Faith & Fidelity

by NekoMushi

Arthur was adamant to abandon all of his Catholic preachings upon arriving at boarding school, regardless of whether his parents liked it or not. However, he soon learns that old habits die hard when a familiar American shows up and introduces him to homosexuality. That couldn't be orthodox! Men just weren't supposed to love other men...right? Warning: religion, slight homophobia.

4. Chapter IV

…xXx…xXx…xXx…

Chapter IV

…xXx…xXx…xXx…

"Oh, shit!"

Alfred slammed down on the brakes so hard that he swore he'd crushed his foot against the pedal. Just a few minutes ago, he'd been roaring across the dark landscape, basking in the glory of actually driving. There had been nothing but a black road in front of him, illuminated by the yellow flood brought forth from his headlights. Suddenly, an eerie silhouette had literally reeled out of nowhere, blocking his path. He couldn't even begin to describe what it looked like. One entity, it stood proud and tall with four gangly legs, a bulky, long body and two flaming green eyes. Those eyes… Just as he'd been bearing down on the creature, they'd been boring into the depths of his soul, searching and probing through his memories and morality, despite their obvious panic. Alfred shuddered. Whatever had been on the road in front of him was gone, leaving a gloomy road and a shivering teenager in its wake.

I've hit something…

Alfred knew that much. He knew from the jolt that had thrown his neck out of proportion and loud "thunk" that had echoed through the metal vehicle that he'd collided with the monster that had been standing on the tarmac just moments before. He sincerely dreaded to think what he'd find if he left the safety of the car. Nonetheless, a dragging sense of guilt forced his trembling hand to unlock the door. He would never forgive himself if he just decided to continue driving right there and then. Seriously, if he'd killed someone…Alfred shook his head firmly. He really didn't want to think about the consequences if he'd just accidentally knocked someone over. It was bad enough that he'd just stolen – no, no, he'd "borrowed" – his dad's car, but if he'd legitimately ended someone's life in the process…oh God, oh God, oh God… In order to stop himself from hyperventilating and passing out from the sheer vertigo that had just swept through his brain, Alfred shoved open the car door with much more force than necessary.

After reaching into the glove compartment to grab a torch, he was outside in the freezing air, huffing out breaths of ice. He struggled with the switch, his fingers shaky with nerves and fear. Eventually, light flooded upwards towards the star, ominous and glaring down from the heavens. They were blaming him. Blaming him for committing a crime. Alfred always thought that he'd be an enforcer of crime, not of rule-breaker. Either way, the constellations that had once been so welcoming towards him were now sour, glistening with frosty silence. Holding back the urge to cry out and run, Alfred shone the light emanating from the torch on the tarmac in front of him. Despite his hoarse voice, he managed to croak out one word.

"H-h-hello…?" The beams from the torch scoured the ground, searching for any sign of the creature that stood there just a collection of minutes before. "H-hello?" Alfred took a tentative step forward. There was no sound other than the harshness of the wind whistling through tall grass in the field next to the road and the low grumble of the car's engine. The biting wind nipped fiercely at the teen's nose and ears, adding a bright red tinge to both. He was contemplating just going back inside and driving home, and turned around to do just that when a sonorous groan, that wasn't coming from his car, reached his ears.

Alfred froze. What the hell was that? A trickle of cold sweat slithered down his spine, and he spun around, shaking violently. What if it's a ghost? Alfred seriously wasn't compatible with supernatural things, hence why he was so shaken just from the groan. For a second, he thought he'd imagined it, until a rustling from the side of the road alerted his attention. Teeth chattering, he attempted speaking again.

"Wh-wh-who's there?" His voice was laced with fear and came out as nothing more than a petrified squeak, pathetically high-pitched for his gender. A fierce gale ripped against his shirt and jacket, only intensifying the heavy atmosphere. Eyes wide with fear, he combed the ground, searching for something – anything – that could have be emitting those pained grunts. He profoundly refused to believe that it was a ghost; if it was, Alfred would probably just have to faint right there and then, despite his heroic attitude. Ghosts and paranormal things were just something he couldn't deal with. His kryptonite, if you will.

Suddenly, his panicked gaze passed over a moving shape, crumpled at the side of the road. Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, what is that!? Torch light bled over the figure, bathing it in blinding yellow light. A dark green jacket, almost the exact same shade of the grass, was slumped over the oddly humanoid individual and two, long black limbs were folded beneath it. It flinched in the intense lustre of the torchlight and released another murmur, this one bordering on the verge of annoyance and pain at the same time. Alfred paused, inspecting the thing closer. Despite his terror, curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he was kneeling at the same height as the figure, the torch so close to its face that it was writhing desperately to shield its eyes. A mess of golden blond locks sat atop the strange thing's head, in stark contrast to the two caterpillar-like bristles that hovered on its eyebrows. Alfred, lost in thought, stared long and hard at the weird creature he'd happened across.
It was a boy. More importantly, it was the same thing that he'd just knocked into with his – ahem, dad's – car, which explain why it was curled on the cold, muddy ground in a rather uncomfortable position.

"Oh my God!" Alfred squawked, his fear banished in the face of this injured person who was furrowed on the floor in front of him. His gallant instincts kicked in. "Dude, are you okay!?"
The reply was muffled by the jacket that the boy had slung over his face in a feeble attempt to block out the dizzying light from the flashlight that swam in his vision, too close to his eyes. Alfred frowned.

"What?"

This time, the response was much more violent. The boy, instead of shrinking back into his jacket, ripped out of his reclusive shell, eyes blazing like hellfire as he glared murderously at the dopey teenager in front of him. Holy shit…those eyebrows! Sure enough, the two caterpillar objects that had been plastered on the boy's head were indeed his eyebrows, impossibly prominent on his forehead and extraordinarily profuse. Alfred leaned back slightly, half because of those dense gobbets of hair sticking out on his face, half because he was immensely perturbed by the sheer concentration of the stranger's bright, emerald gaze, exaggerated by the amber firelight that danced across the surface of their irises, resembling vivid fireflies on a jade lake, aged with algae. Burning incandescently, the other teen's gaze left scorch marks on his own blue eyes and he spoke, his tongue sharp enough to leave scars on beech bark.

"Don't use the Lord's name in vain, you fucking wanker!" he snapped, shoving Alfred backwards even more with a thin arm. Even though he was smaller and lither than the American, he definitely had the strength to drive him backwards, even if it was only a little bit. Although it was faint, a queer smell of alcohol lingered in the air between them, but it was gone too quickly for Alfred to wonder about for more than a second. The two stared at each other, one gaze swimming with hostility, the other perplexed and mildly shocked. Now, this was the kind of dialect Alfred had expected to hear once he'd entered England. Unlike the rough, farmer-ish way that his grandparents and aunt spoke, the words that rolled off of the flustered boy's tongue were aristocratic, a little bit snobby and haughty.

"Wow, you sound really posh!" he exclaimed, ignorant to the tone in which he'd been barked at just a few seconds ago. The youngster's face twisted into that of irritated disdain upon hearing Alfred's words, although he couldn't quite tell why.

"Shut up!" he hissed. "Bloody hell, you're an American." It wasn't a question. The words resembled poison in his mouth, bitter tasting. After that, there was a long pause of tense silence.

In the handful of moments that they sat together on the side of the road, the flashlight illuminating their features, Alfred managed to drink in every aspect of the strange boy's face. Porcelain cheeks, brimming with redness from the cold night winds that had been lashing them before; a softly curving nose that gave way to two imperfect lips, one slightly fuller than the other, that didn't quite compliment his pale complexion with their waxen, slightly colourless tinge. Lobed ears unhidden by his short, messy hair, both inflamed by frost; the delicate, feminine outline of his face, markedly lenient instead of chiselled and brash, causing him to look younger and more boyish than he should have.
Alfred was completely and utterly entranced, tracing each smooth line with his sweeping gaze up to the point that he locked eyes with the boy again. Jesus Christ, if looks could kill. He found that, despite the eerie feeling that those gems poured into him, he was also enthralled by their undemanding beauty. Yet, he couldn't stare for too long as something else, more significant, had caught his attention.

"Woah, you're bleeding!" Alfred yelped, reaching out to touch the lines of crimson that were starting to trickle from beneath the boy's hairline. He didn't resist, and instead let a pained groan escape from between his half-parted lips, raising his own hands to feel the blotch of red that had started seeping through his golden hairs.

"Ouch, that hurts!" he complained sourly as Alfred retracted his now-scarlet fingers from the bleeding scalp. Something within him, probably his naturally occurring heroism, urged him to help this poor damsel – well, guy – in distress.

"Hold on a minute, I think there's a First Aid Kit in the car somewhere," the American explained quickly before rushing back to the vehicle, of which its engine was still purring, and rummaging around the glove compartment. Although he wouldn't have said it out loud, the boy was actually kinda cute, but he totally was not attracted to him. Despite the colourful language that he'd used, the guy looked like he was younger than Alfred, at least by a year. He probably wasn't gay either. What would someone like him be doing in a place like this at this time? Strangely enough, those bright green eyes were oddly reminiscent to those of the "Thing" which had been positioned on the road earlier. Alfred froze, his fingers furling around the handle to the First Aid Kit that he'd just managed to locate under the front passenger seat. What if he's some spectre who was sent to haunt me?
Now a little disconcerted, the teenager approached the other boy, who was still on the floor clutching his head with a dazed expression, and kneeled, bringing out a reel of bandages.

"You okay?" Alfred asked, gesturing that he was going to start tying the bandages around his head.

"What?" The boy shot him a disbelieving look. Something in that harsh gaze told the American that he wasn't questioning him to repeat himself. "What? Am I okay? Am I okay?"

"Um…sure…why do you keep repeating that?"

The boy ignored his second question completely. "What in the bloody hell makes you think that I'm 'okay?' You just almost killed me with that bloody death-trap right there –" he gestured furiously towards the car "– and you have the audacity to think that I'm actually 'okay?'"

Alfred hesitated blankly. "Well…are you?"

The boy sighed gratingly. "No!"

There wasn't much conversation between them after that as Alfred leaned forwards to bind the dressings around his head, other than the odd "ouch", complaint or subtle insult. Eventually, he finished, concluding off his "handy-work" with a sloppy knot and swiping away the blood, which was starting to dry, with a cleaning wipe. Through all of his labour, he received icy glares and scathing comments, but he didn't particularly mind. He was, after all, being the hero by saving this damsel – damnit, this guy isn't a damsel – in distress at the roadside.

"Can you get up?" he asked, offering a hand to assist the stranger.

"I'm just fine, thank you," came the seething, posh-pronounced reply as he swatted the helpful hand out of the way. The boy was quite short, adding to Alfred's assumptions that he was quite young. With a limber frame and an unexpectedly fragile deportment, he stood more than a couple of inches below the New York teenager, in spite of his best efforts to appear taller and more intimidating.

"Look, dude, I'm sorry for knocking you over –"

"You should be!"

"– but, you really freaked me out!" That burning, antagonistic gaze swept over Alfred again, yet this time he was being stared at with an aura of incredulous scepticism rather than raging acrimony. Nonetheless, he continued as though he didn't notice or didn't care. "Geez, what's a kid like you doing out here at this time anyway?" Once again, he was fixed with a suspicious glare, now brimming with offense.

"Kid? Kid? Just how old do you think I am?"

Alfred shrugged. "I dunno, thirteen…?"

"I'm sixteen, you wanker!"

Now it was Alfred's turn to stare. Sure, this guy had a very selective range of vocabulary, although Alfred had no idea what a "wanker" was, but he didn't quite look like he was sixteen. Well, not at first glance anyway. As he stared closer, concentrating more on each feature, he really began to see it. The teen aspects. Despite his flawless skin that probably should have been pock-marked with acne scars, Alfred could tell from the mature gleam to his eyes, the conceited aura that flooded from his not-quite-slouching shoulders, that this boy wasn't a boy; he was a teen, just like him.

"Sweet mother of Jesus, you're the same age as me!" he exclaimed, shocked. Well, at least that made him feel a little bit better about his earlier thoughts of finding the guy cute. Yet another hostile glare was shot at him from those glittering green eyes.

"Don't use the Lord's name in vain!" the Brit repeated disparagingly, louder and more violently than last time. Suddenly, he stopped and pondered sceptically for a handful of seconds. "Wait a minute…I'm the same age as you? Meaning you're sixteen…?"

"Yeah!"

"Are you a fucking idiot!?" the English accented voice practically screeched, a slither of white-cold snaking from his lips up into the night air. "You're underage! You can't bloody drive!" Alfred frowned. Although he was starting to feel the twilight winds seep into his jacket and crawl along his arms and chest, drafting upon his half-bare skin, he stayed stock still, a new sense of impatience worming its way into his mind. He'd already argued with his father about the age which he should learn to drive, and he certainly didn't need to be scolded by some random guy he'd run into – literally, run into – in the middle of the night. Nonetheless, he just allowed a barely audible sigh to dissipate into the atmosphere, choosing not to get angry with the stranger; he had just knocked him over and injured him, so he couldn't really pick a fight with him. Not now. Not here.

"My name's Alfred," he greeted warmly, once again pushing the teen's comment away as a grin spread across his face and he extended one of his hands. "Alfred F. Jones."

The other teen, somewhat mistrustful of the outstretched hand, and startled that his statement had been brushed off so easily, without even the batting of an eyelid, narrowed his eyes. He started at the palm dubiously, as though it were a dangerous weapon rather than a piece of flesh and bones, afore warily putting forwards his own nimble member.

"Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

Alfred readily grasped his hand and shook it vigorously, discreetly amazed at how smooth the supple skin of his fingers was. Each slender finger wrapped around his in an awkward handshake, and he almost recoiled just at how pale Arthur was. It was strange enough that he was so small, but he was thin too, bordering on skinny, and the whiteness of his skin was definitely something to marvel at. He was like marble. And his hands were just so damn soft! Alfred swore that he could spend an entire lifetime holding onto those willowy digits and tracing the pallid lines, barely visible, on his elusive hands. Despite the smoothness of the crooks on each of his knuckles, the tips of his fingers were hardened and calloused, flattened and artistically shaped so that the prints stood out like engravings.

"Um, could you let go, please?" Arthur asked touchily, tugging lightly to try and retract his hand from Alfred's firm grip. There was an obstinate oppression in the air between them, intensified from the fact that Alfred realised that he was staring at the other's hand with an expression of pure awe and he hadn't released it yet.

"Damnit, sorry!" the American replied, pushing Arthur's hand from his own a little too roughly. His arm fell limply to his side, almost as though it was broken, whilst Alfred smiled sheepishly, fighting back the blush that was threatening to burst across his cheeks. "It's nice to meet you, Arthur." His teeth lingered on the name longer than necessary, rolling across the 'r' suavely. That didn't go unnoticed by the owner of said name.

"Right," Arthur muttered, rubbing his elbow, which had started to go numb in the cold breeze. "It's a shame I can't say the same. Alfred, was it?"

"Yup. That's my name." Alfred, after confirming his identity to the not-so-strange acquaintance, found himself wondering trivially about Arthur's size. Earlier, when he'd been zooming down the country road, shadows framing either side of the road, he could've sworn that the teen had looked a million times larger, peering through the windscreen with wide limegreen eyes. Somehow, that didn't seem plausible. Why was he so big then, but so small now? Alfred shrugged subconsciously and brushed it off as just an odd silhouette falling across his screen in the light of the moon."You know, I thought you'd be taller."

Arthur stared doubtingly at him. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, when I saw you standing in the middle of the road, you looked a lot bigger. Like a monster or something."

The Brit paused and stared at him. Downright stared, as if he was crazy. Then, an unfamiliar look crossed his expression; one of dread. Right there, in the darkness of the night, the injured teenager turned around, his eyes searching the shadows desperately for any signs of movement. There was none, other than the breeze rustling the bushes nearby. Instead of what he hoped was an equestrian shape, there was only a hedge and a fence and a darkened field, obscured by impending blackness that his eyes alone could not penetrate. A look of defeat crumpled on his face, and for a few seconds, he shook, clumsily fiddling with his fingers as though he didn't quite know what to do.

"Um, dude?" Alfred questioned, detecting the obvious change in attitude. "Are you alright?"

"She's gone," Arthur mumbled, his voice reduced to a whimper.

"Who?"

"My horse. Crumpet."

"Your horse?"

There was no reply, save a throaty whining sound that was immediately cut off and muffled by what looked like Arthur's hand as he raised his arm in front of his face. Since he was turned around the other way, Alfred could only see his flimsy shoulders shivering, and he guessed that it wasn't just from the cold air that encircled the two of them. He'd started to feel the ice pricking his arms long ago, but it had looked like it was affecting Arthur more, from the red hue to his cheeks, ears and nose. However, even Alfred wasn't dense enough to not observe that the Brit was rather upset from the disappearance of his horse. An odd concept, but the "hero" knew that he couldn't just walk away and leave him there to try and make his own way home or, God forbid, go and search for 'Crumpet.' Why the heck would he call a horse 'Crumpet?' What an unusual name.

"Hey, hey, hey," Alfred chided gracelessly, his voice quaking with gawkiness, tentatively laying his hand on the smaller teenager's shoulder, trying to act comforting as well as urging Arthur to explain just who 'Crumpet' was and why he was so distraught over the matter. It was only when he turned to face him that he saw the tears quivering in the fathomless caverns of those emerald eyes and a few starting to slip down his cheeks, that he flinched, blinking in shock. What the hell, why is he crying!? Before he could question Arthur's outlandish behaviour, the tears had already been swiped away by the sleeve of a forest green jacket and the teen was snivelling pathetically in a desperate attempt to stop more from falling.

"Bloody hell," Arthur cursed quietly. "Bloody hell!" In a matter of seconds, his teary eyes were brimming with enmity and aggression again and he confronted Alfred shakily. "You hit her!" he accused abhorrently. "You hit her with that stupid, fucking car of yours, you…you…wanker!"

Alfred threw up his arms in defence, his palms on either side of his face. "Woah, I swear I didn't –"

"Yes, you did! I saw you! I saw that car coming straight towards us!" Arthur advanced, the pits of his irises flaming perilously. He raised a fist, and the very hand that Alfred had been so entranced with before looked as though it was about to come around and smack him square in the face. However, the Brit seemed to salvage himself just in time and wheeled around again, turning his back to the nervous American. "What if she's hurt? What if she's dead?"

"Okay, okay," said American mollified, trying to keep his own uneasiness from creeping into his voice. "I don't think she's dead, otherwise there'd be a corpse somewhere around here." Arthur cast him a long, unconvinced glare over his shoulder, his eyes glistening with moistness. Damn, perhaps I shouldn't have used the word "corpse."

"You spooked her," he clarified raspingly. "That's why I fell off. I hardly ever fall off."

Alfred stared at the short teen; he didn't exactly know much about horses, but he guessed that "spooking her" meant that he'd scared her to the point that she'd galloped away. "So, she ran off?"

"Probably."

Arthur brought a finger up to his mouth and began delicately nibbling on one of his nails, although not to the point that the brittle keratin cracked under his teeth. While it was a distasteful habit to say in the least, Alfred couldn't help but find it mysteriously charming; his furrowed brows, which, upon closer inspection, didn't really detract so much from his range of facial expressions; the thoughtful blaze in those luminous, olive eyes and the flashlight reflected in his irises; the nip of chattering, white teeth on not-too-long nail and the pinkish hue to his translucent cheeks, informing that he was beginning to feel the effects of the impermeable air. Why Alfred found that appealing, he would never know. Either way, he could tell, regardless of the Brit's definite resentment towards him, that he was undeniably attracted to Arthur, whom he'd literally just met five minutes ago.
Eventually, Arthur retracted his hand from his face, unhitching his teeth from the keratin and fixed the hedgerow behind him with a determined stare.

"I'm going to look for her," he announced sourly, pulling his jacket tighter around himself.

"Wait. What!?" Alfred choked, baffled. If he'd been drinking water, or any other liquid at that moment, there was no doubt that he'd have sprayed it all over the floor.

"I'm going to look for Crumpet!"

The brute determination in both his eyes and voice were irrefutably adamant, clearly that Arthur was going to go and look for his runaway horse in the dead of the night, and even force wouldn't be able to stop him. Not that Alfred would force him not to. Instead, he just took a step back, his head cocked to the side in disbelief. This guy's crazy.

"You can't go looking for your horse at a time like this! It's already past midnight!" he argued.

"I don't care," Arthur spat hatefully in response, catching the Yankee off-guard. For a brief handful of heartbeats, he pitied the Brit, partly because he was guilty for hurting him physically and emotionally (he'd made him cry, and that was just quite unforgivable, especially since his main goal as the hero was to stop people's tears, not be the root cause of them), and partly because of the profound sadness in his gaze.

"Why are you so bothered about Crumpet?" Alfred dared to ask, his voice low with sympathy and gentle. His tone obviously startled Arthur; he jumped and his narrowed eyes flickered wide open for a moment or two.

"You wouldn't understand," he murmured softly, oddly flustered.

"Why not?"

"You just wouldn't!"

God, what is wrong with him? Alfred stifled a groan by bringing his hand up to his face and absentmindedly fiddling with his glasses and rubbing his stony cheek with the palm of his hand, of which was remarkably warm. Sweaty, even. Being the protagonist and the star, there was no way that he could just turn tail and drive back home (in fact, he was a little scared of driving – his heart still hadn't settled down from his collision with the monster, which was now revealed to be Arthur on horseback). He had to help this guy, even if it meant staying up in the early hours of the morning to look for an escaped horse. Alfred sighed heavily; it was clear from the expression on that cute – no, he is categorically not cute – face that Arthur wasn't going to leave the area without this 'Crumpet' and he would never, never, never be able to forgive himself if he just left without doing something to aid the Brit.

"Alright…alright…" Alfred exhaled, exasperated. "Just…give me a sec, will you?" He retired to the vehicle, still purring merrily at the roadside and leaned into to check the time. 2:28am. Well that's just perfect. Half-past two in the morning and he was contemplating going to search for a lost horse. I must be crazy. Well, he had three options. One; he could just drive away. No, no, no, that was about as un-heroic one can be. He should not, he would not, he could not leave Arthur to fend for himself at this hour, especially in the middle of nowhere. Alfred would rather die than abandon the random Brit whom he'd just met. Then, there was option number two; use force to get Arthur into the car and drive him home. That was considerably less ludicrous than looking for a horse and probably the most possible out of all the three options he'd grouped together in his head. He could actually try and do that, since he would most definitely be able to overpower Arthur (weighing up the situation on size and muscle mass), but then he'd have a kicking and screaming guy in his car who probably wouldn't co-operate by telling him where he lived. The furthest he'd be able to get with that plan would be a couple of miles down the road, then the car would probably end up crashing. Alfred knew, from many action movies, that people didn't really like being held somewhere against their will.

Lastly, there was option three; search for 'Crumpet.' For a moment, the American wondered what kind of face his father would pull if he belayed back the events of that night and mentioned that he had gone on a search-party with a stubborn Englishman to look for a misplaced pony. Yup, he'd have probably been accused of taking drugs. Nonetheless, in spite of how preposterous and nonsensical it sounded, Alfred knew that this was possibly one of the only choices he could actually perform well. It wouldn't do his situation any good if he tried to hold Arthur in the back seat of the car and drive all around the countryside just to find out where he lived, and he wasn't about to back out now that he'd gotten too involved too deep. Alfred groaned, realizing what he was pressurizing himself to do. I cannot believe that I'm actually about to do this…

Hesitating slightly, he wrapped the safety string of the flashlight that he was still holding around his wrist and rootled around until he managed to find another one in the same glove compartment afore heading back to Arthur. Surprisingly, the resolute Brit hadn't run off into the darkness to search by himself and was still stood in exactly the same spot that Alfred had left him. The only thing that had changed was his position; he was swaying slightly to the left, one of his legs bent slightly as he stared at the shadowy air in front of him thoughtfully, an inattentive glazed coating his eyes. Damn…does he always make that face? Alfred was about to toss the torch to him in the same fashion that those awesome heroes would chuck a weapon to their sidekick, but he decided against it as he foresaw the flashlight hitting Arthur in the head and resulting in him shouting and cursing again. He'd already caused him enough pain as it was.

"Heeey, Earth to Artie," he called, waving his free hand in front of the teen's face. Arthur jerked, startled before averting his gaze to Alfred. His eyes darkened.

"Don't call me Artie," he snarled, vehemence lacing his voice for reasons unknown to Alfred.

"Sheesh, calm down," the bespectacled American answered defensively. It was at that moment that, for some reason, his eyes were drawn to Arthur's lips. They were so cold to the point of appearing stark white, with a vague translucence about the edges that terrified Alfred to look at. So, he didn't, and instead focused on the slightly violent shivering motions that the Brit was undergoing. His cheeks, instead of flushed red like before, had a sickly, bluish tinge to them and he appeared much, much paler. Alfred scolded himself mentally for not noting down Arthur's obvious discomfort in the unbearable weather sooner. "Are you cold?"

"What?" The posh voice sounded perplexed.

"Here." Alfred shrugged out of his regrettably warm jacket and slung it around Arthur's shoulders before he could protest. The pinch of the air upon his now naked arms stung slightly, but he didn't care. He was the hero, therefore he could manage.

"H-hey!" And there was the objection.

"It's fine, dude." Arthur wasn't convinced and instead stared in amazement at him, his eyes clouded with mistrust as though his jacket was toxic or slathered in poison. Alfred shrugged mindlessly and held out the spare flashlight that the Brit somehow hadn't noticed yet. His emerald eyes widened and he began to stutter, stupefied by the sudden acts of kindness afore he remembered himself and reached out to wrap his slim, waxen fingers around the object that would grant him at least some visibility in the tyrannical murkiness.
"Let's go and find your horse."

…xXx…xXx…xXx…

For the first time in his life, Arthur Kirkland was well and truly befuddled, and that wasn't counting the times that his awful brothers had decided to "play a game" with him, which usually involved leaving him abandoned in a large field to, allegedly, play hide-and-seek or pushing him into a river to teach him how to swim. No, this was more like when somebody had decided to do something so outrageous that it could actually be counted as kind. That, he didn't recall, had ever really happened to him before. Nobody had bandaged his head for him, save his dear mother or a nurse (but that was their job), nor had anybody given him their jacket after realizing he was cold.

Maybe he had been cold, but he certainly wasn't going to admit that to this strange, strange American who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, in the guise of a murderous car. Arthur hadn't really known what to expect when he'd heard the faint sound of a door opening or someone shouting in the night. Perhaps some drunk who thought it would be funny or impressive to attempt to drive a vehicle down a twisting country road. Or a businessman who'd lost track of time and ended up leaving work impossibly late. But, not a callow, bespectacled oaf with an idiotic grin plastered upon his maw. Not some child whose body was way out of proportion with his face.
Arthur grunted, snuffling, as he reluctantly tugged the red jacket this Alfred had be audacious enough to wrap around his shoulders. He had no idea where the sudden warmth had actually come from. Two sizes too big, the coat ran all of the way down his back and hips, and the sleeves loosely clutched his bony arms. From when Alfred had slithered the jacket on him, Arthur had felt a million degrees warmer. He probably could've curled up and fallen asleep in the great cavern of heat if he wanted to. But, he didn't. He had a job to do.

Reminding himself of the task at hand, he temporarily forgot the cosy jacket and poked his flashlight out of the folds of the burgundy covering. Supressing another sniffle that betrayed the emotion threatening to flow out of his voice, he just coughed and tried not to think of the gaping hole in his heart. He wanted to blame Alfred for the disappearance of Crumpet, he really, really did. But, he just couldn't. Deep down, Arthur knew that it was entirely his fault that his beloved equestrian friend was now missing, probably wounded, in the Somerset countryside. Truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure whether he was still in Somerset at all. He could've been in Wiltshire, or Devon. He hadn't paid heed to any directions he'd been taking in his blinded fury whilst galloping over meadows and dirt tracks.
Damn it all! The Brit may have been a very intelligent individual, but sometimes he did fall prey to some crazy-ass antics when he was upset.

The field that they were currently searching seemed to stretch on forever. Somewhere towards the right of him he noticed the mad flickering of a long illumination; Alfred's own torch, of which he was waving in every direction in an attempt to find Crumpet. I don't get it. Why the hell does he care so much? It was very odd, Arthur had deduced, the fact that the Yankee had decided to stay and aid him. Any sane person wouldn't just left him to his own actions, but this guy had been dead-bent on helping him. He'd even mentioned something about heroism earlier. Weird. Arthur flinched at the sound of the American calling out the name of his cherished horse, a little too loud and rough for his liking. Nonetheless, at least he was trying, and for that much, the bushy-browed teen was indebted. After some scrutiny, he too added his voice to the melancholy melody of searching calls and yells.

They combed the field, drawing closer and closer to the smudge of darkness on the other side; a rugged deciduous forest of non-evergreen trees, in full bloom even at the end of summer. Sentinel trees loomed in the darkness, contorted into grotesque positions and deportments, frowning maliciously at the unlikely duo. Limbs stretched out to tempt them into the gloomy depths, obscuring watchful stars overhead and only ever adding to the dictatorial despondency. Arthur felt as small as a child, quivering in the face of those monstrous trees. There was something demonic about them, and he honestly did not want to set foot in that forest at all. 'Ominous' and 'foreboding' were the only words that came to Arthur's mind as he stared at the satanic trees, and even descriptions such as those were understatements.

"Do you reckon she'd have run in here?" Alfred asked, startling him as he entered the woods without even batting an eyelid.

"Don't!"

Two eyes, oceanic blue, peered from the darkness, a film of tawny torchlight flickering against their watery surface. "What? You ain't scared, are you?"

Why did he have to sound so much like his mocking brothers? Arthur could clearly see the teasing glint in those eyes, but the way he ridiculed him so listlessly was just an exact mirror of what his brothers used to do. He didn't like it.

"Shut up," he exhaled haughtily, storming past the American, stemming an aura of petulance. The snap of his foot upon twigs sent shivers down his spine, but he scolded himself harshly. You're not a baby. Stop freaking out. "Crumpet!" The Brit paused in a murky grove, surrounded by trees; sharpened branches lunged up at the sky, fixed in position. They almost looked as though they were praying. Almost. Unexplainably, he felt the temperature drop. Although he could hear Alfred's voice nearby, resonating off of the ebony trunks, he felt just that little bit icier when he stood alone. He just felt naked without Crumpet.
Stupid, stupid! He wasn't sure whether he was taking his inward anger out on himself for being so reckless with his horse, or Alfred for being a shitty driver. He needed something to blame. It couldn't all just be some mishap. Oh, Crumpet, where are you? Arthur knew he'd feel so much better if he just had that sandy fur brushing against him and those fathomless eyes staring ahead.

Furiously dashing tears from his eyes, he swore loud enough for the sound to vibrate off of the trees nearby and the soggy leaves underfoot.

"Dude?" Brightness blinded the Brit and he shielded his gaze from Alfred's torchlight. The American must've heard his curse, for he stood on the other side of the clearing, clad in nothing but a black T-shirt and some jeans, a perplexed look of amusement on his face. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Arthur growled stiffly, turning heel and disappearing deeper into the blackness. He wasn't in the mood to converse with a random teen whom he'd only just met.

"Alright, Artie."

Arthur whirled around faster than he intended and almost lost his balance, red from ire. That nickname was the stupid abbreviation that his cocky brother Allistor had chosen for him, and he loathed it. He detested it when that smoke induced voice uttered it, and he detested it even more in the mouth of the uncivilized, crude, even vulgar Yankee. "Don't call me Artie!"
Alfred grinned sadistically in response, raising an eyebrow.

"Okay, chill!" he soothed. Arthur grumbled something profane under his breath and proceeded on the path he'd been intent on following earlier, before he'd been interrupted. He didn't quite know why he was so hell-bent on continuing to search. He knew as well as anyone that at this point, it was fruitless. They'd been searching for just short of an hour, and they were probably about a mile from Alfred's death-trap car already. The ground was wet, musty and letting off a rotten stench that stung Arthur's nostrils every time he breathed. Were these the kind of conditions that he usually went out in? He couldn't remember half of the stuff that he did on his drunken riots, let alone the weather. The Brit didn't want to stop searching, though, despite his doubts. If there was even the slightest chance that Crumpet was wandering around the area, he wanted to cease it. That, and he didn't want to admit how senseless the idea to search in the dead of the night was.

As Arthur trudged through a particularly muddy area, made up mostly of some thick sludge that clung to his shoes and dragged him down deeper into the brown mush, the sounds of Alfred's voice, calling out the name of a delicious pastry into the night gradually started to get quieter and quieter, until they ceased to exist altogether. Muffled by the suffocating trees, there was an eerie sense of peace for the Englishman. Yet, it was still eerie and unearthly. Oppressive. The wound on his head was beginning to sting in the night breeze. The bandage, spotted with blood, which hadn't really been tied very well anyway in the first place, slipped off of his head, tugged mercilessly by the wind, and dangled from his ear for a second, before sinking to the floor and nestling itself among the schmaltz of dead leaves. Arthur just winced, lightly fingering and probing the tender area before scuffing his feet along the wrapping and walking further into the forest's arms. Opening his mouth to call for Crumpet once more, his breath steamed in the cold, and he was suddenly very obliged that Alfred had been generous enough to give him his coat. Even when he was wearing three layers, Arthur could still feel the bitterness seeping down to his bones. Guiltily, he wondered how cold the other teen must've been.
Perhaps I should give this back. He'll probably need it more than me.

It shouldn't have been too hard to find him. All he had to do was manoeuvre his way back through the woods the way he'd come, following his footprints which were (thankfully) still relatively fresh. Shining the flashlight on the floor, Arthur lightly stepped along the surface of the grime, glad that he was wasn't so heavy that he'd sink to far into the shit-slurry. Multiple times, he thought his eyes had chanced upon a horse-like shape in the bushes. Multiple times the glare of his torch swam across the accused area. Multiple times, it was just a trick of the eyes and he just sighed and swore even louder than last.
Worryingly, as Arthur combed his way back through the scraping branches that scratched against his head and occasionally knocked the wounded spot on his head, resulting in a quiet whimper of pain or a hiss from clenched teeth, he couldn't hear the calls of Alfred anywhere. Cursing his foul luck and believing that the American had probably gotten bored and abandoned him, he tugged the red jacket further around his thin frame and decided he'd probably have better luck by getting out the forest first, then determining where he would go.

Normally, after he'd been on a binge-drinking town trip, Arthur would be forced to catch a night taxi to the outskirts of the village that he'd embezzled and he'd work his way back from there. He was no stranger to the country in the essence of twilight. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd come across a familiar landmark and make his way home from there. If he was lucky, he might run in Crumpet on the way back. Don't be imprudent, he reprimanded acidly. She won't just magically pop out of nowhere for your convenience. Arthur knew that he was going to be a hell of a lot shit when he home. First, he'd have to explain why Crumpet was missing and then why he was waltzing through the door, or climbing through the window, just as the sun was coming up (he guessed he wouldn't be home until after sunrise, and by then his parents would be awake, or one of this brothers – no doubt one of them would've noticed that he hadn't returned from the stables last night. Then again, none of them really cared about his nightly expeditions, so they might just leave him alone.) Suppressing a deep sigh and another bout of tears to come unbidden to his eyes, Arthur pushed back a stubborn branch that blocked his path.
Bloody hell, when does this forest end? I swear, it goes on fore–

Suddenly, Arthur was falling, one of his legs buckling beneath him. In one abrupt moment, he'd been thrown to floor, a spasm of pain shooting all of the way through his left leg and thrumming through his thigh. Lips parted in a screech of agony, the Brit clutched his limb with bony fingers, shaking. Oh, shit, that seriously hurt! There was no possible way that he had broken his leg, yet every time he attempted to move in order to get to his feet, a seizure erupted in his calf, shuddering excruciatingly. Somewhere, his torch had been flung into the undergrowth, probably where it still lay. Needless to say, the light had flickered off, leaving Arthur in a world of cold darkness. Well, that's just fucking brilliant. Enclosed by foetid foliage and dank vegetation, the Brit struggled wordlessly, clenching his teeth against the agony of his ankle, which he was adamant that he had twisted quite badly to be in the position that he was.

He didn't want to resort to calling for help, for he knew that nobody would come. Alfred had most definitely buggered off somewhere else. That git's no doubt gone back to his car and gone home. Fighting back tears, not only from the frozen ground encompassing and trapping him, pulling him downwards to become one with the earth, but also from the prospect of that fact that he had been betrayed. Arthur wasn't normally one to look at things optimistically, hence why he just flopped down in a limp bundle, pouting and struggling not to sneeze or let any more tears fall. He'd already let loose the waterworks in front of a complete stranger, and he was not about to let that happen again. Buried in his own pool of pathetic self-loathing, Arthur pulled the red jacket up over his face, covering himself in the blanket of warmth. He was mildly surprised that it hadn't lost its amazing insulation skills, even after well over an hour of being out in the breathless night. The morning sun would be well on its way in just another two hours. They probably wouldn't make any difference. Surrounded by the atypical scent of something saccharine, Arthur wished himself to sleep. What if I never wake up? Good riddance. He wasn't one for suicidal thoughts either, but given his current situation, it was small wonder that he just wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

Antagonized by dark judgments, Arthur found that in spite of himself, immersed in the subtle touches of the coat he clutched with both hands and soft textures of warmth, he couldn't quite drift off to sleep. Was it a cruel trick of his subconscious, laughing at him as he lay in pain, waiting to succumb to slumber or a more callous fate? How much worse could that night get? It could be raining. For a few seconds, Arthur froze, wondering if life was like those idiotic shows for children, based off of cynical illusions and it would actually start to rain, just to add to his misery and discomfort.

"I hate life," he sniffed, not bothering to notice that it hadn't actually started raining at all. In fact, he was so tied up in his life-abhorring mood that he failed to notice the rather unnatural sounds that the forest was conjuring; a swearword, followed by snapping twigs and obnoxious rustling as well a voice muttering about how "there were never any forests back in New York." If Arthur hadn't moved at precisely that moment, Alfred would've actually stepped on him. Instead, though, the American only cried out as he tripped over the large, Arthur-shaped lump buried under scoops of leaves and a thick, crimson jacket.

"Artie!" he yelped, half-joyfully, half-reproachfully. "I found you!" Glasses skewed on his face, Alfred sat up picking up his torch, which had happily not been turned off upon coming into contact with the forest floor. His cerulean eyes stared quizzically at the Brit splayed on the ground, fixing him was an incredulous look, his mouth hanging half open, one of his cheeks smudged with mud and his hair peppered with squalid leaves. "…what are you doing?"

Arthur suddenly recollected himself, and his stunned expression instantly warped into an irritated pout. "What does it look like?"

"Well, it looks like you're sleeping in the middle of the forest," Alfred laughed jovially, picking some of the plants out of Arthur's chaotic hair. "But I could be mistaken." Taken aback by how formal he was with him, even though they barely knew each other, Arthur slapped the large, clumsy hands away from his scalp, resulting in the lumbering fingers to accidentally brush along his head wound. Some look of soreness must've flashed in his eyes, for Alfred's reaction was quick and apologetic. "Shit, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to –"

"Forget it. It's fine." The tone of finality floated in Arthur's voice as he just brushed off the ache as though it was nothing. Alfred frowned, disbelieving, but he refrained from challenging him and instead hauled himself to his feet, staggering backwards a few steps. The torchlight flickered momentarily in Arthur's eyes, but it soon left to peer at the foliage next to him.

"Right. What are you doing on the floor then?"

The Brit's ears enflamed from embarrassment. "I fell."

"What? Didn't hear you." Sure enough, Alfred had genuinely not heard Arthur's clarification, for he had a look of malcontent on his face. Even so, the explainee was still heated about the whole matter at hand.

"I fell!" he repeated, shouting it up at the American with a red face.

"Oh." Alfred stared sceptically at him. For a long time, blue eyes locked with green, a sea of teal swimming between them in the night atmosphere. Arthur, although pissed, could only marvel at how the other didn't have any goosebumps pricking his arms and just stood there in the cold as though he was in the middle of the Mediterranean. Then, Alfred began to laugh. It started off as a charmed chuckle, but escalated to a sound of pure mirth as he clutched his sides and belly, snickering wildly with enough noise to awaken the whole of England. Arthur's face only deepened in colour until he had turned a pretty shade of scarlet.

"Don't laugh!" he scolded desperately. "It's not funny!"

"Right," Alfred chortled, wiping caged tears from his cobalt eyes whilst fiddling with his glasses. "Okay…okay…phew…can you get up?"

Arthur glowered at the American. There was no way that he was going to admit that he was in pain or that he couldn't actually get up. Discreetly, he was quite glad that Alfred had actually managed to find him, even if he had tripped over him. That hadn't been a very good start. However, Arthur dreaded to think what might've happened if he had been forced to spend the entire night alone beneath the towering trees, watchmen of the nightfall. There was a very real possibility that he could've died had nobody come for him. Well, unless the police hadn't gotten involved with their specially trained tracker-dogs. Needless to say, Arthur was happy enough just to see the foolhardy American. Not wanting to look weak or any more pitiful than he already did, he pushed the palms of his hands against the sodden ground, not caring that mud was oozing between his fingers. Supressing another wretched contraction of pain emanating from his swollen ankle, he grabbed onto a low tree branch, jutting from the trunk of an ancient oak sprouting next to him and pulled himself upwards. Unfortunately, the oak truly was antediluvian and the branch started to crack from his weight. That, combined with the tremendous agony of putting his injured foot on the ground was just a bit too much for Arthur; at the same moment that the branch shattered into a combination of splinters, he lurched forwards, preparing to hit the ground again.

However, this time some other presence stopped him from getting a mouthful of saturated dirt. When the British teen felt safe enough to open his eyes a crack, he was indeed staring at darkness, but, unlike last time, he wasn't drowning in it. There was something – or rather, someone – holding him in place, preventing him from falling any more than he already. Two strong hands clutched his waist, rooting him in place and suddenly, very suddenly, his cheeks started to redden until they were almost the same shade as Alfred's jacket, of which was now caked in mud splatters.

"Woah, easy there," his saviour chided softly, still grasping his flanks. "Did you hurt yourself or something?"
Arthur mentally cursed himself. He hated this. He hated everything about it. He hated being helped by some brat who was the sole reason for his suffering and he was so sick of being treated like a baby, not only by his parents and brothers, but by this acquaintance who only knew his name!

"Get off of me!" Arthur ordered, twisting pugnaciously to get out of the American's strong grip. He succeeded, but only for a moment or two as the pain jarred through his leg once more, and Alfred's large hands found themselves on his lower back, once again supporting him and thwarting his plans. Now, for Arthur, that area was rather tender and had been quite ticklish ever since he'd gotten his tattoo, explaining the brief tremor that had rippled through his body and the crimson flush to his cheeks.

"Dude, quit squirming or I'll drop you!" Alfred cautioned. Arthur had no choice but to obey, for it was clear that if he kept twisting to try and get away that Alfred would indeed drop him onto the cold floor below. Scowling dryly, he stayed motionless, trying to ignore the fact that he was in such close proximity to another male. If he had been a woman, it would no doubt have been a vile breach of personal space and it would've counted as a sexual assault, but since Arthur was practically being manhandled by someone of the same gender, it wasn't much of a problem. Just a little awkward was all. Nonetheless, he still disliked the invasion of his private bubble.
Alfred exhaled smoothly, happy that Arthur was finally willing to co-operate. "You can walk, right?"

I can bloody well try. The Brit clamped down on a snarky reply and placed his foot down softly on the forest floor. To his discontent, Alfred hadn't relaxed his grip on his waste, which bothered him slightly. He was beginning to wonder if he was some kind of pervert by the amount of times that he had touched Arthur that night, but he brushed it off immediately. If he truly was a pervert, he would be targeting females, not males. Reassured by his logic, Arthur attempted to shift half of his weight to his injured ankle. It didn't quite go as planned, since he ended up emitting a high-pitched whimper of pain and almost collapsing. Alfred's arms were the only force that prevented that.

"I'll take that as a 'no,'" Alfred jested, a smirk cracking upon his lips. Arthur objected with his voice and expression, grimacing as his eyes clouded over like a tempest. Before he could shout a protest, the American just continued laxly. "Looks like I'll have to carry you then."

Arthur's face fell, and he fixed the other teen with a glare that spoke wonders; he looked at him as though he'd said the most laughable joke in the world and he hadn't quite heard him correctly. "What?"

"Hold my torch a minute." Nescient to the Brit's question, he went on speaking as though he'd said the most natural thing in the world. The item in question, which had been strapped to his wrist by a thick, black cord, was shoved into Arthur's unwanting hands before he could struggle against it, temporarily blinding the smaller boy as he fumbled with the way he was holding it. And suddenly, he was lifted off of the ground, letting loose a gasp of shock as his feet came into contact with nothingness and he found himself lying Alfred's arms; one hand firmly supporting his legs by holding up his calf muscles whilst the other was slung across his shoulder blades, causing his back to curve slightly. In other words, Arthur had just picked up in the same fashion that a groom would lift his bride, much like in a wedding photo. All he needed was a flowing white dress with some intricate lace design, and he'd make for a very ravishing bride indeed. Well, minus the hair, breasts, hips and everything else womanly.

Arthur, his fingers clasped gently over the torch, despite the sudden rush of vertigo, flushed a deep shade of burgundy, his entire body going rigid and stiff from shock. The American had scooped him off of the floor so easily, as though he was a feather, and he was still trying to register the fact that he was in a rather derogatory position and - how the heck is he so warm!? Alfred was indeed emanating an unruly amount of heat, notwithstanding the icy weather. Not sweaty, but unbelievably warm. Cushioned by the near-impossible body temperature, Arthur would've admitted that it was a very impressive feat if he wasn't in the position that he was.

"What are you doing!?" he shrieked, almost dropping the flashlight and their only source of visibility, into the fathomless depths of oblivion beneath him. "Put me down this instant!" Alfred, of course, ignored his request and started to walk, very casually, through the dense forests.

"Mind shining the light in front of us?" he asked nonchalantly, a stupid grin stuck on his maw. "I don't particularly want to walk into a tree." Arthur didn't comply with his wishes.

"What in the bloody hell is wrong with you; I said put me down!"

"But you can't walk."

"I don't care, I'll crawl if I have to, this is a rather insulting way to travel! You absolute wanker, listen to me!"

"You use that word a lot," Alfred mused, half to himself. "'Wanker.' What does it mean?" Arthur was about to explain in full detail the definition of said word, had his position not lurched somewhat as Alfred had moved his body to avoid getting ensnared in the low, tangled branches of a nearby sapling. Contrary to the kicking and squirming motions he was undergoing to get out of the American's grip, he suddenly leaned into the barrel-chested teen, clutching at his black T-shirt as a low groan of fear flew from his lips, disguised as a steaming stream of white mist. The torch rested on his abdomen, rocking dangerously as though it was going to fall as Alfred's deep, throaty laughter filled the air. The trees had started to thin, granting easier access, yet that did nothing to appease Arthur's churning stomach.

"Stop! You bloody fool, you're going to drop me!" he cried, thumping his small fists against Alfred's chest desperately.

"Relax, Artie," Alfred chuckled in response. "I'm not going to drop you, I promise."

"How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Artie!?"

Uncharacteristically, he actually quietened down at the scathing remark, leaving Arthur to struggle weakly against his tight grip on his shoulder and legs. From the lack of speech, he was actually able to take in a bit about their surroundings. The forest had come to an end, leaving a wide open field in its wake that Alfred trudged through silently. Upon further inspection, the Briton noted that he had a look of thoughtful contemplation about him and walked with an oddly satisfying gait. His deportment was strangely lulling, resembling a rocking cradle, gently allaying Arthur. In fact, he found himself relaxing more into that non-existent smoothness, quaintly content.
He recalled himself before he allowed his eyes to flutter shut and bolted up vehemently, rosy cheeked. Alfred didn't seem to notice his sudden jerking movement, and continued walking. A lunar light cast a fairytale-like glow on his features, inducing a ghastly aura to encircle his face. There was a weird elegance in his stride, one that Arthur hadn't noticed before. Yes, he was a clumsy American with no sense of balance or clemency, yet it was unexpectedly charming.

"I could call you Big Brows."

Arthur looked at him blanking, jogged from his daydreaming (or nightdreaming). "I'm sorry?"

"Have you seen those things on your face? They're huge! At first, I thought they were caterpillars!"

As Alfred released a hearty laugh, the Brit felt his face heating up at an alarming rate. His eyebrows were a very sensitive topic; yes, he knew they were larger than average, but he didn't find that any reason to use such deprecating diminutives. "That's absurd!" he yelled ardently. "Ridiculous! I simply won't stand for you using these derogatory nicknames! Besides, there's nothing wrong with my eyebrows!" What is wrong with this guy!? It's not like we're ever going to meet each other again…hell, he's foreign! He's probably just on holiday here or something. Ranting off into a fervent tirade, fortunately dispelling Alfred's idea of using 'Big Brows' as a permanent nickname, Arthur scarcely had time to notice the area around them had changed completely. Without the dense trees pressing in on the duo, reaching out to kiss them with toxic branches and sweep poisoned leaves along their skin, the night sky was a myriad of stars, oblivious to all around them. A final protest of blinding light before they disappeared in oblivion forever. Some were already dead.
When Arthur paused to take a breath from his outburst, he took a moment to marvel in the natural beauty flourishing around them. In fact, it looked slightly familiar. There must've been something about that crippled tree in the corner of the meadow, or the road trailing eastward up one of the many hills scattered around the clustering fields, all illuminated by moonlight. Wait a minute…

"I know this place," Arthur murmured. Perhaps in a memory, or a dream, or a dream about a memory, but it undeniably looked like a place that he knew. It didn't surprise him. After all, thanks to the lack of public travel after midnight, he usually had to make his own way back from town in a drunken manner, unless one of his alcohol-buddies was sober enough to give him a lift.

"Huh?"

"I can make my way back from here," he explained quickly. Honestly, he didn't want to stay in Alfred's arms any longer than necessary. That, and he still clung to the extremely thin hope that Crumpet might, just might, approach him if he was alone and not with the damnable American. He would have a better chance of running into her if he walked across the collection of fields.
"So, you can put me down," Arthur urged. In spite of himself, it was rather comfortable being held as he was, but very pejorative. The last thing he wanted was somebody else to see him being carried, like a bride, across a field. Nonetheless, even though he'd tried to persuade Alfred to let him get home on his own, the other teen only stared at him, half-dumbfounded, half-reluctant.

"But, you can't walk…"

Damn. I hadn't thought about that. Arthur highly doubted that his twisted ankle had healed enough for him to walk from his current position over the crest of the hill on the horizon and further down to the place where the school bus had normally dropped them off. But he sure as hell wasn't going to admit that.

"It's fine," he insisted stubbornly. "My house is just over that hill." He gestured vaguely towards the dark mass rising out of the ground, just peeking over the skyline.

"Well that's convenient," Alfred murmured heartily. For a few seconds, it seemed like he'd finally let Arthur go. Alas, no. "It looks like there's a road over there, so I can drive you back!"

The Brit scowled, more irritated than he had been a few minutes ago at the mention of his new nickname. "Oh, for the love of – look, just put me down and I can walk back."

"Oh, come on Artie, that'll take you forever."

"Don't call me that!" he scolded crossly for the umpteenth time that night.

"But you don't want me to call you Big Brows."

"That's a very insulting nickname, you git!"

"What's a 'git'?"

His idiocy elicited a groan from Arthur's throat, disbelieving and annoyed. After a while of tense silence (well, what Arthur would've called silence, but Alfred didn't seem to care about the atmosphere as he just hummed a tuneless melody to himself), the Brit attempted to get out of his grasp for the umpteenth time. The landscape had changed yet again, revealing a gently sloping hill on which a road had torn through. Alfred had started to walk down the hedgeline, hoping that they might chance upon his car if they stuck close to the tarmac, urging his "delivery" to shine the torchlight on the ground so that he didn't slip up in the mud or trip on a rock. Arthur was really beginning to hate this method of travel; the American may have been warm, and…well, comfortable was the only way to describe it, but he could literally feel his ego and self-esteem fall down a little lower with every step.

"Alright, this has gone on far enough," Arthur sighed irascibly, shifting his whole body jerkily in order to try and plant his feet on the floor. Much to his further annoyance, Alfred seemed adamant on keeping him levitated, and only tightened his grip by pulling him closer to his chest.

"Hey, stop that," he chided, mocking a cross tone that a mother might take when scolding their child. "I might drop you."

"Then let go of me, fool!" the Brit snarled. An aggressive tenor had wormed its way into his voice, and he welcomed it. To be frank, he reviled the prospect of being carried all of the way home, or showing up on his drive with some random bloke who'd knocked him over. Perhaps it was because he really did not like the American, or his approaches to being "heroic" and being treated like a girl in his presence, or maybe it was because he still clung to the childish hope that Crumpet would materialize out of thin air the moment he was left alone. Either way, he most certainly did not want to stay in Alfred's company any longer than necessary. "I don't need you to escort me home!"

Just like every other argument that they'd immersed themselves in before that, the larger teen just brushed off his attitude as though it was nothing. "I'm not just gonna leave you out here!" he protested.

"Well, you should. I can take care of myself."

"I left you alone for ten minutes and you twisted your ankle."

"That doesn't mean that I'm hopeless, git!" Arthur flushed bright red, pressing his hands against Alfred's chest to push himself further away from his body. Unfortunately, he just hugged him even closer, practically crushing the smaller's fingers against his ribcage. To any passer byer, it might've even looked like they were snuggling. But, the half-fractious, half-disturbed expression on Arthur's face definitely gave away his inner thoughts on the predicament he was in.
"What are you doing!?" he continued. "I said put me down, not c-c-cuddle me!"

Now it was Alfred's turn to blush, however he masked it expertly with a bellowing laugh, throwing his head back to the sky. In the dim lighting, it sent shivers down Arthur's spine, only reinforcing his want to get as far away from the other teen as possible.

"I'm just making sure you don't fall," Alfred responded, his electric eyes glowing like blue hellfire behind his spectacles. "Don't get so defensive."

"I'm not getting defensive!"

"Yes, you are."
Arthur opened his mouth to yell another objection, yet he was cut off by the other's loud statement as he spotted the car, sitting proudly on the side of the road up ahead, exactly where they had left it two hours ago. He gulped, realizing that Crumpet was still nowhere in sight. It could've been a possibility that she'd have returned to the last place that she'd seen her master, yet that didn't seem to be the case.

"She's not there," he murmured, just loud enough for himself to hear. A gash in his heart opened up wide enough for all of his blood to spill out. But, the wound wasn't physical. It was emotional, and that only made it so much worse. For a few seconds, he felt like crying again…but he wouldn't. Not whilst he was still in the idiotic teen's arms and not whilst there was still somebody else with him. Wiping his nose on the arm of his jacket, which was just peeking through the bigger sleeve of Alfred's red coat, which he still had wrapped around himself, Arthur sniffed to mask a whimper. He obstinately refused to look any weaker in front of Alfred and break his pride any more than he had already that night.

As said teen neared the car, he rested Arthur unceremoniously on the bonnet, and (ignoring his complaints) rummaged in his pockets for the keys. A light jangling sound was heard as the metal clinked together, and the lights flashed bright orange as he unlocked the vehicle and gently laid Arthur down in the passenger seat. Even for a hefty oaf, he could definitely be tender at times, as proven by how he delicately fed Arthur's injured legs in through the door.

"I'm not a bloody woman," he muttered nervously, a scarlet tinge playing on his features. "You don't have to be so careful."

"I don't wanna hurt you," was Alfred's answered, followed by a bashful smile and a shrug. Git. Although the word was immensely clear in his mind, Arthur didn't utter it out loud and just scowled, pressing himself against the back of the car seat as the door slammed shut beside him. The lack of his furry, equestrian friend still left a cold, open pour in his chest, but he felt somewhat better at the fact that he'd actually at least tried to look for her. Perhaps if he stared out of the window, he might spot her, a horse shadow blemishing the meadows and fields as she galloped across the hills and dales. Yet, he had to be rational. In the space of time that Alfred and he had been searching, Crumpet could be anywhere. Adamant not to seem defeated, he tugged his own and the Yank's jacket tight, up to his neck, and stared glumly out of the glass that trapped him inside the vehicle.
A hesitant pinky hue had started to run the sky an attractive shade of rose, blending with the impending darkness. The stars that had previously blazed across the horizon were faded into the blossoming colours of amber and tawny auburn, drowning in the early morning light. A few stray rays from the sun, trying to peek over the hummocks, glowed softly, a timid undertow to the disappearance of twilight. Arthur risked a glance at the digital clock positioned behind the steering wheel. 5:13am.

"Shit," he muttered, clutching his temples as though he had a migraine. He might as well have, knowing that he'd stayed up the whole night in the blistering cold weather and ended up twisting his ankle. He doubted he'd be able to get home before his parents arrived home, and then he'd have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

"What?" Alfred asked, rubbing his hands together, massaging out the numbness that the icy winds had gifted him with.

"I'm never going to get home on time," Arthur growled, slumping, crushed, in his seat. He didn't even want to contemplate the fact that the same idiot who'd hit his horse would be driving him home. He hated that so much that it hurt. Why did the stupid Yankee have to insist on being all heroic and saving the day? It was hardly necessary, yet he was immovable and too stubborn to trust the Brit with the simple task of walking home alone. When Arthur chanced a glance at said teen, he was shot a mischievous grin. Something about the way Alfred's lips curled into that impish smile and the gleam behind his glasses spelled out trouble. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Hah, I can get you home with time to spare!" Alfred hollered proudly, his eyes glowing, not unlike a fierce jolt of oceanic-blue electricity. Without even waiting for his passenger to get comfortable or share his opinion on the danger of him driving a car, he'd clasped both of his hands around the steering wheel, removed the hand brake and slammed down his foot on the accelerator, all the while chuckling as though he was on a roller coaster. Arthur was immediately flung back in his seat, eyes wide and frightened as the car bumped back onto the road and sped across the tarmac, screeching aggressively and probably leaving scorched tire marks in its wake. Somehow, he regretted entering the car in the first place – not that he really had a choice – as the death-trap thundered down the country road, dust flying across the first few rosy streaks of morning. If one listened hard enough, they might've just been able to hear some very fine-tuned, posh-voiced shrieks echoing across the countryside that night.

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Author's Note

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Here's a big thank you to everybody who has decided to leave a review and to the people who added this story to their favourites and alerts list.

Anyhow, I don't think I have much more to say on this chapter, since it kinda already explains itself…hopefully…

Oh yeah, and the way it's supposed to be going now relationshipwise: Alfred has a slight crush on Arthur, and Arthur doesn't give a damn because he doesn't quite understand homosexuality (yet).

Chapter word count: 12,281 words

Total word count (so far): 50,118 words

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Thanks for reading!

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