Author's Note: As of July 15th, 2018, this chapter has been slightly edited.

In that year, despite how much time they spent together and the fact that both of them were high school students, Alfred studied with Arthur a grand total of once. And 'studying' was a bit of a reach.

"I hate this," groaned Alfred for god knows what time. "I really, really hate this, Arthur."

Arthur rolled his eyes from behind his reading glasses – really, how many seventeen-year-olds wore reading glasses? – Without looking up from his advanced physics textbook. "I'm aware, Alfred."

Alfred glared at his own biology book as if he wanted to scare the words off the page. It had been half an hour, and he'd read a paragraph. Maybe. Half a paragraph. "How can you do this all the time? It's mighty boring, brother."

"Maybe to you it is." Arthur crossed his legs and flipped the page with a lot more arrogance than what was necessary. "Personally, I find my classes interesting."

"Sure they are," muttered Alfred. "You know, when you asked me to come 'round for once, I should have known there was a catch."

Arthur huffed. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Plenty of kids our age study together."

Alfred slouched back in his seat, threw his hands out, and hollered, "Yeah, the boring ones, maybe!"

"Honestly," said Arthur huffily. "What exactly do you have against education?"

"I've got nothing against education, buddy. It's all the readin' I can't stand."

Finally, Arthur looked up from book and slowly turned to Alfred with a raised eyebrow. He looked genuinely confused, whereas Alfred was used to either judgment or exasperation. "You don't enjoy reading?"

Alfred shook his head. "Can't say I do."

Arthur balked. "Why?"

Alfred got the feeling he should feel ashamed, but really, he wasn't. Arthur didn't like sports; Alfred didn't like reading. There wasn't much of a difference in his eyes. "It takes too much time. I'd rather be up and about doing somethin' than sittin' around with a book."

"Oh." Arthur blinked away his confusion and opened that darn textbook again, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "Fair enough."

Alfred traced a line in the book with his finger and let his eyes glaze over, not reading it. "You know," he said, a knot forming in this stomach. Maybe he should not get into this now. But this was probably the best opportunity he had to bring it up, and, for some reason, he wanted Arthur to know. "That probably has something to do with my repeating eighth grade."

Arthur looked up, his attention finally torn from the book. "You failed eighth grade?" he said. "Really?"

"Yeah. I'm a freshman, but just about sixteen, actually." Alfred smiled sheepishly. "I fooled around a little too much that year."

"Oh." Arthur shrugged. "Not a big deal. It happens."

Alfred breathed a quiet sigh of relief – he barely told anyone that. It was kind of embarrassing, after all, to be a year older than all his classmates. Though he still wasn't ashamed, Alfred really hoped Arthur didn't think any differently of him now. If he was being completely honest with himself, Arthur's opinion meant a lot to him, no matter how insufferable his opinion usually was. Alfred wasn't stupid… really. And he sure as hell didn't want Arthur thinking that. Really, the thought of it made him sick to his stomach.

"Hey, you fixin' to be done with that soon?" said Alfred loudly, mostly as a distraction from himself. "I wanted to show you some photo albums."

"Done?" Arthur sounded incredulous. "We've barely even started."

"Well, finish it later." Arthur glared at that, but Alfred ignored him and said, with feigned offense, "What, you don't want to see my family? Why do you hate my family, Artie?"

"Oh, come off it, will you?" Arthur rolled his eyes again, but closed the book with a loud thud anyway. Alfred grinned from ear to ear. "Fine. But I don't have all day, mind you."

Alfred laughed, forgetting his embarrassment as he took Arthur by the sweater sleeve, grabbed his backpack full of albums, and all but dragged him towards the living room. Getting away from those books was a huge relief.

After all, football players didn't need all that book learning.

.

The sun beat down against Alfred's shoulders and neck from where he was sitting on the sidelines, casting dark shadows over the yellowed pages in front of him. He squinted. It was loud out here, not to mention hot, and this book was insanely confusing. Alfred wasn't sure if he could understand this material in the best of conditions, much less here. He felt like a struggling kid in high school all over again.

But what really made him feel like he did back in high school was the hand that smacked his shoulder, hard. "Jones!" It was Davie who spoke, lightly harsh. "What are you doing? You should be running through your drills."

"Oh, sorry, coach." With some reluctance, Alfred dog-eared the page he was on and closed the book. The cover read Surviving Schizophrenia. "I've got some stuff to catch up on."

"Mhm." Davie leaned over his shoulder and peered down at the book. "What do you have there?"

Alfred chuckled. "Oh, you know." Davie knew of his situation, so Alfred had no qualms about handing the book off to him. "Just some light reading."

Davie cocked an eyebrow, turned the book over in his hand, and the leafed through the pages. "Ah," he said in understanding. "Doing your research?"

Alfred nodded, with a bit of solemnity. "Have to," he said. "I never realized how heavy this shit is. Not until…" He trailed off. Davie did not need to know. Did not need to know about that ill-fated kiss, about how Arthur had reciprocated only to scream, to fall, to look around frantically and dazedly as if he expected the sky to come crashing down. Alfred swallowed hard. It was a horrible, heart-wrenching moment, but in a strange way he was grateful for it. At least he knew now.

Really, Alfred was not even sure why he had kissed Arthur to begin with. He had wanted to prove a point… at least, that was what he had been neurotically telling himself since the moment it happened. But it hardly mattered why it had happened. It happened, it was over, and Alfred had no time to dwell on it. He didn't want to dwell on it.

Honestly, he would rather just forget it. All of it.

"I could have guessed." Davie opened the book again, glanced at a page for probably five seconds, and nodded as if he could have possibly gotten anything out of it. Then, he closed the book and shook his head. "God, it sounds tough."

Describing Arthur's situation as 'tough' was just about as accurate as calling the bombing on Pearl Harbor 'inconvenient,' but Alfred nodded anyway. "Definitely."

"I know you headed out there a few days ago. How did that go?"

Alfred was not sure what to say to that. Again, he reminded himself that Davie did not need to know. There were a lot of things about this no one needed to know. "As well as it could go, I guess," he said, a sharp twist in his gut forming with the lie. He quickly moved on. "I'll be going back come next week."

"Alright then." Davie was still holding onto the book, and Alfred reached for it. Davie lifted it above his head like a schoolyard bully. "But it ain't next week yet, Jones."

Alfred slumped his shoulders and fought the urge to pout. "Understood." He could finish the book later, he guessed. That and the other six he bought.

So Alfred ran out onto the field, and pushed himself about as hard as he ever had. In every lap, every tackle, and every catch, he hoped his sweat and arching muscles would distract him, but still, he could never quite stop thinking completely – as desperately as he wanted to. That had never happened before. Alfred had no idea how grateful he was for his zone until he couldn't find it anymore.

At the end of a particularly strenuous drill, Alfred bent over, put his hands on his knees, and looked up at the cloudless sky. There were some things he couldn't deny. He couldn't deny that he wasn't quite as fast as their midfielder, or that he didn't always stick to his diet. He couldn't deny Matthew had always been the smart one. In the same respect, he couldn't deny he'd always loved Arthur… who didn't love their best friend? There were different kinds of love; it wasn't a big deal. He focused in on his breath, the heat, his heartbeat.

It really wasn't a big deal.

That kiss was not a big deal.

The difference between "love" and "in love" was not a big deal.

.

This time, Alfred did it differently. He took his secondary car – this one was black, and sold for an average price – over his flashy Porsche. He parked in the far back lot and walked inside with his hands in his pockets, his gaze low, and his sunglasses off. This time, Alfred kept a low profile. This time, Alfred knew what the hell he was doing.

As Alfred approached the hospital for the third time, his stomach had tied himself into knots and ached with each step. The front doors felt heavier, the lobby more silent, and the staff members' faces far sullener than he remembered. He tried to ignore it, just as he had so easily the last two times. He failed. Ignorance truly was bliss, he guessed.

But Alfred was able to suppress it by the time he reached the psychiatric ward, to the point he was able to smile and wave and offer cheerful greetings to the staff members working at the front desk, a passing nurse, and even who he assumed was another patient – a freakishly tall man was covered in dirt, wearing gardening gloves and scarf, and humming to himself – although he didn't receive an answer from him. Alfred wasn't too upset about that.

When Alfred saw Arthur, he was reading a book on the sofa in the very center of the room. Alfred paused. In that moment, with his legs crossed, brow furrowed, and eyes only occasionally flicking up from the pages to glance about, Alfred could say he looked… as he remembered him. Then, he didn't have to force anything anymore.

"Hey, Artie!" bellowed Alfred as he barreled across the room. Arthur looked up with only a bit of shock, and his expression barely changed even as Alfred threw his arms around his neck and rested his chin on the top of his head. "Miss me?"

"Alfred." Arthur paused, long and thoughtful, his eyes still trained on the page as if he was still reading. Alfred knew he wasn't. "You… you are here. Again."

"Duh!" Alfred smiled, falsely innocent, as if there was no reason at all why he wouldn't have come back. There was an elephant in the room and he was beyond determined to ignore it. What they didn't talk about couldn't hurt them. "I said every week, didn't I? Heroes don't break promises!"

"Oh. Oh, I just…thought…"

Alfred changed the subject as quickly and loudly as possible. "Hey, what are you reading?"

"Oh," said Arthur. Then, he stared at that page for what felt like a long, long time. Then, finally, more a sigh of defeat than anything… "I don't know."

"Alright," said Alfred smoothly despite the dull ache in his chest. He rounded the couch and sat beside Arthur. "You know, I've been doing a little reading myself."

Slowly, too slowly, Arthur set the book down and furrowed his brow. His expression gave Alfred a strange sense of déjà vu. "You hate reading."

Alfred blinked. He was surprised Arthur even remembered. Ten years, a hospitalization, and god knows what else later, he remembered something as meaningless and petty and Alfred favoring sports over books. "Well, you know," said Alfred uselessly, "Things change." Except nothing had changed, in that aspect. Alfred had suffered through those dense psychology texts.

"What were you reading?"

The question had a simple answer, yet Alfred still found himself at a loss. He wondered if he should tell him. But he understood now… to some extent, and after last week, Arthur deserved to know.

"Just some stuff on, um, you know… schizophrenia." He swallowed, coughed into his hand, and looked away to avoid Arthur's expression. "No big deal."

"That's…" Alfred looked back, and he wasn't surprised to see Arthur looked expressionless, unaffected. The books called it a flat affect. "That's very responsible of you, Alfred."

Responsible? Alfred wasn't sure what to make of that. Being called responsible made him feel responsible, somehow, as if it was suddenly up to him to make Arthur better. In high school, Arthur used to unconsciously dote over Alfred – whether it was reminding him to do his math work or getting him an icepack after a bad tackle – but it seemed the tables had turned.

"No big deal," said Alfred again, quieter this time. He wanted to keep talking – about what he knew, about what he didn't, about the terrifying, hopeless things he read as well as the happy, sparkling success stories. But he didn't know how.

But Arthur pushed on. "It's… quite a big deal, rather." He kept his eyes downcast, his legs crossed, and his tone indifferent. Arthur cleared his throat and glanced quickly to the side. "Thank you."

Alfred felt as though his insides had been replaced with light.

And the light broke through his skin, though his head, through his worry and tribulations, until only honesty was left, and Alfred was able to say, "So, hallucinations." He felt slightly sick at the word but pressed on. "Those have to be pretty scary, huh? Not knowing what's real and what isn't, I mean."

Arthur drew his head back in a quick motion as if he had been slapped. His eyebrows drew together – not so much in offense, but in a way someone might look upon hearing a five year old say 'astrophysics.' Then he just blinked, nodded.

It was as if someone had pulled the only plug stopping a dam from leaking. Once Alfred started, he didn't want to stop. "I know you can't do all that much, but you're on, like, antipsychotics, right? Something to help your dopamine levels. I mean; it could be a serotonin thing, according to… some people. Maybe I should ask Matthew what he thinks. The side effects sound like a bitch, though. Personally, I-"

"Alfred." Arthur held up a hand as he said it, stopping him. "Slow down, please."

Alfred forced himself to reel back. "Sorry," he said quietly.

"That's quite alright." Arthur cleared his throat. "To answer your question, yes, I'm taking the appropriate medication. The dizziness and fatigue is a bit of a pain, but I can manage."

"Oh." Alfred was not sure whether or not to feel relieved, but he sure was happy about one thing – Arthur had not spoken this clearly since they were reunited. "That's good, then! I guess they got it covered here."

"It's what I'm here for." Arthur was suddenly mumbling. "You know, Alfred…" He trailed off, sighed, and finally looked Alfred in the eye. It looked as though even that was difficult now. "I appreciate your efforts. Really, I do. But…" Another sigh. "This really is not your job."

In about five minutes, Arthur had gone from calling Alfred responsible to accusing him of overstepping. Oh well. The books had warned about disjointed thinking. Either way, he was glad he had some knowledge of the situation now. Something was telling him Arthur was glad, too.

"Gotcha," said Alfred, nodding once.

"Alright." There was a pause. Arthur drummed his fingers on his leg, tensed his jaw, looked out the window and around the room and finally at the floor. Alfred pulled out his phone and answered an unimportant, nowhere-near urgent text message. Then, Arthur said, "I have something to ask of you."

Alfred perked up. "Yeah?"

Arthur took a deep breath and sighed, as if whatever he was about to say was more of a burden on him than anything. "Even though I find it terribly unproductive, we have this… 'family day' around here. You seemed to have dropped in right in the middle of it, actually. Seeing as my parents are no longer with us and my brothers are off god knows where…" He just shrugged, signaling for Alfred to fill in the blanks.

And Alfred took a moment to do so, but when he figured it out, he could not stop himself from beaming. "Aw, Artie! You want me to stick around today to keep you company and junk!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's what it boils down to, I suppose." A brief moment of silence passed, Alfred too dazed to respond, and suddenly Arthur threw his hands up. "For heaven's sakes, if you don't want to-"

"No!" exclaimed Alfred immediately. "I mean, yeah, I mean…" He took a deep, cleansing breath, and then smiled again. "Of course I'll stay!"

"…Oh." Arthur froze up, mumbled something intangible under his breath, and then shrugged again. He shrugged a lot now. "Very well."

It was detached, too detached, but damn, Alfred would take it. "Thanks, dude!"

He threw his arms manically around Arthur, and Arthur patted his arm and mumbled filler words until Alfred finally, almost reluctantly let go. He couldn't be sure just what he was thanking Arthur for… for asking him to stay, for letting him come in the first place, for holding a conversation with him at all? Alfred couldn't be sure. He could only be sure that he was genuinely, intoxicatingly happy.

Alfred could not say the afternoon went as he expected, but he couldn't say it didn't, either… he hadn't expected anything. He could read as many books as he wanted to, but there were some things about this he really had to dive right into to understand. This was one of them.

The hospital was still a bit of a mystery, a bit of a new experience. Alfred wasn't quite sure what to make of the uneasy staff and occasionally hysterical patients. On the other hand, he wasn't quite sure what to make of the warm greetings or smiles, either.

The strangest bit was probably the group therapy. For one, there were actually two groups having sessions simultaneously in opposite ends of the wing– one group for Arthur, and strangely enough, one for Alfred. Arthur was whisked away, and Alfred was left with the rest of who they called 'Supporters' – otherwise healthy and stable individuals that have been somehow affected by the illness of their loved one.

It was quite the interesting mix. The ones who stuck out were Lukas, a stone-faced Scandinavian who apparently had some relation to the spikey haired maniac Alfred could hear shouting from down the hall, Ludwig, a rather angry looking man with the build of one of Alfred's linebackers, who sat red in the face and refused to say a single word about who he was there for, and, of course, Matthew.

Alfred wasn't able to see much of him – in fact, he was pretty sure Matthew had assumed he left before all of this, and the 'Supporters' group was run by some tiny quiet guy they called Dr. Hassan – but one look at Matthew's group on his way back from the bathroom was enough. Alfred had never seen him in action before, but watching him try to corral his patients with little help from his team was probably more amusing than it should have been. It was as if none of them even realized Matthew was there.

Alfred forgot about Matthew, however, when he found himself listening to those around him. Not just hearing them. Really, truly listening. Red-eyed, exhausted individuals slumped over in cheap plastic chairs, mumbling about medication, meltdowns, relapses, relationship troubles, police reports and hopelessness. For once, Alfred could find absolutely nothing to say. After all those books, he thought he understood what he would be facing, but hearing these raw, teary stories from people who'd been dealing with it longer, Alfred came to the nausea-inducing realization that things were somehow worse than he read about.

It scared him. But, in a way, it filled him with determination.

A chaotic forty-five minutes later, the groups were messily, unprofessionally dismissed. Alfred scanned the now reunited crowd for Arthur but spotted Matthew first. He blinked away his trance and pushed past the sick feeling sitting in his stomach like a brick. Talking to his brother would help. Surely.

"Mattie!" he called out over the noise. Matthew turned to him, and his dull, eyes suddenly deer-in-the-headlights. Alfred ignored it. "You need to get some more help around here. I mean, seriously. Why-"

"Alfred." Rather uncharacteristically, Matthew forcefully pushed through the crowd and stood in front of him. "I thought you were just visiting today."

Alfred drew his eyebrows together in confusion. "I am visiting."

"Visiting hours are over. This… this is therapy. Treatment."

Alfred frowned. He couldn't decide what offended him more: that Matthew apparently thought he didn't know what this was, or that he looked so shocked, confused, and even a little afraid while he was explaining it. "I know," said Alfred. "Arthur asked me to stick around."

Matthew's eyes widened. "He asked you?"

"I think you might want to get your hearing checked, bro." Before Matthew could respond, Alfred spotted Arthur from across the hall and instinctually took a step in his direction. "Good talk. I'll see ya later!"

"Alfred!" called Matthew after him. "We need to-"

Alfred barely even heard him. "Love you too!"

Matthew said something else, but it couldn't compete with all the noise already in Alfred's head. He wasn't sure if he was smiling, but he hoped he was, and when he reached Arthur he hoped his internal conflict wasn't obvious.

"Artie!" said Alfred, imposing cheerfulness. Arthur parted his lips as if to object to the nickname, but closed his mouth as if he lacked the energy. "How'd it go?"

"It was routine," said Arthur flatly. He looked away. "Did you hear that?"

"Uh, no, can't say I did." Alfred quickly moved on. "My group was fun! Some of them were a little too gloomy for my tastes, though."

Slowly, Arthur looked away from whatever imaginary thing he was fixated on and looked Alfred dead in the eye. "What did you expect, exactly?"

Alfred wasn't sure how to answer that; he'd gone into this blind. "Um…"

It must have been a rhetorical question. "Nothing about this is unicorns and rainbows, Alfred." Alfred wondered if Arthur caught the irony in that, but figured laughing would be beyond inappropriate. "They're 'gloomy' because this entire bloody place is 'gloomy.' This situation is 'gloomy' as all hell."

Alfred could have done a lot of things right then – he could have tried to refute that, could have laughed, could have made a stupid joke or just ignored what Arthur had said entirely. But after all his attempts to understand, he wasn't about to throw it away.

Flustered, Alfred said, "Can we maybe talk someplace else?"

Arthur glared for a moment, and then rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said, turning on his heel. "Come on, now."

They ended up in Arthur's room – if it could even be called that. To Alfred it bore more resemblance to a jail cell, from the bare bones bed to the locks on the windows to the dingy white paint on the walls. The only pop of color, he noticed, was the blob of pink wedged between the bedframe and the wall. It was the unicorn. It hurt a little bit to see his gift shoved to the side like that, but he figured there must be a reason. And now was hardly the time to bring up something so petty.

"So," said Arthur, sitting on the dismal bed. Alfred sat about a foot away from him. "What did you want to discuss?"

Alfred wanted to say 'nothing.' He wanted to joke around, wanted to laugh, wanted to smile and be himself. After all, he was happy to be around Arthur. But he'd been crafting this speech in his head since the second the woman checking him out at the bookstore gave him a funny look and he could hardly call himself a hero if he backed out now. So, after a deep breath, he said, "I just had a few things to tell you."

"Alright." Arthur crossed his arms with a huff of impatience. "Out with it, then."

And then, Alfred was not sure what to do. There wasn't much room in his life for serious talk. It was all press interviews, banter between him and his teammates, jokes and lightheartedness and ease. This was anything but easy… but Alfred could not help but feel like that was a good thing. It filled something he had not even realized was empty.

"Artie… Arthur." Alfred smiled as Arthur rolled his eyes. "I just wanted to let you know, I'm… I'm not going anywhere, dude."

Arthur blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"You know." When met with a blank, lack of understanding stare, Alfred grew flustered and waved his hands spastically about the room. "This… it doesn't freak me out." He took a breath. "I just want my best friend back, okay? I don't care what I have to do."

There was a long silence. Alfred allowed the weight of his words to hang in the air, tangible, quite sure Arthur felt it, too. Finally, Arthur said, "Wow, Alfred, that's quite…" He cleared his throat, silent for a beat, and then looked to the space between the bed and the wall. "Oh, how did that get there?"

With a certain deliberateness, Arthur picked up the stuffed unicorn and placed it carefully on his pillow.

.

Twenty minutes later, Alfred was making his way to the exit when he felt a sudden and surprisingly violent tug on his sleeve.

"Alfred," said a voice so firm Alfred scarcely recognized it as Matthew's, "we need to talk. Now."

Alfred turned, pulled away from Matthew's iron grip, and raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong, bro?"

Alfred could not believe it – Matthew actually rolled his eyes. "Come here." With that, Alfred was half-lead, half-dragged to Matthew's office. Before he could put a sentence together, Matthew said, "What exactly are your intentions with all of this, Alfred?"

Alfred stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"I think you know exactly what I mean." Alfred was too confused to respond. Matthew pursed his lips, and then softened his expression with a sigh. "Look, Al… I know how you live. The media is always talking about your little flings with this girl or that guy and while that's completely your business, Arthur… He can't be part of that. Arthur needs stability."

Well, that was a little insulting. Was that really the reputation he had? Alfred frowned, his stomach twisting painfully. "Matt, I-"

"I simply cannot allow you to jeopardize his recovery." There was that stern tone again. "So, if you have any doubts about wanting to be mixed up in this – any at all – I'll have to ask you back off."

"Matthew," said Alfred, his voice loud and serious enough to compete with that of his brother, "Arthur was… Arthur is my best friend. Of course I'm serious about this. I-" Alfred quickly closed his mouth, a slug of panic threading through his insides when he realized his first instinct was to say I love him, as he still didn't know what to make of the idea. Flustered, he gave up.

A pause. "I just need you to be sure."

"Believe me," Alfred turned to the door, opened it, and hoped to leave a whole mess of thoughts behind as he stepped out, "I'm sure."

To be continued...