Author's Note: Hello, everyone! You may have noticed that I raised the rating of this story to T as a precaution, and that's because we're going to be delving into some heavier topics from this point on. That being said, enjoy the chapter!

September 1932

The afternoon rush at Beilschmidt Sweets is just beginning to die down when Alfred walks in, sullen and droopy-eyed despite the lively buzz of the street outside. The bell on the door jingles behind him as he enters, and he drags his feet over to the counter, very tempted to cry but too ashamed to show such weakness in front of so many witnesses.

"Hey, what are you doing in here with that frown? We don't let sad, little boys into this shop, you know. You're ruining the atmospheric quality of the business," Gilbert barks at him as Ludwig checks out the rest of the customers. There isn't any real bite in his words, and Alfred swears he even hears a drop of concern in the man's voice.

"I'll leave," Alfred says, swallowing hard and pulling his bag of schoolbooks closer to his hip.

"Now, wait a second!" Gilbert growls, casting his newspaper aside rather roughly. "Come over here."

With the obedience of a dog, Alfred stands directly in front of the man, ashen-faced. He doesn't know why he decided to come here, of all places, but he certainly didn't want to go straight home, where he would've been greeted by a curious and prying Arthur. While he appreciates his caretaker's support and desire to help, there are some things he simply wouldn't understand.

"Today was the first day of the school year, right?"

"Yeah."

"Is that why you look like you just came back from a funeral? You don't like your new school?"

Alfred swallows hard and shakes his head, pretending not to see how Gilbert's face is becoming more and more wrinkled with worry. "I hate it."

And although hate is a strong word, it's not an understatement in the least. For starters, the mere location of the school is on the other side of town, meaning he has to make a grueling thirty minute march to get there. The classes are bigger, Toris is in a completely different room, his teacher is a heartless jerk, and he's already been assigned a lengthy reading that he has to finish by next class. Oh, and to top things off, his classmates are monsters.

"What's so bad about it?"

Needing to express his frustrations to someone, Alfred doesn't hesitate to go on a rant and explain every detail of the cruelties of this educational institution, adding a few exaggerations here and there for extra effect. He's determined to go home and tell Arthur he's dropping out because there's no way he'll be able to survive four years in such a prison.

"Maybe you have to give it some time. The first month is always the hardest because you have to get used to everything. I hated school when I was your age too, but then I made some good friends that I got into lots of trouble with and that's how I got through it," Gilbert reasons, sounding quite rational for once.

"I don't think I'm going to make any friends there."

"Why not? You just have to find your people and stick with 'em."

Alfred scratches at his arm and tries not to look too pitiful as he says, "I got laughed at already."

"Laughed at? For what?"

"Cause all of the other boys are bigger than me, and I'm not as strong as they are. They started pushing me around during break, and I wanted to push them back but I couldn't," Alfred mumbles mournfully, dropping his head in shame.

"Why couldn't you?"

"I was afraid, and Arthur always says that—"

"Ack, the hell with what Arthur says. You have to stand up for yourself. If you show those kids you're tough, they won't think to mess with you again. Now, listen here, what you have to do is go right up to one of them—the ringleader, preferably—and give 'em a solid right hook to the jaw. He'll be so shocked he won't know what hit him," Gilbert grumbles, double-checking to make sure Ludwig isn't eavesdropping. "You do that, and you'll be left alone for four years. I guarantee it. You can't be soft with these kinds of things."

Alfred nibbles on his lip and shifts his weight from foot to foot in thought. "I don't know…"

"It's easy as long as you get the technique right," Gilbert insists, demonstrating in the air how he should hit the bully, breaking the movement down into simple steps and then nodding in approval when Alfred mimics him. "No matter what, you stand your ground, got it? If you let people step on you now, they'll treat you like a doormat for the rest of your life. It's good you learn that lesson sooner instead of later."

"I wish I was still in Mr. Honda's class."

"No, you don't want to be there again. You're too old to be with the munchkins. You're well on the way toward becoming a man, and a man has to know how to fight. Here, treat yourself to some toffee. It'll make you feel better."

Alfred takes the proffered candy from Gilbert's hand and chews it, already feeling substantially calmer. "Thanks."

"No worries, squirt. So, you know what you're going to do when you go back to school tomorrow, right? Or do we have to go over it again?"

"No, I've got it."

"All right. Good boy. Now get home before Arthur starts fretting and gives himself a migraine."

Fortunately, Arthur is rather busy with a new case, and he's so distracted that he doesn't notice Alfred's despondent demeanor when the boy enters the house. Without looking up from the stack of papers in his hands, he asks, "How was school?"

"Fine."

And being the workaholic he tends to be, Arthur accepts the reply with an absent hum of approval and rubs his chin. "Wonderful. Dinner is on the table," he murmurs, trotting up the stairs. "I'll be in my office should you need me."

"Okay."

It's a welcome response because Alfred really doesn't feel like being lectured or interrogated today, and he has a fair amount of his own work to take care of. He sits in the kitchen and eats his dinner quickly, head spinning with a million thoughts about what the next four years will hold for him. Maybe Gilbert's right after all; now is the time to establish his reputation. He doesn't want to be known as scrawny, chicken-legged Alfred until graduation. He's a fighter. Let them tremble when they hear his name.

Mind made up, he spends the rest of the evening in the solitude of his room and goes to bed earlier than usual, incredibly exhausted after such an emotional day. By the time the sun comes up, he's energized and a little giddy, and although he's looking forward to dealing with his tormentors, he's also dreading the possibility that he'll be outnumbered and brutally pummeled.

He's hardly able to hold his breakfast down as he walks out the door, mumbling a curt goodbye to Arthur before stepping out into the crisp, autumn wind. He zips his jacket halfway and hides his hands in his pockets, imagining what he'll say and do when he sees the group of boys.

He finds the trio lurking about the back of the school a few minutes before class starts, and, following Gilbert's instructions to the letter, he storms over to the middle boy, draws his fist back, and strikes him soundly in the mouth with a sickening crack, astounded by his own power. Time seems to slow down as the boy brings a hand up to cradle his face, and then, before Alfred can duck, the boy hits him back, flinging away his glasses and landing a solid hit on his left eye.

As Alfred tries to recover, the other two boys knock him to the ground and kick him in the ribs, unrelenting. He's not sure how long the entire ordeal lasts, but after somewhere around the tenth kick, Alfred is sure he's going to die right then and there, curled up in the fetal position and clutching his chest. His ears ring, his heart pounds desperately, and he bites back a whimper as he feels something in his abdomen get jostled.

He gasps for breath and grits his teeth, wishing he'd never taken Gilbert's advice. He's not strong, and now he's got the proof. He's lying pathetically on the grass, half-deaf and defenseless as the other boys shout and howl down at him in triumph. He doesn't know what they're saying because of the shock and hysteria his body is going through, but their words are probably vulgar and cold, and they're yelling at him so loud that he feels some of their spit land on his face.

He can't let them win so easily.

With a moan of distress, he wraps an arm around his middle and jumps to a standing position, eyes looking like blue fire. He throws himself at the nearest boy and drives a knee into his sternum, keeping him down. Then, he rips at the boy's hair and throws another punch at him as though he's in some kind of frenzy, completely unaware of what he's doing until someone runs off and brings a teacher back with them.

The teacher tears Alfred away from the boy and spins him around to meet his gaze, angry in a dozen different ways.

Alfred's first urge is to run—run and never look back—but the teacher's grasp is tight and bruising, so he can't break free. He blinks at the man but doesn't say a word, not even knowing what should be said in this kind of situation.

"Come with me," the teacher decides, grabbing him by the ear and twisting it hard.

Alfred turns his neck around to look back at the three boys, and all of them are now snickering and sneering. As he's led away, he picks his glasses up from the ground. They are, miraculously, undamaged. "But they were hitting me too!"

"Quiet!"

The ringing in his ears has finally stopped, but his left eye has swollen considerably, and he can only keep it open at half-mast as he's escorted into a classroom and told to hold out his hands, palm-side-up. "I didn't—!"

A wooden yardstick smacks the sensitive flesh of his hands and he lets out a surprised yelp, watching with horror as the teacher delivers another several swats for good measure.

Courage lost, Alfred doesn't hold back his tears, sobbing and shaking as the teacher sits him in a desk and writes up a note that he'll have to get signed by Arthur when he returns to school tomorrow.

A minute later, the note gets shoved into his hands. "Go to class."

But he doesn't. He leaves the desk, goes out into the corridor, and dashes out the front doors of the school, breaths uneven and contracting with the onset of one of his infamous lung spasms, which he now knows to be asthma attacks.

Once he's out on the street, he doesn't know where he's intending to go or what he's going to do. Arthur is most likely at the firm, and Alfred doesn't even want to think about seeing him while he's in this kind of state. So, he walks in the direction of the house but slows his pace when his lungs begin to hurt, tears pouring out of his new black eye.

He could go back to Beilschmidt Sweets, but then Gilbert might make fun of him for failing and being weak. Francis is at work today as well, and he's busy cutting hair and giving people trendy looks for the new season. Plus, there's nothing either man would be able to do for his worsening asthma. There's a bottle of ephedrine at home, and he's pretty sure he knows how much he should take, and then he could cure it himself without anyone ever knowing.

It's the best idea he's got, and so, he begins the shameful stroll home, head bowed and eyes stinging. He doesn't stop to talk to anyone like he normally does, nor does he take a detour to the bakery. No, he follows the road without any distractions, daydreaming about slithering into his warm bed and falling asleep for the remainder of the school year.

"Alfred? Where are you off to at this time? Shouldn't you be in school?"

It's Ivan. Even though he's looking down at his shoes, he can tell who it is merely by the man's distinct, hearty voice. He doesn't dare lifting his head as he says, "I didn't feel well, and so I'm gonna go home."

He hears Ivan make a noise of disapproval above him. "Does Arthur know about this?"

"Yeah. He knew I wasn't well this morning," Alfred lies, a wheeze sneaking its way out of his throat as he takes a breath. He prays Ivan didn't hear it.

"Look at me, solnyshko."

"I really think I should get home."

Carefully, Ivan puts a hand under his chin and tilts his head up. When he sees the condition of Alfred's eye, he hisses, sneaks two gentle fingers beneath his frames, and runs them across the discoloration. "And does Arthur know about this?"

"Not yet," Alfred admits with a small cough.

Without further comment, Ivan momentarily turns away from Alfred to get something out of his bag, and, thankfully, it's the ephedrine Alfred has been wanting to get his hands on. Ivan pours a bit of it into a bottle cap and hands it over to him, and he gratefully accepts it before downing the vile substance.

"Better?"

"Yeah. Thank-you."

Ivan nods and takes a step forward. "I'm taking you over to the firm."

"No!" Alfred pleads, sorely tempted to get down on his knees. "I'll just go home and wait until he gets back."

"He needs to have a look at this right away, and you need to tell him how it happened."

Alfred frowns and rubs circles into a tender spot next to his ribs, vaguely aware of his still aching palms. He's pretty sure one of them has a sizeable welt, but he's too scared to look.

"Let's go. Now," Ivan persists, not taking no for an answer.

The firm isn't far but that doesn't make the journey any less grueling. As they near the building, Alfred realizes that he's always seen it from the outside but has never actually gone inside. Ivan, however, seems well-acquainted with its interior layout because he saunters right along without pausing, waving to a clerk inside the lobby before leading them up the stairs to the third floor.

They walk through a long, narrow hallway, and, at the end of it, there's a silver plaque on the wall that reads, "Arthur Kirkland, Criminal Law."

The door is closed, so Ivan knocks. The muffled chatter going on inside fades, and when the door swings open, Arthur seems lost in thought until his brain registers who his visitors are, and he blinks dumbly at them, horribly confused. However, that confusion swiftly pales when he draws his attention to Alfred's black eye.

"What in the world—?" he sputters, and much like Ivan had done several minutes ago, he casts out a hand, slips off Alfred's glasses, and touches the injury. "What happened? Why aren't you in school?"

Alfred clears his throat and glowers, unsure how he should go about explaining everything. "I stood up to a bully like Gilbert told me to."

Arthur stares at him with incredulity, and the muscles in his jaw twitch. He puts Alfred's glasses back on for him and says, "I'll be with you in a moment. Let me just finish up with a client."

The door closes again, and the chattering returns, although this time it is less animated. After a couple of minutes, a strange man with dark hair and deep-set eyes walks out of the office. Alfred doesn't know why, but there's something creepy and unsettling about him. Of course, Arthur has told him that he sometimes works with people who might be considered dangerous in the public's view, but Alfred has never set his eyes on one of them before.

The man brushes past them before he comes to an abrupt halt and looks at Alfred, just as intrigued. "Hey, there. Yer going to court, too?"

"No," Alfred whispers, shaken.

The man cracks a smile and cocks his head, not nearly as scary-looking when he's cheerful. "It was just a joke. Stay outta trouble, boy," he grunts, pulling a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. "Nothing good comes outta pickin' fights. I can tell yer that much," he adds before giving Arthur a brief salute and stalking away.

When the man is on the stairs and out of earshot, Arthur turns his attention to Alfred once more and looks at him sternly, arms crossed. "Come in."

Alfred gulps and hunches his shoulders, aware there isn't any possible way this could go well. If he hadn't been so concerned about his punishment, he would've admired the impressive desk at the head of the room, as well as the towering bookshelves filled with various revised editions of state statutes arranged all around the office. Arthur certainly does a lot of dense reading, and judging by the man who was just in his office, he's met some fascinating characters in his line of work as well.

"Sit down, Alfred," he orders, gesturing to the large, leather sofa in front of his desk.

Honestly, now that he's had time to think about it, Alfred would rather be punished than go back to class. At least he knows what to expect with Arthur, and although whatever his caretaker decides to do with him will probably suck for a little while, he'd still rather be with him than his terrible classmates.

He sits down as Arthur steps out for a moment to have a word with Ivan, which means he's left in the spacious office all alone, awe-struck by the many papers on the desk. He tries to steal a glimpse of what Arthur might be working on, but everything is full of legal jargon that he doesn't understand in the slightest.

Two minutes go by, and Arthur returns without Ivan, closing the door behind him with a click. He goes over to the desk, takes a seat in his chair, and sighs heavily at Alfred. "You know it's very irresponsible to leave class and wander off. What if something had happened? I wouldn't have been able to find you because I'd have no idea where you'd gone. What then?"

Alfred gnashes his teeth together and mumbles, "Sorry."

"Who gave you that nice shiner?"

"A boy from school."

"And did you go to your teacher?"

He reaches into his bag and pulls out the note he received and slides it across the desk for Arthur to see. The man looks at it for a long moment, reading each word with intense focus before setting it aside and sighing again. "You started a fight?"

"They were making fun of me yesterday, so I—"

"So you responded with violence," Arthur finishes for him, massaging his temple. "Who was this boy?"

"There were three of them. I don't know their names."

Arthur purses his lips and makes his own memo on a blank sheet of paper. "Well, I'm going to your school tomorrow to find out who they are, so I can speak to their mothers or fathers."

"No!" Alfred shouts, immediately regretting the outburst when Arthur looks at him darkly. "That's embarrassing! I won't talk to them again, but please don't tell their parents!"

"I'll do what I see fit," Arthur declares without leaving room for protest. "Were you hurt anywhere else?"

"They kicked me in the chest."

"Lift up your shirt."

Cautiously, Alfred eases up the tail of his shirt and then pulls it up in the front, revealing the mosaic of blue and purple bruising. He waits in anticipation as Arthur scans the damage, and when he's seen enough, he lets the shirt fall down to its original position once more.

"Is that all?"

He displays the several welts on his palms and says, "That's from the teacher."

Arthur makes a face and scowls before adding another few words to his memo. "I'm going to speak with this teacher as well. He may wish to use such antiquated methods on other students whose parents approve of them, but not on you."

In the years they've lived together, Arthur has never dished out any form of physical repercussions on him. On more than one occasion, and in the presence of others, the man has discussed his dislike of corporal punishment. Aside from a firm grab or pull, he's never put a hand on the boy, which is strange, because as far as Alfred knows, almost everybody else does it.

Back in elementary school, Mr. Honda never dealt out harsh discipline like that either, and thus, Alfred has always been quite unfamiliar with such use of force until now.

"And what's this nonsense regarding Gilbert?"

Alfred swipes the remaining tears from his eyes and feels a pang of pain spread throughout his heart. He doesn't want to snitch on Gilbert, but he's already let the detail slip, so he can't turn back on it now. "He said that if the boys in school are picking on me, then I should hit them because it would make them scared of me."

"Of course he did," Arthur groans, getting up from his desk and stretching his stiff legs. "You should have come to me straight away instead of seeking his ridiculous suggestions. My boy, it takes true strength to be able to hold back your fist and walk away. Aggression only makes matters worse. I cannot even being to tell you how many men have walked through the door of this office facing criminal assault charges because they lost control of their anger and found themselves in a brawl. We live in violent enough times as it is and adding fuel to that fire will solve absolutely nothing."

Alfred bites his lip and nods to show he understands.

"I'm very disappointed in you for behaving the way you did. I will find a suitable punishment for you later. However, I'm also upset with how the school handled this matter, but that's something I'll deal with during the coming days. For now, let's go and see Gilbert."

"Do we have to?"

"Yes, and let's also get you some ice for that eye. My goodness, what possesses children to do this to each other?

Although he doesn't know it yet, years later, Alfred will ask himself this same question.

"Explain this."

"Oooh, kid. Those bastards did this to you? Maybe your good, ol' Uncle Gilbert should take a walk over there and—"

"You've done quite enough, thank you," Arthur interjects with a venomous glare, his hands clutching Alfred's shoulders as he presents the damage to the man. "I hope you're happy now."

Gilbert inhales sharply and snaps his fingers. "Wait a second! You can't blame all of this on me. I was just trying to help."

"And you did more harm than good, it would seem."

"The kid has to know that there's a cruel world waiting out there, and he has to be tough if he wants to survive in it."

Arthur scoffs loudly and pushes Alfred's bangs back to reveal the black eye in all of its glory. "He does not. Look at how helpful your recommendation was. When you have children of your own, you can impart whatever values you'd like onto them, but Alfred is my child, and I, for one, do not wish to see him become a fugitive at the age of thirteen!"

Gilbert clicks his tongue, eyes flitting down to look at Alfred. "Did you at least get him back?"

"Yeah," Alfred says with the hint of a smirk. "I got the last punch in."

Gilbert's face splits into a giant grin and he ruffles the boy's hair with pride. "That's what I'm talking about!"

"Enough!" Arthur growls, pulling Alfred to stand behind him. "This is precisely how hatred is bred, and it's the reason we have the types of global crises that we do. If people were more open to the idea of diplomacy—"

"Yeah, sure, keep lying to him. Diplomacy is dead."

And, to prove his point, Gilbert shoves the most recent issue of The Illinois Inquirer at Arthur. On one of the pages, there's a black and white image of the Altona Bloody Sunday riot which took place in Germany back in July. Apparently, there were some new developments in terms of the criminal investigation regarding some of the belligerents, which is why it had made the front page of the international news section.

In the picture, a police officer is restraining a man while several others officers are scurrying around behind them to maintain peace.

"There you have it—Nazis and communists working things out through diplomacy," Gilbert remarks with heavy sarcasm, an unlit cigarette lazily hanging out of his mouth. "Eighteen people dead just four months before the federal election. Exciting stuff… The Nazis will consolidate power in the Reichstag by the new year."

Arthur shakes his head and tosses the paper back at Gilbert, furious. "Let's go, Alfred. I'm taking you home."

"You won't always be able to keep him safe under your wing," Gilbert says from behind them.

"We'll see about that," Arthur snarls, slamming the door to the candy shop on their way out.