arthur. Placed strategically at the centre of the video, he could be seen descending the stairway of a courthouse. The very moment he reached the sidewalk, a crowd of people reached him, thrusting microphones in his face. Questions were jumbled together; an incomprehensible static of sound.

But, Alfred could hear the accusations. The insensitive inquiry asking how he felt when he murdered Jeanne Deark. And Alfred could see the despair behind the not yet fully formed mask of a young Briton.

Arthur's figure was hunched in the video, a contrasting figure to the proud and sarcastic figure he knew today. Most of the footage was of the teen trying to get away from the crowd, his lawyer working to keep reporters at bay. But, someone in the mass of people must've said something. Because Arthur turned towards them, bursting out with a shout.

"I didn't kill her! It was accident! She...I..!"

Arthur's voice cracked – a sure sign of someone still entering the age of puberty. It was a bit humorous when thinking of the deep voice that the male would have in present time. The young Arthur continued to defend himself to the crowd, despite the tug of his lawyer away from the people.

"Liar."

The audio of the accusation was amplified in the video, as was Arthur's expression. Horrified, sorrowful...the footage captured it all before a stone came flying from the mass gathered, striking the boy square in the forehead. Alfred gasped, leaning towards his computer.

The footage ended there.

But not before the American had caught a clear notice of someone still standing at the top of the stairs. Impassive and uncaring of the struggle that Arthur was going through: Francis Bonnefoy.

Alfred shut off his laptop, unable to take any more. He was more confused than he was in the beginning. His emotions towards the Briton more obscure than they once were.

Arthur and Francis were close. Maybe not the best of friends, but chummy enough that they would definitely care if one of them was in pain. So why did it seem that Francis cold to Arthur's pain?

What had happened all those years ago? Was it the reason Arthur was who he was today? The reason he blocked off everything from the world: created a wall that was impossible to breach?

What was Alfred supposed to do now?

The American tucked himself in, tightening the blankets around him. Questions were still swirling around his brain; but he could not answer any of the.

In a little over twelve hours he'd have to go to school; and the chances of him seeing Arthur were high.

But, how should he act?

Alfred closed his eyes, using all his consciousness to will away the questions. Yet the end result was still the same.

He was at a loss.

A/N: It's here! Finally after a year the next chapter is uploaded! Wow, looking back this fic used to be so happy. Wonder what happened? I'd like to apologize to everyone for the long absence I took with updating. Life's been busy...I left a full explanation on the last chapter of one of my other fics 'War on Spades', if anyone wanted to take a look. I actually didn't predict to update this until the end of the month but reviews from there inspired my determination to post this chapter. Hopefully I didn't let anyone down with this chapter (gosh, I say this a lot). And I'm really sorry and thankful for everyone who has stuck with me 'til now. I'll do my best for the next chapter!