CHAPTER 2
The Subject of Fantasy

It was only when his fifth period class was shuffling out of the classroom that Arthur began to panic. One period left before school was over. One period in the company of Alfred F. Jones.

And speak of the Devil, there Alfred was, squeezing his way through the throng of students milling out the door.

Alfred looked winded. And class had ended about thirty seconds ago. Had he run? Arthur opened his mouth to voice the question, but hastily thought better of it. (The answer might have been "yes", after all.) Instead, Arthur took to watching Alfred with a discreet eye as the boy plunked down front and center of the classroom, in the desk closest to Arthur.

"Wanted to get the best seat in the house!" proclaimed Alfred, answering Arthur's unasked question.

"Mm," Arthur grunted, his eyes turned to the stack of papers before him, pretending to ignore the student.

As always, Alfred made that extraordinarily difficult. He was panting like a dog. Had Alfred run from the other side of school? His skin was flushed, coated slickly with a sheen of light sweat as he tried to make himself comfortable in the cramped desk. Alfred twisted in his seat, mewling breathily as a few vertebrae popped loudly in his back, and stretched back with a satisfied groan. Arthur grew hotter under the collar at the scene Alfred was making. Did he have to make such obscene noises?

"Just run a marathon, did you?" Arthur mumbled at the papers on his desk (though his eyes refused to focus on any of them but the slightly crumpled class list).

(He never even remembered putting it on the desk to begin with.)

Alfred perked up at the acknowledgement. "Whatcha say?"

Arthur sighed like a tortured martyr and finally looked his student head-on. He quickly noticed something.

Alfred had changed over summer. He had turned sixteen. He had grown. Though he hadn't quite filled out all the growth out yet; his hands and feet were awkwardly large, bound to make him trip all over himself like a growing puppy. His honey-blond crop of hair was a bit more disheveled than last year, and his features, while still very pliant and round, were longer.

"I said, 'You grew over summer, didn't you?'"

Alfred grinned proudly. "Yup! I'm five foot nine now!"

Five foot nine. He was Arthur's height. They were the same height. Surely somewhere that made them equals. Right? Alfred was less than two years from becoming a legal adult. That made him almost 90% of the way there. Alfred was practically an adult.

A sickening sort of relief wormed into Arthur's chest. If he was still attracted to Alfred, it meant that he hadn't lusted for Alfred simply for the fact that he was a child (because he practically wasn't anymore).

But, then again, Alfred still was a child.

But, he reasoned, perhaps to calm the bilious guilt, a child who was practically an adult.

"Practically…" Arthur repeated from his thoughts, his lips dry. Suddenly, he was keenly aware that he was leaned much farther over his desk than he had been before, unconsciously stretching closer to Alfred.

"No, I really am five foot n—KIKU!" Alfred finished excitedly.

And just as suddenly, Arthur was keenly aware of another presence in the room: a small figure that was narrowing his eyes almost imperceptibly at the scene before him. But Arthur caught the infinitesimal change in expression. The Japanese boy was incredibly perceptive, and Arthur found himself panicking.

"Good day, Mistar Kirkrand."

…How the hell had that boy gotten such a good grade in English? Arthur almost laughed at the thick accent, but he remembered himself, leaning back in his seat. "Er, yes, good afternoon, Kiku," he greeted politely, straightening the loose stack of papers.

"I think Kiku grew over the summer, too," Alfred interjected, drawing the attention back to himself, "but ya can't tell 'cause he's a midget."

Kiku sputtered at the epithet. "I am a normar height for Japan!"

"Pssyeah," Alfred countered, "but this is America, and here, you're short!"

Kiku deadpanned. "Perhaps I should move back to Japan, zen."

"No, Kiku, nooo!" Alfred wailed, clawing at the air. "What would I do without yooou?"

A few of the incoming students around the door chuckled at Alfred's antics.

"You would have to pay attention in crass," Kiku answered smoothly.

"Hey!" Alfred protested. "I pay attention in class! Isn't that right, Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur blinked as Alfred and Kiku noticed him again. "Erm…" he said intelligently.

"See? He didn't say 'no'!"

"He did not say 'yes' eezer," Kiku observed.

"Fine, Mr. Glass-is-half-empty! But the proof is in the pudding, and my pudding got a better grade than you!"

Alfred's spew of English idioms passed over Kiku's head as his dark eyes dulled in confusion, but he did register a small spark of recognition (and indignation) at the words "better grade".

"…Zat is just one crass!"

Alfred grinned. "Yeah, but it's the only class that matters!"

"What job can you get from a Engrish major?" Kiku countered.

"High school English teacher," supplied Arthur grimly.

After a blank moment to register the quip, Alfred laughed boomingly and Kiku, embarrassed over the outburst in front of his teacher, coughed politely into his fist.

"Well, chaps," Arthur said, standing deliberately and straightening the green sweater-vest under his tweed sports jacket, "the bell's about to ring, isn't it?" And with that announcement, the rest of the class scurried into their seats and pulled out their notebooks. They knew by now that Arthur was not one of those teachers who spent the first class period of the year chatting idly. And he was not one to tolerate dilly-dallying. He smirked at the instant reaction as he picked up a stack of papers from the desk and glanced at the clock with idle interest.

Alfred groaned dramatically as he pulled out his spiral-bound blue notebook. "You just have to kill all the fun, don'tcha Mr. Kirkland?" he grinned.

"I like to earn my English teacher's salary," he pronounced, his gaze lingering perhaps a bit too long on Alfred's still-pink cheeks and sparked blue eyes.

"That's what I like about you, Arthur Kirkland! You're an honest sort of fellow!" Alfred announced in a mock-British accent. The class chuckled.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You sound like an old man. And your accent is terrible."

"Pssh, YOU sound like the old man, old man! But I think your accent is awesome."

Arthur coughed into his fist as he tried to hide his quickly reddening face. "Yes, I've noticed Americans are impressionable that way," he muttered in retort as the bell rang and a student closed the door.

Arthur straightened the stack of papers in his hands. Syllabuses. A code of conduct for the new year. A set of rules and regulations written in stone and not to be budged. (Perhaps Arthur should write a syllabus for himself this year.)

"Nice to see you all back this year," he announced. He wasn't sure if it was a complete lie, though. Honestly, he was terrified to see Alfred back in his class, but the terror was accompanied by a low, primal satisfaction that scratched animally at his gut. That was the part of him that was hungry to see Alfred again. Arthur walked briskly through the rows towards the back of the room, past Alfred and the growling hunger, to hand out the syllabuses. As he handed out the last of the stack and rounded on his heel, Arthur caught the sound of excited whispers bouncing back from the front of the room. A quick sweep of his gaze registered the hunched forms of Alfred and Kiku, chatting quietly. His pace quickened (they were asking for eavesdroppers), and he could soon make out the sound of Kiku's butchered English.

"…Must be carefur not to ret zis become zat kind of dangerous obsessi—" but then (plan foiled) Kiku saw him. A dangerous obsession?

"Wh…what are you talking about, Kiku?" Alfred whispered back shrilly. "I'm not obsessed! He's just—"

Kiku cleared his throat, and Alfred caught the hint.

'Dangerous obsession'? 'He's just—'? Who's just? Was Alfred dangerously obsessed with someone? A 'he'? Who was it? No, Arthur couldn't get excited about it. He was in class. He had to stay in character. He hadn't eavesdropped. He hadn't heard what Alfred had said. Or Kiku. He was just a teacher who had caught two students whispering in class. That was all. (Keep playing the part, Arthur; you've made it past second intermission.)

"Something you two would like to share with the rest of us?" Arthur asked coolly.

Kiku blanched at being called out, but Alfred took it in stride. "Yeah, I was just totally telling Kiku that this is, like, a totally kickass syllabus!" A bubble of appreciative laughter rippled through the crowd of students.

Arthur raised a thick eyebrow. "Really now?" He played along.

"Uh huh!" Alfred chimed.

"And has two and half months of summer vacation made you forget my rule about cursing in the classroom?"

Alfred smacked his forehead in epiphany. "Oh, shit, right! It either has to be a British swear word, or it has to be a real, bona fide chanty curse. With like monks and stuff."

"So…?"

Alfred looked blank for a moment before breaking into a grin. "…So this is a really kickarse syllabus!"

As the resulting peals of laughter distracted Alfred (attention hog), Arthur took the chance to sneak a look at Kiku. The boy looked much relieved, and, most thankfully of all, not suspicious of Arthur in the slightest.


"I wirr be right wiss you. Prease ask za bus drivah to wait for me."

"Alright, Keeks," Alfred shrugged, waving a temporary goodbye to his friend. "But if you're too late, he ain't gonna listen to me!"

"I wirr use za metro if he reaves wissout me."

Arthur watched the goodbye with an anxious curiosity. Kiku was staying after class, which meant Kiku wanted to talk to him. There was no way that could be good. Students never wanted to talk to him about good things, and there was certainly no way this student (that observant and mostly silent Japanese boy who was bosom buddies with the object of Arthur's illicit lust) was coming to chat with him about the weather. Arthur busied himself with his binders as Kiku approached like a plague of locusts.

"You wanted to talk to me about something, Kiku?" Arthur asked, not looking up from his busywork.

"Yes," affirmed Kiku in a business tone. Arthur didn't know what to think of it, but it didn't sit well with him. "I would rike to talk wiss you about my grade in za crass."

Arthur sighed (and Arthur's ears had never heard so many emotions released in another single sigh). Grades. Right. Kiku wasn't here to talk to him about the rise in Arthur's body temperature and heart rate when he looked at Alfred. He wasn't here to accuse him of masturbating to the blond American's school pictures. He was here to talk about his English grade. A grade that didn't require improvement in the slightest. He could deal with that. He was used to over-achieving Asian students (though, he reasoned, maybe it wasn't fair to stereotype like that). Yet again, Kiku was being a little ridiculous. He earned nearly a hundred percent last year. Arthur told him as much. "Kiku, you got almost a hundred percent last year."

Kiku nodded. "But sometimes an A is not good enough. My parents arways tord me to be best in crass."

"So you're worried about your grades because Alfred scored better than you?"

"I—eto—no, I feer happy for him. It's good he has a good grade in your crass. I don't wish to discourage Arfred."

Arthur waited politely for Kiku to elaborate.

"But I sink if Arfred can do it, I can get a perfect grade."

"I see." Arthur replied with a cocked eyebrow.

"It's interesting," Kiku said quickly, cutting off his teacher (who had opened his mouth to tell the student not to kill himself over being perfect). Arthur frowned at the change in demeanor. Kiku was usually much more polite than this, and, as the Japanese boy shifted his weight slightly, Arthur could see the discomfort in his posture. "Arfred's grades in his other crasses are…not as good as your crass. It's interesteen zat he works so werr when he has a reason to. When he has motibation."

Arthur's eyebrows contracted as his heart picked up speed. "Motivation?" he repeated, an appropriately confused look on his face.

"Mm," Kiku confirmed, still shifting his weight. And it dawned on Arthur why Kiku looked so uncomfortable. Arthur had never before, in two years, heard Kiku talk about someone behind their back, either for good or bad. Kiku was just like that: he didn't talk about people. And now, talking about Alfred with Kiku just seemed impolite (among other things, like terrifying). "It may not be my prace to say it," Kiku continued with a hesitant twinge that confirmed Arthur's suspicion, "but I sink he rikes you quite a bit. It's obbious dat you are his faborite teacher."

Now Arthur's heart wasn't just picking up speed, it was having a highway chase with a cop car. And Kiku scratched at his hand. "I hab onry been in America for two years," Kiku continued, "and I stirr don't understand za curture and customs, but I sink it might be bad for Arfred if you don't discourage him a ritter bit. He may rike you too much. I sink if you don't discourage his…affections it might…" he paused, and Arthur's mind was allowed to jump wildly from place to place, trying to predict Kiku's sentence before he finished it. (Supposedly, Kiku was allowed to do this to Arthur because English wasn't his first language. Arthur didn't buy it.) Kiku gave him a significant look as Arthur tried to keep a poker face. "…It might go to his head."

Arthur sat dumbly for a moment as his mind screamed for a translation from Kiku-speak to plain English.

By the time Arthur's brain had rung up the order and spat out the change and the receipt, Kiku had already made his slight (and embarrassingly involuntary) bow, said his "good day" and made his quiet exit out the door.

And that was when Arthur realized that Kiku was never worried about his English grade.


This chapter seems kinda Kiku-centric...

By the way, you should look up "Don't Stand so Close to Me" on YouTube or iTunes or wherever kids get music nowadays (but not the Glee version; that one's melded with another song). It might give you a hint as to the upcoming chapters.