So, I found this unpublished chapter sitting on my computer... no promises, but I haven't forgotten. Really, I haven't. These stories will live in my heart forever. I would love to finish it one day, if anyone still cares enough to read.

"Lord almighty, Arthur, it's soccer. What I play is football!"

Arthur pierced his salad with his fork and sighed. "It's called football everywhere else in the bloody world," he said, even though it was in vain. He had met Alfred mere months ago and this had to be the tenth time they had had this same argument. Even still, he would be damned if he gave up. "Just because Americans decide something doesn't mean it's correct."

Alfred looked up mid-hamburger, offended. "That's exactly what it means!"

Arthur scoffed. "Then why is it that soccer is a game about kicking the ball with your foot, and whatever you play barely requires any kicking at all?"

Alfred had the good sense to pause and think about that, but lost none of the arrogance in his expression. "Explain kickoff, then!"

Arthur rolled his eyes and prepared to shut down Alfred's lousy American excuse for logic, but his rebuttal was cut off by a sudden commotion going on at the next table. Though he couldn't yet make out the conversation, Arthur turned at the sound of muffled yelling and laughter to see a boy hovering over a girl, hand panted squarely on the table in front of her, lip curled in an obnoxious shit-eating grin. Listening closely, he was able to catch of snippet of it.

"Come on, just one date," he said with laughter in his voice. "I'll stop bugging you if you say yes!"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, already dubious of this whole exchange, and let his eyes drift a few feet to the young lady these comments were directed towards. She was Asian, with long dark hair and wide, almost fearful eyes. The book sitting beside her was the only other thing at the table. She said nothing, weaving her slender fingers together and looking away.

But of course the bloke carried on. "You know you want to. Come what, what do you say?"

"I said no," said the girl finally, an edge of what was almost firmness in her voice. "Please just leave me alone."

"I'll show you a good time." The boy leant forward as he said the words, and even Arthur was uncomfortable from where he was. He couldn't imagine how the poor girl felt, especially when he said, "All my ex-girlfriends are Asian. You can be my little china doll."

Arthur was not sure how or if she responded to that, because he immediately turned away, revolted. "Can you believe that?" he said in Alfred's general direction. "Disgraceful. I swear, people here have absolutely no sense of…" Arthur looked up mid-rant, but stopped speaking when he saw the look on Alfred's face. Arthur felt his stomach drop, his eyes widen. He blinked. "Alfred?"

And then, as if Arthur had said nothing at all, Alfred slammed his hand against the tabletop and spoke loud enough to be heard across the room. "Didn't you hear the lady? Back off, man!"

The boy turned, no less amused and nauseatingly cocky than he looked a moment ago. "Maybe you should back off. I'm having a private conversation with my girl here."

Stone-faced, Alfred slowly panted both palms on the table and slowly rose to his full near six-foot height. Football had added extra muscle to his already athletic frame, and with his shoulders back, spine straight, and usually baby blue eyes dark and hard behind his glasses, he certainly didn't look like a freshman. He walked out in front of the table and looked him dead in the face.

"She's not your girl," said Alfred. Even his voice had changed… what was usually goofy and charming had dipped into something out of a hyper-masculine spaghetti western. "Look. Where I'm from, we treat girls like ladies. And men act like men, not pigs."

And apparently he was going to take the dialogue straight out of a western as well. Arthur was not sure whether to be horrified, embarrassed by association, proud, or some ludicrous mix of the three. So he watched, frozen.

The boy was still smirking, but it was noticeably shakier. He opened his mouth but no sound came out, as if he had finally ran out of snarky remarks. Then, finally, neck slightly tilted to actually look up at Alfred, he said, "Whatever. She's not that special." Then he turned, mumbling something that sounded like 'redneck' under his breath.

Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, Alfred smiled brightly like he usually did and turned around to face the girl. "You okay, darling?"

She nodded. "Yes, thank you. I thought he would never leave."

Alfred extended a hand. "My name is Alfred."

She smiled, took his hand, shook it. "Mei."

Alfred ended up inviting her to sit with the two of them, and Arthur tried to scold Alfred about making a scene, tried to give Mei his condolences about having to deal with such chauvinists, even tried to argue his side when Alfred rehashed the 'soccer vs. football' argument yet again. And for the most part, he succeeded. But the more he tried to ignore it, the more he tried to push it back and deny it, a sneaking feeling slipped into his skin and lit up with every second Alfred piled on the charm as he spoke to her.

Jealousy.

…

Alfred knew it would happen eventually. Of course it would happen eventually, because he could barely go out for dinner without it getting on the news, and he couldn't really expect to pop into the local psych ward once a week and have it go unnoticed. But Alfred must have thought so, because when he opened the newspaper up to the sports page and read that article about himself and his hospital visits, he was shocked. Stunned, really. Spending a good part of the past two months with Arthur made him forget he was celebrity.

It was a harmless article, for the most part. It was short, shoved in the corner of the last page of the section, and read as nothing more than low-brow celebrity gossip. But Alfred's heart pounded as he read it. It might have been meaningless, petty and honestly stupid, but he felt as though this sacred part of his life had been intruded upon. They knew. They knew about the hospital, probably knew about Arthur. And in the media, when it rains, it pours.

But Alfred brushed it off. He threw the paper in the garbage, finished his first cola of the day, and moved on with his life. He pushed himself in practice to the point he was dizzy and out of breath, too exhausted and sore to think about anything. That's what he did when the press insisted he used steroids, or when 'a reliable source' seemed to know for certain that he cheated on a girlfriend a few years back. But at least neither of those rumors had any truth to them. Again, Alfred brushed it off.

Another few weeks and three visits to Arthur later, Alfred had managed to all but forget that article. Now, he was center seat at a pre-season press conference. It was something he was used to. The hot lights beating down on his skin, the mics in his face, his teammates and Coach Davie by his side. After all the new, confusing shit that had been thrown in his face, there was something comforting about being basked in this familiarity… even if it was being broadcasted live.

"Davie!" called a female reporter from somewhere in the crowd. "What are your plans to improve defense in the coming season?"

Alfred looked over his right shoulder to look at his coach. A camera flashed, a light moved a fraction of an inch and right in his eyes. Davie squinted, but smiled. "We've been focusing more on offense in training, but with our new lineup, I'm sure we can pick up the defense slack from last season."

He went on to talk about how the team had traded one of their outside linebackers for a guy from the Chicago Bears, as well as their safety for someone from Philly. Alfred did his best to concentrate on his words while continuing to smile for the cameras. He tried to concentrate on his goals for next season, on his preparations, on this game he had chosen to dedicate his life to. But there was a mental block in his way the size of a three-hundred-pound defensive lineman… he would be visiting Arthur in a few days. Alfred missed him.

He missed him so much in fact that he managed to zone out for half the interview. Alfred was only brought back to attention when he heard his own name from the crowd of reporters, loud and shrill and carried by one of the heaviest New York accent he had ever heard. "I've got a question for Jones!"

Alfred blinked, eyes widening. "Yeah?"

"Is it true you're involved with a man currently checked into a psychiatric hospital?"

Just like that, everything around Alfred stopped. His teammates turned to look at him; everyone in the crowd turned to look at him, Davie just shook his head and starred at his shoes. Alfred's eyes unfocused until everything in front of him looked like nothing more than muddled blur of color and lights. They knew. Somehow, they knew. His jaw tensed until he felt he couldn't open his mouth, and the thoughts in his head were replaced with the interference coming off his microphone. What could he say?

Like the voice of God himself, Davie suddenly cut in. "Let's keep the questions relating to the game, alright? We're not here to discuss the personal lives of our players."

"Come on, can't we get an answer from Jones himself?"

"Moving on," said Davie firmly, immediately.

Alfred felt some relief, but not much. Even as the reporter relented he could still feel everyone's gaze on him, still sense the surge of suspicion that such a simple question had spiked. It wasn't that he was ashamed of Arthur. Not by a long shot. What worried him was how fragile Arthur already was, how beaten down he already was, and how ruthless the media could be. It was bound to be a terrible combination. Alfred felt horribly sick to the point he didn't even bother to pay attention to the rest of the conference.

Before he knew it, the interview was over. Alfred shot up from his seat and got about as close as he could to running off the platform without bringing too much attention to himself. His teammates seemed to lag behind him on purpose, muttering to each other, acting a whole lot more like high-schoolers than the grown-ass men they were supposed to be.

Alfred felt the beginnings of anger burn the back of his neck. This was nobody's business. Hell, maybe none of his personal life should be anyone else's business, no matter what everyone had grown to expect from him. When had he and every other celebrity become public property? Who decided this?

Fuming from what was going on in his head, Alfred made it outside with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his pace fast, and his eyes low. All he wanted was to go home. For the first time in a long while, he just wanted to be alone. He wanted to be alone until he could be with his brother, or with Arthur, behind closed doors. The limelight had taken his toll and his batteries were in desperate need of recharging.

But of course, it could never be that simple. Even if the interview was over this experience was far from it. Everyone and their mother wanted pictures, extra questions, and whatever else. Alfred tried to smile. No matter how over the whole thing he was right then, he had an image to uphold.

"Jones!" called a reporter, thankfully a different one. A microphone was shoved in his face without any kind of consent. "Do you have any worries about this upcoming season?"

Alfred gave what felt like an internal sigh of relief. It was just a football question… he could handle a football question. "Not really. I have complete faith in myself and in my teammates," he said. He smiled a bit more genuinely. "I don't have any doubt we'll make it to the Super Bowl this year. We've all been practicing like crazy. To be real honest, in my mind, as long as I can walk, I can win!"

Alfred felt a little better when the reporter smiled back and him and thanked him for his answer. They had always loved his arrogance, his confidence in how he played the game. And Alfred loved it, too. He had certainly worked hard enough to earn it.

A few more minutes, a few more questions. Alfred's rage had pretty much subsided, with only a small trace of it when he remembered the first reporter's question. It happened, he guessed. No harm had been done yet. After he was asked for the umpteenth time what his biggest goal for the year was, the questions and flashing cameras trickled down a bit, and Alfred was fixing to get away. In fact, he almost made it to the parking lot. But of course, he had to be approached one more time. He looked up when his name was called, still smiling, but it fell immediately when Alfred realized he recognized that face, that voice. It was him again.

"Come on, Jones," said that nails on a chalkboard voice. "Tell us a little about what's going on. You've been spotted at that hospital several times over the last few months."

Alfred tried to laugh dismissively, but it came out of more of a strained sigh. "I don't think I've got anything interesting to tell you, buddy."

"You must!" insisted the reporter. He stuck out his microphone another inch, just far enough to nearly graze Alfred's mouth. Alfred flinched back. "What's his name? How do you know him? Wait, I think I've got something here. It's… Arthur, right? Arthur K.?"

Alfred's stomach tightened into a mass of painful ropes. He looked to one side, and then the other, and repeated both actions again before he finally accepted that Davie wasn't around to step in for him this time. Lost and on the verge of panic, Alfred said what he had been trained to. "No comment."

Of course, he was completely ignored. This reporter was relentless. "Is this relationship romantic? How long has it been going on?"

Butterflies of discomfort rose up in Alfred's stomach. He didn't know how this man had gotten this information, right down to Arthur's name, for Christ's sakes, and he was sure he didn't want to know. It was scary. It was disgusting. And there was nothing Alfred could do about it. "No comment," he repeated, hoarsely this time.

"Well, at least tell me this," said the reporter as if he was entitled to an answer, as if he was entitled to Alfred. "What's it like being around someone who's mentally disturbed?"

Alfred had thought the crowd had thinned out but apparently he was wrong. Dozens were gathered around this interaction now, flashing cameras at him, waiting for something they thought they deserved, microphones ready and bloodthirsty eyes focused on him. "What?" said Alfred.

"Well, anyone who's in a place like that must have some problems," he said, as if it was no big deal. Alfred just starred, his heart thumping into his throat. The reporter sighed. "Hey, I'm trying to be PC here. I'm asking how you maintain a relationship with someone who's got a screw loose." A pause. Alfred hands curled into his palms until his nails dug into the skin, every tendon in his arms tensing. "Isn't he a schizo?"

"Look, dude, I really don't think this is any of your-"

"Is he violent? People like that usually are." He said it as if he knew anything about this, as if he knew Arthur, as if his head was anyplace but his ass and his IQ wasn't in the single digits. Alfred was beginning to see red. Then, that bonehead of a reporter actually chuckled and said, probably thinking Alfred couldn't hear him, "It's probably a good thing we keep people like that locked up."

Before he could think to respond any other way, Alfred lifted his fist and swung.

.

Arthur sat on his bed in his empty hospital room, absently running his hands over the pink felt of the stuffed unicorn Alfred had given him. It had long since stopped giving him trouble over keeping it around. A small victory, he told himself. The more Alfred came around, the more normal his presence in his life became, and with normality came peace. With that misguided kiss shoved under the rug and forgotten about, it was almost like old times. Almost.

Maybe some things were just meant to be forgotten about.

Just as Arthur was drawing dangerously close to the wormhole that was thinking about that train wreck of a moment yet again, the door creaked open. Arthur hurriedly shoved the unicorn to the side and turned to face the noise. Ivan poked his head into the room, smiling in that shifty way of his, and focused his unreadable eyes on Arthur. Arthur stiffened.

"Arthur!" said Ivan, far too cheery. "You might be wanting to come out here. There is something on television I think you should be seeing."

"Oh?" said Arthur, confused. He didn't care much for TV. "What would that be?"

"There is sports player you are friends with, yes? They are talking about you," said Ivan with his usual strain of strange cheerfulness.

Arthur blinked, failing to understand. Alfred was talking about him? With who? Why? "What?" was all he could say.

"I would hurry." With that, Ivan left the room – presumably back to the lounge, back to watch whatever on earth was going on. Arthur gave it about a second's consideration before following him.

When he got to the commons, Arthur noticed that everyone he had met in this place thus far was surrounding the television. Gilbert and Mathias were stretched out on either side of the couch, eyes focused and the two of them occasionally gasping or hollering like they were watching the big game instead of what looked to be the news. Ivan was standing behind them, smiling. Even Matthew was there – Arthur wasn't sure he'd ever seen him distracted like this – mouth wide-open, eyes big, and all-around dead silent.

Arthur rushed over to the group and tried not to look as unnerved as he was when all eyes immediately landed on him. "What on earth is going on here?" he asked. "What are you all watching? What could possibly be so bloody interesting?"

No one responded, but it didn't matter. Arthur's question answered itself. It took one glance at the screen to see that Alfred was on it, talking to what he assumed was a reporter. Or maybe 'talking' was too strong of a word. Alfred looked as though he was being interrogated. The reporter's microphone was directly in his face and Alfred was pushing back, fighting, a kind of anger on his face that Arthur had not seen since high school.

The noise both in the room and omitting from the speakers and his own head made it difficult to hone in on what Alfred was being asked, but Arthur caught bits and pieces: 'schizo,' 'mentally disturbed,' and once, though he was half certain he was hearing it incorrectly, 'Arthur.'

But he must have heard it correctly, because Matthias, who was evidently on one of his hyperactive 'good' days, said, "Hey! He's talking about you! Arthur, hey, this guy knows about you two!"

But how? Arthur continued to watch the screen. The reporter was relentless, still asking questions that Alfred didn't answer, and with each second that passed that unfamiliar anger on his face grew more and more apparent. It was nearly surreal. Alfred – sweet, naïve, forever-smiling Alfred – looked close to going mad. And it was all in Arthur's apparent defense.

Before Arthur could even take that in, he watched in utter disbelief as Alfred punched the bloke clear in the jaw.

The energy in the room exploded. Gilbert practically choked on his own sharp inhale, Matthew clapped on hand over his mouth, Ivan started giggling, and Matthias broke out in uproarious cheering and applause. Yet all Arthur did was stare. He couldn't comprehend what was happening, couldn't acknowledge it, but at the same time it felt like Déjà-vu. Even halfway across the country, Alfred was standing up for him. It was so, well, like him.

By the time he looked back, Alfred had somehow managed to snatch the microphone from the man he had just assaulted. With fire in his eyes, he said, "His name is Arthur, okay? Not schizo, not crazy, not violent, Arthur. And he's the most wonderful person in the whole goddamn world."

If everyone had not been staring at Arthur before, they were now. The mix of cheeky smirks and disbelieving empty stares were almost too much to stomach. There was jumbled conversation all around him and vague whispers even deeper in the distance, but Arthur was able to ignore it, as they were putting him in handcuffs now. It was a natural consequence, but Arthur found himself pursing his lips as he watched it happen. Oh, Alfred. He had too much passion for one man. At least he meant well.

"Oh my god," said Matthew, intruding in on Arthur's train of thought. "He always has to get into something, doesn't he?"

The question must not have been directed towards anyone, because Matthew immediately rushed back to his office. The news switched to a story about rising gas prices, the room quieted down, and one by one everyone who had gathered around to watch Alfred making a scene went back to their dull, everyday psychiatric ward routines. The excitement was over.

But Arthur stayed still for a few more moments. In the empty lounge, the air charged with energy that was slowly fading out, he let it sink in that Alfred had punched a man for him. Had gotten arrested for him. He stood there, and just as he was about to leave, Arthur noticed he was smiling.

.

Alfred came back to visit the very next week with only bruised knuckles, a few community service hours, and a story to tell. Sitting on Arthur's bed, he wore a look of pride. Arthur had half a mind to smack it off him. After all, there was nothing admirable about punching an unarmed man in the face, no matter how irritating he might be. But no matter how hard he tried, Arthur couldn't bring himself to be mad at that grin.

"So they just let you off?" asked Arthur finally.

Alfred chuckled, and then ran his uninjured hand over the other. "Yeah, kinda. Cops are usually pretty easy on us. There's probably a lot of privilege involved in that, but whatever."

Well, at least he recognized the injustices that benefited him. Arthur looked away and picked at the bed sheet. After a long silence, he said, "How did they know you were coming here, Alfred? How did they know my name?"

Alfred's grin finally fell, and Arthur found that in spite of himself he missed it immediately. Alfred ran his hand through his hair, winced when he realized it was the affected one, and sighed into a response. "The media has its ways," he said. "They're snakes, all of them. I'm sorry, Artie… Arthur. I really am. The last thing I wanted was for you to get dragged into all of that BS."

Arthur blinked. "Not your fault," he said. "I suppose it comes with… what you do."

"Tell me about it," Alfred chuckled, humorlessly. "I swear to god, if I had one wish, it would be for those idiots to leave me alone for five minutes. I just want to play the game, you know?"

Arthur nodded. Maybe Alfred's lifestyle was more of a pain than he first imagined it to be. Perhaps he and Alfred weren't really living such different lives. They both had something following them around day and night, both without any way to stop it, both desperate only for peace they couldn't achieve. They only difference was that Arthur's lived in his head.

"But why did you do it?" Arthur did not realize he had begun to talk until he finished the question. It was bound to come out eventually, though, as it had been rattling around in his head since the moment he watched the events unfold onscreen.

"Why did I hit the guy?" Alfred asked. Arthur nodded.

"Certainly it wasn't necessary to assault him."

At that, Alfred laughed. A real, hearty, room-filling laugh. "Only you would consider that an assault," he said. Aside from the legal system, thought Arthur. But he kept that to himself. Alfred stopped laughing and looked back at him, smiling slightly, glasses glinting in the artificial light. "I just got sick of it, I guess. Sick of him. Sick of all of it. I don't know." Arthur raised an eyebrow, and Alfred straightened his back, heroic all of a sudden. "Well, I wasn't about to let some jerk talk trash about my best friend!"

Arthur fought back a smile, unsuccessfully. "Flattering. I just hope it was worth the consequence."

Alfred shrugged. "I'll have some time to think about it when I'm picking up trash from the side of the road."

"You are such a bloody moron." But Arthur laughed as he said it. "Always getting yourself into some kind of trouble."

"Anything for you, Arthur." Alfred tipped his head back of if the florescent hospital lights were the sun, closed his eyes, and basked in it. "Anything for you."

To be continued... I hope.