Chapter eight already…I don't even…fanfic goes by so fast, you guys…
Anyways. Thank you so much for all your reviews last chapter; I think this was partially due to the fact that I mentioned British television, but nonetheless it was wonderful to hear from so many of you. I try to reply to every reviewer at least once in the course of their reviewing, but please forgive me if I forget – it doesn't mean I don't have a little spasm of joy when I see that you've commented, haha.
Also, I deleted my tumblr. I'm sorry; I just can't get the grades I need to get, keep writing fanfic, maintain a blog (hey, it takes a surprising amount of devotion), participate in mandatory interactions with family, friends, etcetera, not to mention actually get some sleep, all at the same time. So the blog had to go. Anyways, it was fun while it lasted, and I'm still very grateful to all who followed me. ^^
In Brief: A fight provokes flashbacks. Alliteration is exciting.
And that's really all I have to say.
Lucky for you guys.
Enjoy!
Arthur supposed that it had to happen sometime. It would be rather strange if it didn't, especially considering their personalities, but nevertheless he would be lying if he said that he liked it. He had the right to be angry (and angry he was, or at least extremely exasperated) but he wasn't enjoying the feeling in that peculiar manner in which it could sometimes be enjoyed. Their little collection of previous spats and disagreements paled in comparison; Arthur had shouted at Alfred plenty of times, but that was before they were together, and though he understood very well that established couples had fights and that was fine, nothing to worry about, in fact it probably just meant their relationship was getting along healthily enough, he also found that nobody had told him how much worse things were when you really loved the person and sort of wanted to run back into their arms right away but found that you were far to angry and prideful to do so and so you were left to haunt the streets of your old city, fixing the sidewalks with glares because really , it was all his fault, entirely, absolutely, no-doubt-about-it his fault, the bloody overgrown child, but what can you do now that you've stormed off except wait for him to come running after you, overflowing with apologies and with his arms spread wide, and then pretend that you weren't hoping for exactly that all along?
Arthur had no answer and this only worsened his mood. His destination of choice was simply away, away for a moment, a breather, or enough time for Alfred to admit to his mistake and compose a sufficient apology. The air was cold, but at least the insistent rain had relented for the moment, the sky merely a trembling mass of clouds that threatened to break but obviously weren't quite ready yet. Eventually Arthur realized that the haphazard route he had taken from the site where they had wrapped up filming had carried him to a part of London that he knew quite well; in fact, likely too well, he considered dryly as he began to be able to place moments and memories and faces to every corner and alleyway and line in the sidewalk and remembered all the little signs that told him that the old boarding school wasn't far off.
Fortunately, neither was the Tate, which Arthur found much more agreeable than whispering around some old place that he had never liked particularly much from the beginning. He made it into the museum before the rain broke, checked his coat, and set off to peruse the galleries for however long it might take his anger to cool to a point where he could be reasonable again. He sat down on one of the couches in a classic exhibit that he particularly liked and made himself comfortable; there was no point in rushing, after all.
He tried to focus on the paintings and sculptures but found that his mind insisted on returning to the fact that their argument had been a silly one, really, and that it shouldn't have been allowed to escalate to such an extent, and that Alfred was and always would be the biggest fool and the most enormous child he had ever encountered.
It was their penultimate day in the city and they had wrapped up filming that afternoon, meaning that Alfred was immensely pleased with himself and sidled over to Arthur to ask him for a congratulatory kiss. Of course Arthur refused, reminding Alfred that they were in public, after all, to which Alfred replied that nobody was around, only Francis and Elizaveta and the generally inattentive film crew. Arthur said that they were in the middle of the street and people were very much around; Alfred insisted, Arthur avoided him for a while until he began to get really exasperated, then the game continued a few rounds more, then Arthur tried to put it to a halt, then they argued a bit while they walked down the street with Francis and Elizaveta, Alfred complaining loudly about what a tightass Arthur was, etcetera, etcetera, and though Arthur ignored him the remarks began to smart a little bit, and then he grew so disgruntled that when Alfred added onto the end of his monologue, in full hearing range of Francis and Elizaveta, that he loved him, he completely lost it and fell stone silent for the rest of the way to the hotel, disregarding Francis' snickering and Elizaveta's poorly concealed squealing and Alfred's obviously wounded expression, meaning that when they closed the door to their room they ended up shouting at each other and Arthur rushed away because he had never fought with someone he loved (or at least not like he loved Alfred), and though he knew it wasn't an enormous deal and would almost definitely be resolved, it still made him feel furious and ill and sad at the same time and, in addition to being absolutely livid, he just couldn't bear to look at Alfred and see those same feelings reflected in his expression and know that he was causing them.
Arthur gazed rather vacantly at the painting before him; he recognized it from countless field trips to the museum and even thought he might have written an essay on it at one point. In fact, when he glanced down the gallery, a deluge of memories came back to him, and he gave a little half smile because he was rather fond of those old times, despite the trouble that had brought them to him in the first place.
The academy was exclusive, all of them been cooped up together since preschool, and the student body was tiny and very much engrossed in itself, therefore everyone knew far too much about everybody and news traveled almost faster than the girls could catch behind the hands they lifted to their mouths to whisper or giggle or scorn.
For instance, Arthur had sat next to Katyusha for as long as he could remember, and in addition to knowing an unsettling number of details about her life, he also knew that up until they were ten years old she had been considered a nice girl, if not a little sensitive and prone to tears. However, at sixteen, she could only delude herself into thinking that she was still perceived as such by her peers: ever since she had hit puberty (at least two years earlier than most of the other girls) and had forgotten to wear a bra to gym class that one time – one time! Arthur might add, one time and the entirety of her social career (whatever that entailed, exactly) was ruined – she had been quietly lauded as an enormous whore, though she herself was, for the most part, protected from this knowledge by her intimidating elder brother. Even so, Arthur reckoned that Katyusha had an inkling as to her reputation, and although he felt sorry for her, there was little he could do, and besides, it wasn't as though she were a lone victim of this scrutiny – they all were, each and every one of them, which only served to worsen the overall situation.
Even so, Arthur reckoned that he had a relatively easy time of it. This was probably because he was quiet and studious and rarely did anything interesting at all. He didn't have many friends, not enough to provoke any interest at least, and he wasn't terribly outspoken or quirky, although he had never quite been able to live down an incident on the playground when he had forgotten himself and conducted an audience with his imaginary friends in the middle of a circle of his peers, who, despite having been merely six years old at the time, never seemed to have quite let go of the memory. This aside, Arthur had never generated the whispers that cluttered the desks and the lockers and rustled in between the pleats of the girl's skirts and the clack of their heeled Mary-Jane shoes against the tile of the hallways.
So when Arthur finally realized that the reason why he never seemed to find Katyusha's assets as impressive as his peers did was because he was generally too busy admiring the jaw (strong and square and on some mornings dusted with stubble that looked like brown sugar) of the boy who sat in front of him, he was torn between feeling thrilled that he finally had something that would cause an uproar and being terrified of what would follow. He could already hear the girls losing interest in his sexuality after a few months, once a new subject had presented itself, but he worried about what the other boys would think, if they would find him disgusting or stop talking to him or make crude jokes behind his back or pretend to offer him their cocks in the locker room only to warn each other not to bend down in the shower when Arthur Kirkland is nearby, and not to shake hands with him either, because that's how diseases are spread, after all.
(Well, perhaps the students in Arthur's school were a little too well-educated to fall prey to that particular superstition, but nonetheless Arthur couldn't imagine that his discovery would be terribly well received, and therefore, after a week of debate, decided to keep his sexuality a secret for the time being.)
This went very well for him until he began to realize that, now that he knew why he couldn't jack off to the magazines his classmates smuggled into the locker rooms, he began to wonder what would do the same thing for him. Up until then, Arthur had lived a life entirely devoid of lust, solely because he hadn't been able to recognize the feeling when he felt it, hadn't been able to associate the little thrill down his spine when he saw strong square lines of jaws and arms, the curling of his toes when he caught glimpses of the downy hair that had begun to run along the chests and stomachs of his classmates, the thud of his heart when another boy leaned in close to him to ask him for the answer or if he understood what the teacher was saying, with the feelings he was supposed to get when he look at Katyusha's enormous breasts as they nearly spilt from her blouse. Now that Arthur knew, however, now that he understood all these things, he found that he reacted to them, that he blushed and jumped and had begun to wake up in uncomfortable states more often than not. It embarrassed him, he felt he had become some sort of tittering schoolgirl, melting at the briefest glimpse of an unshaven face or a powerful chest, and his peers had begun to tune into his discomfort, though he knew that they couldn't yet place a name to that little strange feeling they were surely getting from him.
And so, Arthur discovered that, despite all the trouble he had always had with expressing himself, he truly loathed harboring this particular secret. Not only did it eat away at him, keeping him up and night tossing and turning and debating with himself over and over again, should I or shouldn't I? but he also couldn't help but to wonder if there were any other boys in his school who were the same, and, if he revealed himself, would they come out, too? And if that were to happen, could he…could he…well, could they be like some of the other couples, could they hold hands and kiss and go out and break up and cry over each other and eventually heal and find someone new? The idea was exciting, but failure was such a likely risk, and Arthur had always been a cautious child.
So of course it was an accident. Arthur had never been this type of boy, never, he was always good and obedient, but the day before his mother had commented that she was looking forwards to the day that he got himself a nice girl, and so when he overheard his classmates talking about a party that they had planned for the upcoming weekend, he summoned up his courage and asked if he could come along. They all looked surprised, but again, Arthur Kirkland had never done anything interesting enough to arouse their disdain, so eventually they smiled and said that of course he could, it was going to be wild.
So he lied to his parents, got a ride with a gaggle of kids he vaguely knew, and proceeded to get roaring drunk, climb up onto a table, invite the boy with the brown-sugar stubble to join him, and finally kiss him square on the mouth with an embarrassing degree of sloppiness, both because he was so drunk he could barely stand and because he had never kissed anyone before and didn't really know what to do with his lips or his tongue or his teeth.
The background music must have continued playing, but at the time Arthur fancied the room fell entirely silent. He was so drunk he didn't even register what he had done, merely broadcasted his sexuality to the entire room and then vomited spectacularly off to the side as his grand finale.
On Monday, when somebody inquired as to whether he was a faggot or not, Arthur tried his best to answer primly, then returned to devising new strategies that would help him sink into the wallpaper. He wasn't bullied, per se, more of ignored by everyone except for his very closest friends – but even they had suddenly cooled, and seemed to be more occupied with schoolwork and other obligations than they had ever been before. Worse still, Arthur was obliged to tell his family, and then things really fell apart – his parents couldn't comprehend that there was a part of their son that went beyond their knowledge, beyond their capability to ever really know, and so his mother insisted that it was merely a phase while his father opted to ignore Arthur's announcement entirely.
On the last day of the school year, after Arthur had already been told that he would be attending a prestigious international boarding school in London, Katyusha walked up to him, straight up to the boy whose life she had shared a part of for more than a decade, and slapped him across the face. Arthur blinked, lifted his hand gingerly to touch his stinging cheek, and saw that there were tears in her eyes.
"What was that for?" he asked, with no real anger, just surprise.
Katyusha bit down on her lower lip, the tears spilled over, and her massive breasts thundered with the force of her sob.
"How could you!" she cried, pointing a finger accusingly at him. "You were the only boy who never looked at these!" Even Arthur's eyes widened when she unabashedly cupped her hands beneath her chest for emphasis. "I thought you were special, but it just turns out you're just a fag!" She wiped at her eyes. "I hate you for this. I'll never forgive you." Another sob. "You're just lucky I told my brother not to kill you!" She paused, slapped Arthur again, and then was suddenly hugging him tightly, the pressure of her breasts threatening to crack his ribcage.
"I'll miss you, Arthur," she whispered. "You'll be alright, won't you?"
Arthur hesitated, both his cheeks smarting now, and then tentatively patted her waist, not missing how his fellow male classmates' eyes widened with envy. He smirked, just a little. How ironic.
"Sure, Katyusha," he told her. "You too."
Katyusha gave him a watery smile, seeming reassured, and he hadn't the heart to tell her that he didn't really know.
If only Alfred knew the streets of London better. Then, perhaps, he could try to guess where Arthur might head off to, rather than just blindly panning through the city, sticking his head into every window and door and nook and cranny that he could, hoping to catch a glimpse of pale blonde hair or furrowed eyebrows or that venomous green glare that seemed designed especially for him.
Honestly, Arthur was so temperamental sometimes, almost like a woman - but even so, if Alfred hadn't understood why Arthur was upset with him in the first place, he wouldn't be breaking his back combing through the streets of London in the hopes of finding him. It had started to rain again, heavier than before, and Alfred's glasses were fogged and his hair stuck to his forehead in places. He dropped into a convenience store to purchase a little umbrella and ended up getting it for free when he agreed to sign an autograph for the cashier. He finished the final stroke of his sloppy signature, somehow mustered a winning smile for her, told her that he and Elizaveta was doing just fine, thank you very much (the irony of this didn't slip past him), and continued on his way, traveling from museum to bookstores to coffee shops and back to museums, hoping he could find Arthur lost between the shelves or paintings or tables, because that seemed like a very Arthur sort of thing to do.
Every so often, a camera would flash at Alfred's back, and he realized that soon, the tabloids would be whispering about how he had been photographed alone, stalking through the rain with an unhappy expression on his face – a sure sign of trouble in paradise – and they would all start to spread rumors about his and Elizaveta's failing relationship, etcetera. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing; being able to reassure the press about their love, or better still, to stage a reconciliation, could only encourage the hysteria surrounding their relationship, but nonetheless Alfred found this rather irritating, seeing as he wasn't looking to pretend to make up with Elizaveta – he was looking to really make up with Arthur, and he was surprised to realize how fiercely possessive he felt about the whole thing. Nobody else should intrude upon their apologies (or whatever it was going to take to patch up their fight), let alone hungry paparazzi - once he had been forgiven, Alfred wanted to be able to smile at and kiss Arthur, to say aloud that he loved him and hear it said right back. He wasn't much in the mood for hiding at the moment, but there was little he could do; if other people were there, Arthur wouldn't lay a finger on him, and, all things considered, this was probably for the best. Elizaveta would be livid if they broke their cover now, so close to the end of the filming of Keep Dreaming, America, and the last thing Alfred wanted was to bring her wrath upon himself.
So he merely sighed, stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, and kept walking, stepping into a crosswalk only to be interrupted by a gaggle of school-aged boys in uniform, books tucked under their arms, part of a river of students that streamed from the mouth of an enormous red brick building across the street. Alfred squinted, realized it was some sort of school, glanced at the students again (they seemed to be positively endless), smiled at a stunned group of schoolgirls who recognized his face, and kindly asked them if they could tell him the name of their school. They answered him between blushes and whispers, and he thanked them with another grin, his suspicions confirmed: he faintly recognized the title of the establishment, meaning that it must be Arthur's old boarding school.
He doubted Arthur would be inside, but nonetheless strolled up to the steps which opened onto the street, taking in the powerful brick façade, the little gargoyles curving over the edges of the windowsills, the little bits of Latin that were carved into the stone in places, and smiled because the place positively reeked of Arthur before he glanced behind himself at the retreating backs of the students, Alfred could very easily imagine Arthur arriving there, his new blazer stiff and awkward, the collar probably biting into his neck, bags in hand, soon to be kissed goodbye by distracted parents and left on the grand staircase only to be swept away by two foreign students and their dreams of America.
The weather was too warm for autumn, London was too crowded, the dormitory was too small, the roommate had yet to appear, his mother's hands were cold when they stroked at his cheek, and the collar of his uniform was absolutely dreadful, bursting with starch and slowly rubbing a thick band of red into his neck that Arthur was sure would take days to disappear.
Even so, as he watched his parents' car retreat down the road, and when he finally saw their taillights disappear around the corner, Arthur smiled to know that this was the last he would see of them and their excruciating intellectualism for a long while, perhaps forever, if everything turned out alright. This relief, however, was short-lived; when Arthur turned back towards the school and gazed up at the imposing brick façade with neither his mother tittering at his shoulder nor his father's gruff silence from behind , he realized that he was just a boy from the English countryside who had particularly good test scores and the misfortune to have announced his homosexuality in a rather backwards fashion (not to mention into a rather backwards family), a boy who only knew London as a place for weekend holidays, not as a lifestyle, a boy who certainly didn't understand these strange new foreign children that he found in the classrooms and the library and in his own dormitory.
When he stepped into the dining hall for the first time, he felt a rather undignified sense of terror, and scanned the room for a seat on the end of a table, where he could read his book and go generally unnoticed by everyone. His eyes landed on a promising spot and he sat down, drawing his plate towards himself and eating disinterestedly as he flipped through his exhausted copy of A Brief History of Modern Film, only looking up in surprise when he heard chairs scraping around him and realized that he had been joined by two other students, a boy with thin blonde hair that touched his shoulders and hung around his hazy blue eyes, and a girl who Arthur realized must be considered very beautiful, tall and strong-boned and olive-skinned, with large green eyes and heavy hair that fell to her breasts.
"Bonjour," drawled the boy, and Arthur felt his stomach give a turn; that accent was positively nauseating. "I am Francis Bonnefoy. Who are you?"
Arthur blinked. Francis waited for a moment, gazing steadily at him, then shrugged and glanced towards the girl, who introduced herself as Elizaveta and repeated Francis' inquiry as to Arthur's identity.
"Arthur Kirkland," managed Arthur this time around. "Why are you sitting here?" He realized too late how rude he sounded and blushed; however, Elizaveta and Francis merely laughed.
"Your book," answered Francis with a smile that was closer to a leer. "Are you a fan of le cinema?"
"Not when you say it like that," said Arthur frankly, and before he could catch himself: "but I'm the greatest screenwriter the world has ever seen."
"My, cocky, aren't we?" commented Elizaveta with a raise of her brow.
"Not really," Arthur shrugged. "I simply am the greatest."
"Well then," chucked Francis in a way that Arthur thought was appreciatively. "Utilizing your particular turn of phrase…I am the greatest director the world has ever seen."
"And I," grinned Elizaveta. "The greatest actress."
"You still haven't explained why you're here," said Arthur after they were quiet for a moment.
"Mutual interest," replied Francis.
"Birds of a feather flock together," winked Elizaveta.
"Are you gay?" asked Francis with no warning whatsoever, as though he were commenting on the weather or complimenting someone on their shoes, and when Arthur dropped his fork onto his plate with a little clatter, he and Elizaveta nodded sagely.
"I could practically smell it off him," she said matter-of-factly.
"You never fail, my dear," murmured Francis, his grin widening as Arthur spluttered and blushed and tried to form something that roughly resembled a denial, though he only ended up weakly inquiring as to whether Francis and Elizaveta were also...that way, he chose to say, though he was upset at himself for his own cowardice.
"I myself love all things beautiful, gender simply does not factor into the equation," Francis sighed, gesturing vaguely with his hands. "Elizaveta is straight, but she has some strange fetishes, to put it lightly." At this, Elizaveta nodded unabashedly, a dangerous little smile pulling at her lips. Arthur swallowed.
"I still don't understand - "
"Why we're here?" Elizaveta's smile warmed. "We're going to be friends. If you're really the greatest screenwriter the world has ever seen, that is."
Arthur blinked. "I am."
Francis chuckled. "Well then, it's settled. Do you have anything to show us?"
Arthur finally shut his book entirely, tilting his head to the side confusedly. "Anything..?"
Francis let out an impatient little huff. "Scripts, Arthur. Are you worth your salt or aren't you?"
"Am I…" Arthur paused. "Of course I have scripts. Who do you think I am?"
"With you right now?"
"In my dormitory. I most certainly wouldn't leave them behind." Arthur arched a brow challengingly. "Do you have any footage? A tape? Do you even own a video camera?"
Francis smirked and put a hand on his shoulder; Arthur cringed noticeably and Francis laughed aloud.
"Oh, we three are going to get along fabulously, Arthur Kirkland, or otherwise known as the greatest screenwriter the world has ever seen."
Arthur rolled his eyes.
"Oh yes, Francis Bonnefoy, greatest director the world has ever seen," he nodded to Elizaveta. "And Elizaveta, the greatest actress," he smirked and picked up his fork. "We'll get along fantastically; I'm positively sure of it."
Arthur gasped and bit down on his lower lip, pulling his hips back again and thrusting forwards with doubled force, fingers digging into the rough cotton of his sheets, the stale air of his dormitory room clogging his nose and mouth and mind. He had long since passed beyond the point where he bothered to pay the slightest attention to Francis' feelings, either physical or emotional, instead forcing him only deeper into the mattress, the springs screaming and the wood groaning beneath their combined weight as Francis threw back his head and moaned some garbled form of Arthur's name, hands scrabbling down his spine, shins brushing his trembling waist.
"Fuck…" hissed Arthur, maneuvering his hips in a halfhearted effort at trying to resume some form of rhythm between them, however sloppily. "Try not to…scream so much, would you? My roommate will hear us."
Francis merely moaned and tried to lean forwards and kiss him; Arthur turned his face and he landed at his neck, laving his tongue in his clavicle. Arthur shivered, whether from arousal or disgust or some combination of both he wasn't sure, and drew back again, this time finally meriting a little whimper of pain from Francis before he sighed again, his hair clinging to his face with sweat, and arched against him, nails digging into his hips, coming with a groan of defeat. Arthur licked his lips in satisfaction and picked up his already hurried pace, bringing himself crisply to his own finish before he pulled out and sat on the bed beside Francis, who was still splayed across the pillows, chest heaving as he struggled to regain his breath.
"And to think, mon cher," Francis groaned when he was able. "Not several months ago you were a nervous virgin who had only just left the closet." He smiled wryly, obviously for his own benefit. "How ironic."
Arthur smirked. "At least you have something other than your hand to help you now."
Francis chuckled, pushing the sweaty hair from his forehead. "Vrai."
"Don't use that language around me," Arthur spat. "It's vile enough as it is."
"I refuse to argue this point with you today," sighed Francis, melodramatically casting his forearm over his eyes.
"Only because I've worn you out." There was barely the ghost of a sweat on Arthur's brow and he was already recovered from his orgasm, rising, businesslike, from the bed to put on some old clothes before he took a trip to the showers. Francis merely watched him, his hair stringy with sweat and falling across his face when he turned.
"Again," he murmured. "Our situation is almost painfully ironic."
"Shut up," said Arthur, tugging himself into his trousers. "It doesn't mean anything."
Francis let out a little bark of a laugh, finally sitting up and making an effort to find his own clothes.
"Believe me, I know…" He grimaced when he stood and Arthur raised an eyebrow at him bemusedly. Francis rolled his eyes and set to buttoning up his fine silk uniform shirt. For a while they worked in silence, Arthur eventually transitioning to straightening the sheets and carefully concealing any trace of their sex, tucking the lubricant and the condom wrappers safely away in the desk drawer into which he knew nobody ever ventured. When he stood from the desk, Francis was securing his tie at his throat with a pensive expression on his face, and Arthur swallowed, uncomfortably struck by the reality of their situation.
"Francis," he said quietly, not daring to look at him. "We're best friends."
He didn't need to look up to know that Francis was giving him a very quizzical look.
"That we are," he said eventually.
Arthur bit down on his lower lip.
"And…I don't love you. At all. I just like to fuck you," he paused. "But…I'm curious…have you ever…I mean…"
"Been with someone I loved?"
Arthur nodded. Francis took a step forwards, fixing him with an unusually solemn and concerned expression, but still the look in his eyes belonged to a friend, not a lover – there was nothing between them, there never would be and Arthur preferred it that way, but nevertheless, he couldn't help but wonder sometimes.
"Perhaps," said Francis finally. "I do not know for sure. Those things can be…hard to tell. But I think…" he sighed. "Something tells me that you will know, Arthur."
Arthur met Kiku in the winter of his second year at the school, during the holidays, when everyone had gone home to their families except for himself and the small dark-haired boy he noticed eating quietly alone in the dining hall one morning, reading some sort of glossy magazine that he closed quickly and nervously when Arthur ventured towards him, his tray balanced in one hand, eyebrow raised.
"And I thought I was the only one," was all he said. Perhaps he should have felt lonely and dejected, never going home for the holidays like the others, but he had always appreciated the solitude left in their absence, with only his crisp footsteps echoing down the shining old hallways, the dormitories quiet except for the come and go of his own breathing and the rustle of the pages as he turned through book after book, then perhaps later the sharp sounds of his typewriter at work on his latest project, soon to be approved by Francis with minimal bitching and adapted splendidly by Elizaveta. Nonetheless, Arthur fancied it would be nice to share the silence with someone, and casually slid his tray into the space across from the boy, who jumped again, tucked his magazine somewhere below the table, and stiffly introduced himself, bobbing his head up and down nervously all the while, heavy-cut black bangs shifting in front of his face and helping him to avoid Arthur's gaze.
"Christ, mate," Arthur said, holding out his hand even as he wondered if associating himself with this boy was such a good decision after all. "Relax. I won't bite. I just thought, seeing as we're the only people here and all, we might as well make the most of it."
The boy glanced at him uneasily but eventually took his hand.
"My name is Kiku Honda," he said. "I am honored to make your acquaintance."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Sure. Same here."
After a few days, Kiku had calmed enough to laugh softly and even joke, though he and Arthur didn't speak much, generally preferring quiet enjoyed in each other's company over conversation. Together they must have made their way through half the library, holed up for hours among teetering stacks of books, and when they tired of reading Arthur would wear calluses into his fingers on his typewriter and Kiku would draw, graceful figures executed with slender strokes – mostly mannequins and designs; ironically, he wanted to be a costume designer for film and drama.
Kiku couldn't go home for the holidays because his family lived in Japan; it was nearly Christmas before Arthur gathered the courage to tell him that he was gay and therefore preferred to not go home at all. Kiku didn't mind, merely smiled and told him not to worry, but over the next few days Arthur caught him giving him a few curious looks, sideways from beneath his heavy dark fringe of hair, almost guiltily. At first Arthur ignored these, choosing to award his friend the benefit of the doubt, but when they were in his dormitory one night, reading and talking, and he caught the expression again, he finally confronted Kiku about it, unable to keep the edge of hostility from his tone. Kiku blinked, evaded the question, struggled to be polite, and then finally thrust himself towards Arthur and kissed him. After nothing more than an instant of this, Arthur realized that Kiku had never kissed another boy (if anyone at all), because his hands seemed to be lost and his eyes were scrunched tight and his lips were forced and clumsy and their teeth clacked together at one point. When Kiku pulled away, panting, lips wet, face flushed and confused, Arthur merely wiped his mouth and knew that, on the night he came out, he must have kissed the boy with the brown sugar stubble in the exact same way.
"Kiku," he said simply, and Kiku stumbled away as if the syllable had knocked his knees from under him. "What was -"
And suddenly Kiku had lurched back across the room and was on him again, and though his finesse was in no way improved at least Arthur was expecting it and could maneuver the kiss, gain some control, fingers digging into Kiku's shoulder to balance him. He broke away with a gasp and gazed down bewilderedly at an obviously confused and panicked and aroused Kiku.
"Kiku…what do you…" Arthur felt his stomach lurch with pity, understanding without fully knowing the situation. "What do you want?" he added quietly.
"I don't…" Kiku's voice seemed to tear as it struggled from his lips. "I don't know. I-I'm sorry."
Arthur sighed. "Don't be. I'll…we can…if you want to…" he paused. "I know how to do it."
Kiku stiffened in his grasp for a moment, the fear visible across his face, and then swallowed.
"I want…I want to try," he paused. "If it's alright with you, that is, Arthur-san."
Arthur nodded and abruptly thrust his mouth onto Kiku's again, not waiting to guide him over to the bed and shove him into the mattress, fingers deftly unwinding his tie and running to his buttons. Kiku gasped and bucked confusedly, hands tangling into Arthur's sweater vest and then unfolding from the fabric again in a strange sort of rhythm, not even bothering to try and meet his mouth, merely allowing him to travel up and down his body, lifting his hips obediently when Arthur tugged at his waistband and lying still across the sheets when he left to shed his own clothing, his chest heaving.
"You're a virgin," Arthur said, not asked, but nonetheless Kiku nodded, the color in his cheeks heightening further. Arthur sighed and retrieved the lubricant and a condom.
"This is going to hurt at first," he warned. "And there's something I have to find before it gets better, so bear with me, alright?"
Arthur saw the same panic glint through Kiku's eyes again before he nodded, and had he been a little wiser he would have understood that it was better that they stop there. However, at that moment his only preoccupation was Francis, and since he knew he would only get congratulations for scoring while his usual partner was away on that front, he dismissed the uneasy sensation in the back of his throat and continued, trying to ignore Kiku's stunned gasps and moans and the scrabbling of his fingernails against his back. Arthur found that he couldn't bear to look at him while he was carrying out the necessary preparations, instead focusing on finding some form of rhythm and tuning out the occasionally whimpers of pain, smiling with satisfaction as they gradually eased into sighs and soft encouragements.
Soon, Arthur decided that he had given the situation long enough, and hovered above Kiku, in between his legs, spreading his thighs and hooking his knees over his shoulders, heels biting into the blades of his back. He was very pale even though his face was flushed, and his eyes shone with arousal and leftover tears of pain, shivering along his eyelashes. Arthur swallowed and began, gasping at first, because Francis was experienced and never this tight, before he recovered himself and set to work establishing a pace, a pulse to their movements, because Kiku was entirely lost, hips jutting back and forth erratically, almost choking over his frantic breathing, hands pawing blindly up and down Arthur's back and shoulders, occasionally gripping hard enough to leave little white fingerprint marks. He didn't last very long, and at the end merely sort of crumpled beneath Arthur, chest heaving, turning his face to the side against the pillows, the dark fringe of hair, sticky with sweat, falling across his forehead and obscuring his half-lidded eyes. He allowed Arthur to bring himself to completion, only looking at him when he had pulled out and was sitting on the bed beside him, a little sleepy but otherwise not particularly exerted.
"Kiku…" Arthur said eventually, staring at his palms. "Are you…are you gay?"
Kiku flinched.
"I don't…" his voice was hoarse. "I don't…know."
Arthur sighed both exasperatedly and sympathetically.
"I suppose that's alright," he decided. "Do you want to keep fucking?"
Kiku was quiet for a long time.
"Yes," he whispered finally. "But not…"
Arthur chuckled sadly. "Not after the other students are back, eh?"
Kiku nodded, his lips forming a line, thin and pinched with shame.
"It's alright, y'know, mate." Arthur smiled; he hoped it seemed reassuring, that was how he meant it to be. "Especially if you're not sure about your own bloody sexuality. Don't worry about my feelings. For me, this fuck is just…" he paused. "Well, exactly that. A fuck. Hell, I've been fucking Francis for almost as long as I've known him."
At this, Kiku's eyes grew wide.
"But, Arthur-san, I didn't think you even liked him!"
Arthur threw his head back and laughed.
"That's just the thing; I don't really like him. Well…I guess…look, he's my best mate, but nonetheless, I don't really like him per se…the point is, he's a damn good fuck, and we like our relationship that way. So really," he gestured vaguely at the crumpled sheets and their disheveled clothing; Arthur hadn't even bothered to take off his trousers all the way and still they hung around his ankles. "Don't worry about it."
Kiku swallowed, was quiet for a moment, and then finally murmured,
"But it's not you I'm worried for, Arthur-san."
[As promised, Arthur and Kiku had kept fucking until the other students returned, then, according to their plan, they became nothing more than quiet friends again, studying and reading together, sometimes even working on scripts or costume designs when they weren't busy with class or when Arthur wasn't otherwise occupied with Francis and Elizaveta. Still, as Arthur grew to know Kiku better and better, the more he realized just how unhappy he was, the better he thought he knew the answer to his problems, and the better he thought he understood why Kiku would never accept that solution.
"Kiku," Arthur had said one night as they were studying for their final exams, the end of the term scarcely more than a week away. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, Arthur-san," replied Kiku, not looking up from his textbook. Arthur hesitated, then shut his notebook with a gentle clap.
"How do you see the world?"
At this, Kiku lifted his head, his bangs shifting across his forehead.
"What do you mean?"
"Just…in general."
Kiku was quiet, and then he smiled was must have been the saddest smile Arthur had ever seen.
"Isolated," he whispered, and returned to his book.]
Arthur wasn't sure why this memory struck him so forcibly as he drained the dregs of his tea and stood up from the table in the museum café, paying and heading back towards the galleries; perhaps it was because he was alone, and because he was still unsure of how he was going to end up back in his hotel room if Alfred didn't even know where to look for him, let alone where to find him.
He entered a room full of paintings from the colonial era and floated idly from one to the other, gazing somewhat blankly at the depictions of grandeur and fantastic ocean voyages and farms painted against backgrounds of wheat glowing gold beneath huge yellow suns. He checked his watch; the afternoon was growing late. Sometimes Arthur truly hated his pride.
Then he heard it: not far away, someone was arguing with the coat check girl, asking her if they could just please have a brief look at all the different jackets and umbrellas and such – they were looking for something specific and they really needed to see if it was there or not. The girl protested, there was a small bout of silence, a little squeal, a chuckle, and then that voice raised again – by now there was no doubt about it – promising his autograph if he could just have one tiny little peek at those coats.
Arthur sighed; how ridiculous. Only Alfred would think he could be sure of Arthur's presence by rifling through strangers' coats. Nevertheless, Arthur found himself slowly inching towards the closet, stopping at the first painting at the entrance of the gallery so that, when Alfred came out, he would see him there, idly enjoying the artwork and certainly not concerned with anything or anyone else. He took one tiny peek over the doorframe and caught the glimpse of brown bomber jacket; satisfied, he returned to his carefully crafted façade of indifference, even managing to appear surprised when Alfred emerged from the closet and turned to see him, jumping back in shock and actually pointing as he did so.
"A-Arthur!" he cried. Arthur rolled his eyes, lifting a finger to his lips to shush him.
"We're in a museum, fool," he hissed. "Why are you here, anyways?"
Alfred blinked. His hair was damp, clinging to his forehead in places, and his glasses were fogged, obscuring Arthur's view of his eyes (irritatingly enough). There was a pinkness about his cheeks and the tip of his nose that had obviously been worn in by the cold and wind. He wrung his hands together nervously in front of him.
"I…well, I…"
Arthur frowned. "You?"
"Well," Alfred hesitated, then took a step forwards into the gallery, joining Arthur in front of the painting. "I guess I came to apologize?"
Arthur arched an eyebrow and Alfred swallowed visibly.
"I know…" To his credit, Alfred kept his voice at a whisper. "…that what I did wasn't okay, and that it wasn't…it wasn't cool of me to ask that of you…in public, and in front of Francis and Elizaveta. I guess I was joking, but…well, it got out of hand. I never…meant to embarrass you or put you on the spot, or anything like that. I know how you are about those sorts of things…feelings and stuff…and…I also know that it hasn't been easy for you, watching me and Elizaveta, even if it's all a joke, and…well, I'm sorry, and I hope you accept my apology." He glanced cautiously up at Arthur from beneath the panes of his glasses. "But even so, Arthur…you…I guess…hurt my feelings, too. I mean…I know you have trouble with expressing yourself…but…"
He glanced at Arthur again, bit down on his lower lip, and seemed to decide to charge forth.
"I really do…" His voice slipped below a whisper. "I love you, Arthur. And…you didn't…I mean…you can understand why I'm upset, right?" He looked up at him pleadingly. "I know we have to keep this under wraps for the sake of publicity and the budget and stuff, but…you could have just…you could have just said it, you know, at least once we were back in the hotel room or something, although, well, I guess you were really mad by then, but anyways, I got all…I got all angry too, because you…again, you didn't…" he trailed off, still twisting his fingers miserably in front of him. "I guess what I'm trying to say is we're both to blame for this. And...you owe me an apology as well, and...I won't...you...you just have to, alright, because I really can't forgive you if you don't, and I kind of...well, I'm ready for this to be over, y'know. I don't like fighting with you. At all. So, please. Fair is fair."
Arthur sighed, turned from the painting to face Alfred, and finally smiled, even if only very slightly.
"I accept your apology, you idiot," he murmured. "And…I suppose…I guess…"
"I'm not translating for you this time," warned Alfred. Arthur blushed and glared at him.
"Well, I'm certainly not sorry anymore, not after that remark, at least. You obviously deserved what you got." Arthur lightened this statement with an exaggerated huff, turning his nose into the air but smirking sideways at Alfred as he did so. "I am sorry, Alfred," he added more seriously. "And I…" he glanced around them, made sure the coat check girl was otherwise engaged, then stood on his tiptoes and kissed Alfred briefly on the mouth. He tasted like rain; Arthur pulled back immediately and licked his lips, smiling faintly. "Well, that expresses it."
Graduation was surreal. To Arthur it seemed like hardly any time had passed at all since he was the nervous boy who was approached in the dining hall by the two people who would become the greatest friends he would ever have, and yet, there they stood, all dolled up in caps and gowns with their diplomas in hand, looking rather dazed and confused, but very happy. And later, when they had driven away and were sitting parked in Elizaveta's car with beers and the stereo turned up loud and their diplomas thrown into the backseat, Arthur looked out into the sunset and saw a daunting world but found that he couldn't quite bring himself to be afraid, not yet, not when he was surrounded by friends and had the faint buzz of alcohol in his veins.
"What should we do now?" said Elizaveta finally, her cheek rested of Arthur's shoulder, watching as dusk slowly began to press down the horizon. Arthur chuckled, perhaps a little hysterically.
"I don't…I don't know."
"Nonezeless, let's get ze 'ell out of 'ere, non?" leered Francis, leaning his hand on his chin, his accent made thicker as a result of the alcohol and the leftover nerves from the ceremony. Arthur laughed appreciatively.
"For once I agree with you."
Elizaveta nodded, but furrowed her brows.
"That's all well and good, boys…but where?"
And the name slipped from Arthur's lips before he could stop it.
"America."
Francis and Elizaveta sat up to look up him curiously; Arthur shrugged.
"So what if it's going to hell; it would at least be fresher than here. And I mean, I've sort of..." he hesitated, and then a thought he had been keeping for a while spilled from his lips. "…I've got an idea for a script, and…I need someone…I need…I need an Alfred. My hero's name is Alfred, and I need an American; he simply can't be played by anyone else. And so…" he paused, not daring to look at Francis and Elizaveta. "America?"
For a moment he thought they would laugh at him, but then Francis was bobbing his head slowly and Elizaveta was beginning to smile.
"America," murmured Francis, tapping his chin pensively.
Elizaveta took a swig from her beer. "America."
Arthur smiled tentatively. "America?"
"Arthur," Alfred murmured against his throat, a hand slipping from his waist to travel upwards and tangle their fingers together. "You still haven't answered my question."
Arthur tilted his head back with a sigh, pulling Alfred's tie from around his neck and tossing somewhere behind them. "Mm?" he murmured absentmindedly. "What question is that?"
Alfred pressed his mouth to his chin. "Your script. How it perceives the world. Got an answer?"
"Oh, Alfred," Arthur set to work on the buttons of his shirt. "Must we talk about this now?"
Alfred grinned, running his mouth up beneath Arthur's jawbone, towards the soft skin at the beginning of his neck. "You betcha." When Arthur sighed, he pulled back and grinned dopily, his shirt falling from his shoulders at an angle, blue eyes sparkling. "Come on; I'm curious."
Arthur frowned, reaching out to remove Alfred's glasses and place them safely on the bedside table. "You understand that I'll just be making it up on the spot again."
Alfred dealt with the last two buttons of his shirt himself, slipping out of the sleeves and letting the fabric crumple to the floor. "Don't matter to me, babe," he grinned at Arthur's hiss of irritation, directed both towards his poor grammar and that awful pet name. "Just gimme a word."
Arthur allowed him to return to his throat, wrapping his arms around his neck and resting his head thoughtfully against the pillows, running on hand idly up and down his back.
"Isolated," he finally whispered, and Alfred lifted his face from the crook of his shoulder to meet his gaze questioningly.
"Isolated?" he wrinkled his nose, obviously unimpressed. "Come on, Arthur," he rolled his eyes. "That doesn't even sound like something you would say."
Arthur chuckled and kissed him, pulling back eventually with a little sigh.
"That's because it wasn't me who said it."
Alfred opened his eyes again, raising a brow. "Then who did?"
"Kiku," murmured Arthur. "Back when we were in school together. We…" he averted his gaze. "He wasn't sure if…well, we fucked some, but I don't think Kiku really knew if…he was…"
Alfred blinked. "You fucked Kiku?"
"And Francis. Quite often."
Alfred seemed to consider this for a moment, furrowing his brows, and then he shrugged. "Way to kill the mood."
Arthur smiled gratefully at him, running his thumb along his cheek. "My apologies. If it makes you feel any better, Francis and I stopped at least a year before you and I ever met. Come to think of it, that was probably because we started sharing an apartment," he grinned a little wickedly. "I'm inclined to think that I tired him out."
Alfred pulled an exaggerated face. "Eew. Stop, please. I don't want to hear about that," he kissed Arthur just below his lower lip. "Let's go back to discussing your choice of word."
Arthur laughed. "Oh yeah, talk dirty to me," he teased, running his hands through Alfred's hair. "Dictionary definitions…you're absolutely killing me here, you know that?"
"Shut up," Alfred had finished the buttons of his shirt and threw it off to the side, leaning up eagerly for a kiss. "Come on. Explain," he murmured against Arthur's mouth.
Arthur sighed, tilting up his chin and nestling Alfred against his throat so that he could talk.
"You're telling me that you've never felt isolated as a kid? Or an adult, for that matter," he sighed as Alfred bit down gently on his jugular. "Stop that, it's distracting. Anyways," he paused. "Well, I suppose this is sort of similar to that time I told you the world as my script sees it was lonely, but…not quite the same. Isolated sort of suggests a loneliness within loneliness…" he began to fiddle with the button of Alfred's trousers. "I mean, as if you're the only one in the entire world who's lonely. A sole victim, if you will. Makes the pain all the worse, don't you think?"
Alfred nodded, allowed Arthur to throw his pants to the floor, and propped himself up on his elbow to meet his gaze, clearly indicating that he was going to make an argument.
"That's all well and good, but it doesn't apply to your script," he said, quite seriously even as he reached for the button on Arthur's trousers. "Again, though I guess it could apply to being a teenager and shit, it doesn't really mean anything for America. Unless you're talking about our isolationist period," he smiled triumphantly as he managed to get the button undone and Arthur lifted his hips to accommodate him. "But you're not. I actually think that loneliness, which I've totally shot down before,would be the better-fitting term, although neither really fits at all. And besides," he grinned. "Both loneliness and isolation can be broken, can't they? And I don't think you're trying to send the message of temporary pain."
Arthur swallowed, reaching up to cup Alfred's cheek in his hand.
"Well, yes, they're definitely…" he murmured softly. "Temporary…"
Alfred was quiet for a moment, blinked, and then grinned, leaning upwards a little to kiss Arthur long and soft, tangling their legs and arms and hands together until Arthur thought that they must be quite unrecognizable.
"I love you, Arthur," he murmured when he pulled away.
"Yeah, Alfred," whispered Arthur, as though he was afraid of the words – and perhaps he was. "I love you, too."
Alfred kissed him again, pulling back with a breathtaking smile.
"America in the morning," he whispered. Arthur smiled.
"Yeah, Alfred," he murmured. "Back to America in the morning."
And seven days after their graduation, Arthur, Francis and Elizaveta were boarding a flight headed straight to Los Angeles, stepping into the beginning of the ruins of the greatest film empire of all time in an attempt to revive something golden from the fresh ashes of Hollywood. By then, most people looked at America and sighed. They looked at America and still managed to see a little hope.
*wipes eyes with hankie*
MOAR FLUFF.
I had a request last chapter for Alfred POV (I must confess that I've been missing his oh-so-heroic thought processes as well), and I'm happy to say that in the upcoming chapter we return to America and get all of his flashbacks, which are considerably less dark and have a lot less random fucking all over the place, not to mention another appearance of Matthew and his hipster 'tude. XD
A Note: Of course this international boarding school of theirs doesn't exist. I'm not even sure London has enough room for a boarding school. But again, what the plot asks for, the plot will receive, haha.
Also, please forgive any errors I made involving the European / British school system: I LIVE IN A-FUCKING-'MURCA AND I DUN NEED UR FANCY LEARNING WAYS.
The Tate is possibly the most famous art museum in London. I still have some pencils and erasers that I bought at the gift shop there.
GUESS WHAT. THIS CHAPTER WASN'T (much) OVER 10K WORDS. OHMYGOD WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN KNOW.
XD
As always, thank you, I adore you all, I love hearing your comments, questions, etcetera, and I'll see you next chapter!