12. a meeting with mary jane

"So he was really doing pot?" Alfred raised his eyebrows. "Like—marijuana pot?"

"No, he was having chicken pot pie," said Arthur dryly. He dotted an 'i' viciously, nearly stabbing his pencil through the paper. "Of course he was doing pot."

They were studying in Alfred's dorm, which he shared with his brother Matthew, though the self-proclaimed Canadian was out at the moment doing who knew what. The room itself was really rather cosy, Alfred's side anyway. The walls were covered in posters of comic book characters like Green Lantern and Superman and Captain America (particularly Captain America), pictures of a city skyline ("It's New York," Alfred explained once, "where we used to live before moving here.") and a pennant for a sports team that Arthur didn't recognise. Bits of rubbish were strewn all over the floor—old crisp bags and candy wrappers and a pile of laundry that Alfred swore was clean. (Nevertheless Arthur avoided it anyway. That an the growing, monstrous stack of papers and coursework underneath Arthur's desk.)

Alfred shifted his position on his desk chair, hugging his knees and curling his toes on the edge of the seat. "Where'd he get it?"

"No bloody idea," said Arthur bitterly. "And I don't care to know."

Alfred nodded and spun around a couple times more on his chair. "You seem awfully upset about it," he noted.

"Damn straight, he's ruining his body and life with that stuff," said Arthur, turning a page in his history textbook.

"Is that right?" Alfred tilted his head, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. Normally Arthur would have found that comforting in an odd way, but at the moment he was far too annoyed to smile at it.

"Yes, it is," he replied tensely.

The American looked slightly surprised at Arthur's snappish reply and put his legs down on the floor properly. "Oh," he said. "Is it that important to you?"

Arthur looked down and tried to refocus on his history book. Alfred seemed genuinely concerned—it was written all over his face—and Arthur tried not to feel the flutter in his chest. "Yes, it is," he said quietly. "My brother, Rhys—he's… well, I suppose he was kind of a junkie. He's long done with pot, though."

"Does he do coke, then?" asked Alfred, and Arthur nodded.

There was a sort of tense silence, which Alfred broke after a bit.

"If-if you don't mind me asking," he asked nervously. "I—When did he start?"

Arthur fiddled with his pencil. "Um, maybe six years ago, almost," he said finally. "When my dad… my dad walked out on us, is all."

Alfred's eyes widened. "He walked out on you?"

"He wasn't really a very good dad." Arthur shrugged, trying to keep the angry edge out of his voice. He put down his pencil. "I don't really like talking about it, sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," said Alfred automatically, "I shouldn't have pried."

"You're fine," said Arthur, bending back over to read more about the English Civil War. Alfred sighed with relief.

"Good," he said. "Then on a completely unrelated note, you don't mind explaining to me redox again? This oxidation number thing really confuses me."

"No problem," Arthur said with a grin.

.

It took a while before Alfred managed to balance an equation using the redox methods that he was supposed to (and after which he declared that they were "completely fucking pointless") but he got it, under Arthur's tutelage. The clock on Al's desk read 17.00, and Arthur stood up.

"See you at dinner, then?" he asked the American, and Alfred nodded.

"Yeah," he said with a grin. "Just gotta b.s. the rest of this essay for Lit and I'll be down."

"All right, bye." Arthur returned the smile and, gathering things, left Alfred's dorm. He nearly crashed into someone on his way down the corridor.

"Oh god, I'm sorry—" and with a start he recognised the frog, What's he doing here? His dorm's next to ours.

"Did you," began Francis without preamble, "just come out of Alfred's dorm?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Francis only gave him a look. Arthur sighed.

"Well if you must know," said Arthur, "we were just studying."

"All right," said Francis. Something about his expression... seemed... forced to Arthur. "Well, I'm off to dinner, good-bye."

And he left without a further comment.

Arthur shrugged the odd feeling of guilt(?) off and headed down to the cafeteria, where he joined Gilbert in the queue.

"Hello," he greeted his friend.

"Hello yourself," said Gilbert. "How was your day? And yes, by day I mean the four bloody hours you spent in that yank's dorm."

"All right," said Arthur. "He's not as bad as you make him out to be."

"I know," insisted Gilbert. "I just talk to him, is all."

Arthur shrugged. "You have your friends; I've got mine."

"And speaking of friends, there's Mathias," said Gilbert, nodding towards the cafeteria entrance. Arthur turned to look.

Sure enough Mathias's tall frame filled the doorway, accompanied by a shorter boy with pale blond hair and sleepy blue eyes. Arthur didn't recognise the shorter boy and he didn't care to. He instead turned and pretended to take note of a poster encouraging him to drink more milk.

"You all right?" asked Gilbert.

"I'm hungry," said Arthur briskly, trying to repress some of the burning resentment that threatened to leak out. "The roast looks good doesn't it?"

He didn't want to think about it. Mathias being in the room wasn't helping much. And there was also the matter that the song that the Dane had been listening to was stuck in his head.

Gilbert sighed and self-consciously ran a hand through his hair, something he'd started doing a lot more often since he'd dyed it. "Well then, have you seen the painting exhibit yet?"

"Oh." Arthur tore his attention away. "No; I know mine's in there but I haven't actually seen it yet."

"D'you want to go after dinner?" Gilbert asked, and added hopefully: "I want to see yours. And Francis's too."

Arthur shrugged. "Fine with me."

They ate in a hurry, at Gilbert's insistence, then left to go to the arts building.

There weren't many people around, but given the setting of the exhibition, Arthur felt slightly out of place with his dyed-black hair and skinny jeans. The walls and lighting were elegant and fancy, and it almost reminded him of Roma's flat, except the lights weren't trained on canvases hung on the walls, or on sculpture installations on wooden pedestals, or on the glasses of sparkling grape juice. Arthur grabbed a glass, for sake of free food (which he wasn't stupid enough to refuse) and stumbled after Gilbert, who eagerly ran up to a canvas Arthur recognised as his own.

"Wow!" exclaimed the German. "This looks like Roma!"

"It... it is Roma," said Arthur dryly.

"And that must be why it looks like him1"

Arthur shook his head and wandered off to see the rest of the gallery. He saw Bella standing there, looking at some other paintings by a lower level class and joined her.

"Hey," she said.

"Hi," he said. "Do you take art?"

"Yeah, my piece is right over there." She pointed to a square canvas with a rendering of Jager in oil paint. "who did you do for that?"

"Roma," Arthur shrugged. "Dunno if you know him."

"I've heard about him; but never had the honour of meeting him," Bella said, turning to study a graphite drawing of Bob Marley. "Yours must've been good.

"No,' the Brit said quickly.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Bella asked.

"I—I dunno," Arthur said. "I'm not really that good."

Bella smiled and Arthur smiled back. They moved a bit farther into the exhibition and that was when Arthur saw it.

It was the same size as his own painting, but instead of being covered with Arthur's rustic warm colour palette, it was energising and bright and high-contrast, with dark, dark shadows and white; white highlights, streaked with neon blue and green on the left, illuminated with electric yellow on the other, outlining the planes of a face, a face whose brilliant green irises stared out at the viewer from the corner of its eyes, framed by heavy, thick eyebrows

Arthur didn't say anything. He honestly couldn't. There was nothing to say. He didn't hear Bella's surprised "That's... that's you, isn't it?" He didn't feel Gilbert poking him viciously in the side, didn't hear the buzz of appraisal at the painting behind him. He only saw the painting.

"Who is it by?" asked Bella; somehow his ear had caught that out of the blur of noise loud and clear.

Who else would it be?

Arthur, driven by some unknown impulse, turned and began walking. His feet took him out of the building and to his dorm, where he reached under his bed for his guitar and left. He went towards the roof. Up. To the sky, where he could breathe.

He took out his iTouch, began recording. Put his fingers on the fretboard.

And sang.

He called it "Eckland."

.

Gilbert put a hand to his earphone. "Arthur," he said. "This is really good."

Arthur shrugged and kept typing his English essay.

"Serious." Gilbert scooted forward on his rolling chair, carefully avoiding a pile of discarded sweatpants lying on the floor. "We need to make a demo. Like a proper one."

"No."

The German looked positively offended. "What d'you mean 'no'?"

"I don't want to make a proper demo," Arthur snapped. "I'm not writing a drum track."

Gilbert paused. "Is this about Mathias?"

"What?"

"Is this about him? Because I'm getting absolutely sick of having to go between you two."

"You don't have to." Arthur hit save and closed his laptop. "You chose to."

"You guys are forcing me to!" protested Gilbert.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Right."

"You are!"

The Brit shrugged.

Gilbert gave a frustrated grunt. "You know what? I've had it with your bloody awful attitude. You need to get it together."

Arthur snorted. "I need to get it together? I'm looking pretty calm right now, aren't I?"

"No! No, you need to stop—don't run to the bloody yank—"

"I wish you would use his name," said Arthur irritably. "He's got a name, you know."

"Why do you talk to him so much anyway?" demanded Gilbert.

"Well, maybe it's got to do with the fact that he doesn't piss me off all the time like both of you do!" yelled Arthur. Gilbert, for one, seemed almost at a loss for words, and resorted only to staring at his dormmate with a dumbfounded look on his face, opening and closing his mouth very stupidly.

"Arthur—" he began, but Arthur simply stood up, took his iPod back, and stormed out of the room.

"Oh, Arthur," said Alfred when he opened the door of his hall. "What's up?"

"Can I… uh… hang out here for a bit?" Arthur scratched his head awkwardly but was relieved when Alfred stepped back to let him in.

Inside Alfred's dorm it looked as if the wardrobe had thrown up all over the floor. Jerseys of a navy blue colour and white and red stripes on the sleeves were strewn on the floor along with jeans and T-shirts with stupid sayings and logos. His fake leather bomber jacket was draped over his chair and the pile of papers under his desk was more terrifying than ever.

"What are you doing?" asked Arthur, forgetting immediately his anger at Gilbert in that second. "And what is this?" he added, picking up one of the navy blue jerseys.

"I'm packing for the holidays, dur," replied the American, laughing. "We'll be out of the country for a bit. And the jersey is for football."

"Doesn't look like any team that I'd know" said Arthur.

"No, I mean American football," Alfred corrected himself. "Sorry I forgot about the whole thing with football and soccer…"

"The American ball doesn't even look like a proper ball," laughed Arthur.

"It's a butt running after it when someone drops it," agreed Alfred. "It turns into this huge pile of a bunch of people trying to grab the ball at once."

"That's barbaric," said Arthur.

"No, it's great," said Alfred, grinning. "And the jersey's for the New England Patriots."

"New England?" Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"What?" said Alfred, looking a little hurt. "They're my favourite team."

"I just… everything about that name is just…" Arthur shook his head, grinning.

"There are worse ones," Alfred said darkly. "New York has two teams."

"All right then," said Arthur, still trying to stifle a laugh. He put down the jersey. "I should leave you to your packing."

"No, it's f ine. I mean, I can take a break from it, really." Alfred settled down on his bed. "What's up?"

"I dunno," said Arthur after thinking a moment. "I mean, Gilbert and Mathias are just… being really annoying."

"How so?" asked Alfred.

Arthur shrugged. "It's a bit of a long story."

"I think I've got time for it. It's Saturday, right?" Alfred smiled.

Arthur shrugged again. "Then… can we go up on the roof?"

They climbed the stairs and Arthur stumbled slightly—the view was different than it was on the Eckland roof. In fact he could see Eckland from the rooftop. The sun was setting, and Arthur wished he could capture it with paint, but he didn't have canvas or paint. It was beautiful either way, and he inhaled deeply.

Alfred sat down on the edge of the building, swinging his legs easily and opening a can of Coke that Arthur hadn't seen before.

Arthur hesitated. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Hm?" Alfred took a swig of Coke. "Oh. Nahh, it's only if you push me over."

Arthur laughed and sat down next to him. "Could I have some of that?" he asked, pointing to the Coke. Alfred handed the can over.

"So," he said casually (easy enough to do with the flat American accent). "Talk to me. What's it all about?"

"Too much shit," said Arthur. "Mathias, well, there's him with the drugs and and all of that and ah, I don't really know. Somehow he just became really annoying after that.

Alfred kept looking at him.

"That's about it," said Arthur.

Alfred stared at him blankly for another second, then threw his head back in a deep laugh. There was a sort of happy glow about Alfred when he laughed—his cheeks bunched up and his blue eyes nearly closed and his hair flew back as he tilted his face to look at the sky.

"I'm sorry," he said, still chortling at his own stupidity. "I thought there was more, I'm sorry."

"You're fine," said Arthur. "Actually, you're right, there sort of is more."

Alfred cocked his head in interest.

"See, Gilbert's trying to get us to make up," sghed Arthur in exasperation. "It's all a bit stupid…"

"You don't want to?" guessed Alfred.

"No."

"Isn't he your best friend, though?"

A pause.

"My best friend?" echoed Arthur dumbly.

"Yeah… aren't you always talking to him and stuff?" Alfred shrugged. "You and Mathias and Gilbert, you're all so different, and yet you're so tight."

Arthur sipped some of the Coke and listened as Alfred kept talking.

"But sometimes, it gets a too tight, you know?" The American boy leaned on his elbows and looked out onto the campus. "And you need breathing room. Hang out with other people… like Bella," he added with a grin.

"Bella?" Arthur asked confusedly.

"Yeah, she likes you," said Alfred.

"Well of course; we're friends," said Arthur, still confused.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Alfred threw up his hands.

"What?" asked Arthur desperately.

"To put it in your terms," Alfred said, then assumed a vaguely convincing English accent: "She bloody fancies you!"

Arthur laughed. "Right, and pigs fly!"

"So you haven't seen her making stupid goo-goo eyes at you?" Alfred shook his head. "Oh my God…"

"Whaaaaat? No, that's—that's—"

"She has," said Alfred. "God, you are so dense—"

"But..." Arthur scrunched up his eyebrows. "If she had, I would've known…"

Alfred stared.

"Wow," he said. "Everyone really does know except you."

Arthur didn't really know what to do. "How long has everyone… known?" he made out finally.

Alfred shrugged. "I dunno, actually. But yeah."

There was another stretch of silence, in which Arthur pondered this newly discovered fact.

"I never actually thought anyone would actually fancy me," he said, half to himself.

"You have no confidence, man," said Alfred, watching the reddening sky. "You're pretty cool, you know? It's not bad to have someone like you, Artie."

Somehow at that moment Arthur thought of Francis and the painting, and god, did he have to go thinking about that frog now?

"Don't call me Artie," he managed.

"Will do," laughed Alfred, and was rewarded by a punch in the shoulder.

"Ow—no—stop it—dude, I'm going to fall off the roof—"

.

On the Friday after holidays began, Arthur took a cab to Jager's flat to rehearse one last time for a show before they went off. It wasn't like he could practice with them in the empty music classroom—no, he shouldn't think about that place, about the others right now, ugh.

"Hello," said the Dutchman as he opened the door. "Come on, it's cold, do you want a cuppa?"

"Yes, please," said Arthur, stepping inside and setting his guitar down on the floor. Sadik was passed out on the couch, his face covered with a book about (Arthur tilted his head to look) "Italian Architecture of the 16th Century." Jager walked back in with a hot cup of tea and a rough look, and kicked Sadik roughly.

"Get up, Arthur's here!" he yelled.

Sadik stirred. He lifted the book off his face (the pages had gone all wrinkly and little ink words were imprinted on his walnut-brown cheek) and yelped in surprise. "Artie!"

"Don't call me that," Arthur said automatically.

"My man!" Sadik said, ignoring the last remark. "And Mat—wait, where's Mathias?"

"Oh." Arthur frowned at thet hought—everyone in their circle (was that really the right word? Arthur sometimes felt like an outsider still) had stayed at school over the holidays, for some reason: Gilbert, Mathias, Francis, Antonio… everyone except Alfred. "I didn't… really want to talk to him."

"What about Gilbert?" asked Jager, holding out the mug to Arthur.

"Not him either," replied the Brit, taking the cup. "I'll sing for tonight."

"Right, then, of course." Jager sat down at his laptop. "Could I finish this quickly?"

"Yeah, sure."

"So, Artie, tell me," Sadik said. "Why aren't you playing with your mates? I mean, you three are amazing together, really."

Arthur sighed. "It isn't enough that you let me play with just you two and now you have to know why?"

Sadik rolled off the couch. "All right, all right, no need to be so uptight, eh? And speaking of which, you don't sound Scouse anymore."

"What?" Arthur asked. "Really?"

"Sadik, how is this relevant at all?" asked Jager, sitting down at the opposing couch. "And yeah, actually, it's not as strong anymore, you know."

"What, really?" Arthur grabbed at his throat like that was going to catch his accent.

"It's that school of yours," said Sadik, waving his hand from his position lying down on the floor. "Posh and priiiiiivate."

"Sadik, get the fuck off the floor and let's rehearse," said Jager, looking a bit irritated.

"Yes, but don't you want to know why Mathias and Gilbert aren't here?" Sadik put his hands behind his head. "They're such dolls aren't they?"

Jager slung his bass over his shoulder. "Maybe I am a bit… concerned, but come on, we have to practice!"

"But Mattie is my favourite!" complained Sadik.

"Okay!" Arthur burst out loudly. "I had a row with Gilbert because Mathias was doing drugs and now I'm ignoring both of them!"

They both stared at him a moment, Jager's green eyes and Sadik's amber eyes.

"Mathias is doing drugs?" asked Jager slowly.

Arthur only gave him a look.

"What, exactly?"

The Brit went to his guitar and took it out slowly.

"Marijuana," he said, after a minute.

Another rmoment where Jager and Sadik silently absorbed the information.

"That's really not that bad," said Jager slowly. "It's pretty mild, compared to some of the others."

"Fairly common in the business, too," added Sadik. "Everyone gets sucked in at one point or another."

"Yeah, maybe in the seventies," snorted the Dutchman. "But I suppose people here are still a bit into it."

"Yeah, reminds me," Sadik said, crawling to his drum stool. "Hit me up, please? It's been ages."

Arthur froze.

"serious? Cuz that makes me tonight's 'designated driver'"—he said that in an irrtated tone—"and you have to drive to the next gig." Jager went over to the balcony of their flat and brushed his fingers between several leafy, green, plants.

"And you know you hate driving."

"Oh, fuck you and just give it to me already." Sadik waved his hands over his drums. "Grabby hands."

The Dutchman rolled his eyes. "Fine."

Arthur watched numbly as Sadik eagerly bounced in his seat while Jager took a bag of shredded leaves and emptied the contents of the bag on the coffee table. With nimble fingers he rolled the leaves into neat little rolls and with excited eyes Sadik eagerly took a silver lighter and flicked it, illuminating one end and lighting it up. He inhaled deeply and grinned.

"That's the stuff," he declared, and inhaled another lungful. "You know, Arthur, this stuff makes you—you know—play better."

Arthur looked up.

"Serious?"

Sadik chuckled.

"Completely. Everything just so much more," he said, waving his hand vaguely. "Better. Cooler."

"I wouldn't know."

"Yeah?" Sadik raised an eyebrow. "Wanna find out?"

"It's safe," said Jager, fiddling with the amp's dials. "I grow most of my marijuana, so it's not contaminated; you won't get a bad high."

It didn't really matter whether the high was going to be bad or not. Not to Arthur. It was just… how he was supposed to take the thing after all he'd seen firsthand? Rhys—wasn't he supposed to be doing his A-levels now? He hadn't even finished secondary school. Was that where Arthur would go if he took this?

He swallowed hard. His hand shook.

This stuff makes you play—you know—play better.

Arthur's hand reachd out unsteadily to accept the joint.

"Why the hell not?"

.

author's note

Did this just turn into a fic that updates a month?

Or worse, in over a month?

/cries