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Chapter V

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By the time Alfred had pulled the car up against the pavement, thoroughly spent from his night's work of horse-hunting, the twilight had dimmed considerably, giving way to a blissful summer morning complete with the sun rising softly over the neighbouring houses and flooding the street with amber light. The digital clock within the car read 6:37am before it flickered off, along with the guttural roaring of the vehicle's engine. Normally, his grandparents weren't up and about until half past seven, so he might just be able to get away with creeping to his room and falling asleep. They wouldn't mind if he slept until lunchtime, would they?
Nonetheless, he realized it simply was not to be as his gaze fell upon the blaring lights of his father's study, and the silhouette moving within. No doubt he'd heard the car pull up and was moving to the front door.

Oh shit, I'm screwed.

The blond stifled a sigh, slumping backwards in the chair and hoping that he might just sink into it and become one with the car. Then, he wouldn't have to face the wrath of his dad. Truthfully, he was somewhat anxious of the man's temper. He'd never beaten him, nor had he abused him, but…it wasn't pleasant. How his eyes would narrow, and something just short of disappointment would flash across his face. Contempt? Complacency? Scorn, even? Whatever the emotion was, it couldn't be dissatisfaction since he never expected anything extraordinary of Alfred anyway. The teenager knew that much, and wasted time in the car by wiping sweaty hands on the leather seat behind him, running his fingers through his hair whilst expertly avoiding the protruding cowlick with the ease of long experience and moving his glasses as if they actually did aid his vision. There was no kidding himself, though. He knew he'd have to exit the car at some point in time, or his father would probably come and drag him out himself.

"Right. Just be brave," he muttered to himself, offering self-encouragement. "You can do this. Maybe he doesn't even know that you're gone…" An empty statement, but it was worth it, right? That hope was quickly dashed as Alfred moved his hand to get out of the car and saw the unmistakeable figure of James Jones standing in the doorway. Even though he was a handle of feet away, the teen could practically feel his icy blue gaze scorching his skin and bearing deep into the fathomless caverns of his soul. A chilly finger traced patterns across his spine as he, gulping and perspiring liberally, dared to take the first step out of the vehicle, feeling his trainer slap against the pavement. Despite the noise being at the same sound level as a mouse squeak, it seemed as loud as an explosion of thunder in the sky.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…

There was no use offering false consolation. Alfred was in for it and there was absolutely no escape. Pausing only to pull the car keys from the ignition, he sauntered away from the now-locked car with an air of anticipation. Although his body language was casual and cool, his deportment flowing smoothly as he carried himself up to the front step, his expression and the aura that surrounded him screamed out his discomfort and dread for the world to hear. A pool of metal, impossibly cold, had collected in the pit of his stomach and each step towards the house took a lifetime. Heart thumping wildly, a mess of fleshy muscle pounding with rehearsed unease against his ribcage, he finally halted, fingers furling and unfurling as he stared at his father. The larger of the two leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe, ostensibly bored. But his eyes gave away his true thoughts, although Alfred would not meet them. He could feel them, so cold that it burned against his skin, drinking in everything about him, reading his thoughts.
Why won't he say anything? The two of them must've been standing there for at least a full minute, yet neither had uttered a word. Alfred hadn't dared to start the conversation, but he realized that if he didn't speak now, nobody would. Clearing his throat and straightening up, still adamantly refusing the lock gazes with his father, he spoke.

"H-h-hey, Dad." He cringed at how pathetic he sounded. He'd known how awkward it would be facing his family if he got home too late and managed to get himself into a confrontation with them, but he never thought it would be this bad. "Uhhh…good morning…?"

"Get inside. Now."
Alfred could only obey, oppressed by that despotic gaze that followed him through the door. He could feel it scathing his skin; scrutinizing his face, scorching through the hair on the nape of his neck. He could only pray that he didn't look as pitiable as he felt, dolefully stood in the hallway. Floorboards creaking ominously beneath his feet, he stared down the corridor. There was no other sound or presence in the little house, save his own rapid heartbeat, attempting to crack his ribs and burst through his chest, and his father's stone-cold aura. Everything else was still and silent. Where's Gran and Gramps? he wondered sullenly. Alfred knew they were probably awake and awaiting his arrival in the front room. Damnit, those were the last people he wanted to face. Probably the nicest beings on Earth, both with tender smiles and gazes brimming with warmth and affection, he didn't want to imagine how they'd look at him once they realized what he'd done.
Gulping and forcing a deep breath into his lungs, he shuddered and glanced uncertainly at James. Strangely, he wasn't staring at him anymore, and continued into the living room, gesturing sharply for Alfred to follow. And he did, albeit tentatively.

A deep, aquamarine carpet greeted his feet, and he almost forgot to remove his shoes, kicking them off clumsily and leaving them in the hallway, both stained with mud. By the time he'd moved back into the lounge, he found his father standing by the television aimlessly, his back turned as he stared at the mantelpiece where a collection of photographs had been lined up. Most were in black and white, fitting in perfectly with the typical "grandparents' house" theme. Alfred knew them well, often staring curiously at them as he lay on the sofa, too bored to do anything else. The first looked like a wedding photo; monochrome with a tall, handsome young man, stern faced in his suit and standing behind his bride, who smiled sweetly as she clutched his arm, a long veil trailing down over her shoulders. When his grandmother had caught him staring, she'd explained that they were her parents – his great-grandparents. A picture next to it was an oil painting, thick, bulky yet somehow delicately woven onto the canvas. It was a flower, blooming shyly with vibrant maroon petals stretching to all corners of the opus. The detail was immaculate, yet the image seemed out-of-place amongst the olden day photographs. Hung on the wall, hovering over the mantelpiece, were two more; one a freckle-faced lad with wispy hair and bright eyes, the other a beautiful maiden with a waterfall of liquid silvery trailing over her scalp and coming to rest on her upper back in an intricate braid.

One of the last pictures on the ledge had always caught Alfred's attention though. A few youths, all male, conversing jovially as they leant against a gigantic aircraft, frozen in a pose of laughter. One sat on one of the wings, nudging the others and gesturing flippantly towards the camera as he grinned. Every single one of them wore a bomber jacket, white airplanes imprinted on the shoulders, yet they had different symbols on the breast pockets. The one with the star on his jacket (and, not surprisingly, the one seated on the wing of the plane), Alfred's grandfather had explained to him, had been his own father and the picture had been taken during WWII since he'd been a pilot in the RAF. Upon further inspection, the teen had actually been able to see the resemblance. It was almost creepy. The man in the photo claimed to be his great-grandfather, who couldn't have been more than twenty years old at the time, even had glasses and a cowlick. It was as though someone had taken Alfred and imprinted him into the black-and-white image as an aviator. There were six other men in the photo, and they'd all been pinpointed and explained to the teen as he stared avidly at each face, drinking in all of the details. One stood slightly below the wing of the plane that Alfred's great-grandfather sat upon, with hair that trailed down to his neck, half-curled, a maple leaf etched onto the breast pocket of his jacket. With large eyes and a timid deportment, he looked extremely familiar, yet the American couldn't quite pinpoint who it reminded him of.

"Your great-great-uncle," his grandfather had said. "My dad's brother, younger by about two years. He died during the Battle of Britain in 1940, about six years before I was born."

Two men stood side-by-side, at the front, one larger and more muscular than the other with his helmet skewed across his head. His grin was wide, and his arm slung over his comrade's shoulder in such a way that it was near impossible to see the symbol on his jacket. A mess of light-coloured hair, silvery in the monotonous photo, framed his face and crowned his head as a few plasters spread themselves across his face. His friend, the smaller, was thin and elusive, his lips curled in a bashful grin as he fiddled mindlessly with the emblem on his coat, which seemed much too big for him, shaped as a flowing fern leaf. Despite their obvious differences in appearance, they both had incredibly thick eyebrows. Thick eyebrows… Wow, that reminded him of something extremely important.

Another man, who actually looked more like a woman than anything else, chatted amiably to another. Long hair, perfectly straight and powdery grey in the photo (giving away that the man was blond), tumbled to his shoulders. Since he was turned slightly away from the camera, the masculine facial features slightly hidden from view, he honestly did look like a woman as he raised a hand to emphasize his point to his comrade. Strangely enough, the symbol emblazoned on his jacket was an eagle. Alfred's grandfather had explained that it was an odd choice since the German symbol was a black eagle, and he may have been mistaken for an enemy soldier if something went awry. But, that was all he'd said, other than he didn't know what had happened to most of the men who'd been friends with his father because, when he'd still been alive, he'd been unwilling to speak of the Second World War. Also seemingly blond, the feminine man's companion, who leant against the front of plane, appeared to listen intently to what he was saying, although his gaze was caught trundling upwards towards the camera. Upon his breast pocket was a roaring lion, facing sideways with its claws stretched out in front of it. Alfred hadn't understood, at first, why they had different symbols, but his grandfather had gladly elaborated, explaining that it was a personal 'thing' that the group of friends had held with them, all throughout WWII.

And, as for the last of the seven men positioned in the photograph, who sat next to Alfred's great-grandfather on the aircraft wing; he leaned upon his shoulder, a book clutched in his hands as he read fervently, oblivious to the commotion erupting around him. Two bushy eyebrows dominated his face, and etched on the front of his own bomber jacket was a rose, slightly circular shaped with the outline of another rose within. That was the man that Gramps had known most about in the photo, minus his own father and uncle. He had remember him as being a close friend who'd often joined his father for a pint at the local pub, been a wild drunk, and, in spite of yelling, shouting and scolding Alfred's great-grandfather on most occasions like an angry mother (or even wife), loved him like a brother. He'd been close to the whole family and become a pilot with the two brothers, great-grandfather and great-great-uncle, going into 33 Wing and 226 Squadron, and grieved heavily when the younger of the two had been killed in action. Alfred's grandfather had explained that their friendship had gone back quite a long way, since the man's family had always lived in a big manor house near Hawkchurch, somewhere in the countryside, and the Joneses had lived in the rural county for a handful of decades, since before the Great War.

"It's a real shame," Gramps had said wistfully at the end of his explanation. "After my dad died, we seemed to lose connection with them." He'd been referring to the rich family, the surname of which he could not recall. "The oldest child of my dad's friend was a couple of years older than me, I remember. When I was a boy of eleven, he was eighteen and ready to inherit their family business. He might've been their only child. I'm not sure if he had any children himself. I'd imagine so, but we wouldn't have known since your dad moved away."

Alfred found his gaze drawn back to the old picture and he stared at it for what seemed like hours until James finally moved, wrenching him from his thoughts. For the first time since he'd entered the room, he realized that neither Gran nor Gramps were there. Where could they be, then? The teen glanced through the half-open door apprehensively. Surely, if his father was awake, they would be up too. Right? A deep sigh forced his eyes back to said man, who'd turned and was facing him with an irritated frown.

"Alright," James began, soundly oddly calm. Alfred would've thought he'd be more pissed off, but that only made it worse. His expectations weren't entirely correct. "First, sit down." Following his orders, he plonked his ass on the nearest piece of furniture, the sofa, massaging the sweaty palms of his hands and biting the inside of his cheek. Another breath was taken. Then, an explosion. "What the fuck did you think you were doing?"

It was rare that his father swore in front of him. It was usually only when he was either very, very angry, or trying to get a point across. Alfred deduced that he might've been angry, but it was difficult to tell through his emotionless mask of cool, but he couldn't think why he'd be trying to get a point across to him, other than the dangers of driving or something like that. He doubted that he'd launch off into a rant about safety though. Perhaps with Matthew, but not with him. He doesn't care enough about my wellbeing…

"Uh…" the teen began awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. His hands needed something to do. He wouldn't just be able to sit there with them glued to his sides. It just didn't feel right for him to do nothing, especially in the given circumstances. So, he began to fidget, working his fingers, cracking his knuckles and staring down at his knees. Did that make him seem guilty, or bored? He wouldn't know. He was never good with reading emotions. Maybe that was why he couldn't tell if his dad was furious or not. He should've been.

"Well? Well?" Dad prompted, impatient. "What do you have to say, Alfred?"

What was he looking for? An apology seemed out-of-place in such a dense atmosphere, yet Alfred knew he'd have to say something rather than just open his mouth and wait for a sound to be produced.

"Uhm…I'm…I'm sorry…?"

"Wow." Mock sarcasm. He had never understood sarcasm. It always befuddled him how to Brits would "take the mick" out of themselves and their friends, or say something in a certain tone of voice whilst rolling their eyes without meaning it. It didn't matter how or why you said it. If you didn't actually mean it, it was either a joke or a lie. "Is that all you have to say? Really? You steal my fucking car for the night and come back at six in the morning, no, passed six in the morning."

And suddenly, it was a tirade. A bombardment of words being thrown at him from all sides. Some were laced with fury and rage, others hinted with sarcasm. But all of the time, James was pacing up and down, flailing his arms around, and not in a comical way. Insults, statements, rhetorical questions, all rained out of his mouth in probably one of the worst scoldings that Alfred had ever got and he had to sit there, listening to all of it. When he was younger, perhaps he'd have been smacked across the upper legs until he cried. Of course, he wasn't going to cry then, but he would've much preferred the smacking.

"You are a stupid child. Honestly, you're a stupid child. What the hell did you think you were doing? Were you thinking at all? No. You weren't. How do you think I felt when I checked your room and you weren't there? And then, my car was missing. Alfred, I was going to call the police. Do you know how serious this is? This is theft. Do you understand that? Do you understand? You stole my car –"

And Alfred zoned out again, scowling and leaning on his knees. He was exhausted, yes, and he wasn't in the mood for this. For a few brief moments, he'd thought his father actually cared about him to phone the police and explain that his son was missing. But, oh no, he would've called the police on his son to explain that he'd stolen his car. And he hadn't even stolen it! There was a fine line between stealing and borrowing. Yes, it was stupid to take his car, but that didn't necessarily mean that he was stupid himself. How many times had he been called stupid in his lifetime? Quite a lot, if he remembered. Most of the time it was when he brought a test paper back from school, immensely proud with himself for what he had considered was a high mark, only to find that Matthew had gotten over double what he got. A painful memory of an English assessment came back to him. He'd been rushing home, dodging through the frozen taxis and burst through the door, shouting out how he'd gotten 41%. And Matthew had gotten 87%. Not the top in the class, but he'd still been praised. And what had Alfred got?

"You could do better."
"Why can't you be more like your brother?"
"He was prepared for this test."
"Stupid child."

Fucking dyslexia. But this time, it wasn't dyslexia's fault. It was his fault. His fault that his dad favoured his brother. His fault that his dad had stayed up all night worrying. His fault that his gran might've had a heart-attack if they got involved with the police. His fault that they'd moved in the first place. His fault, his fault, his fault. Alfred grimaced. What was the reason behind him "stealing" his dad's car again? Was it because he would refuse to teach him to drive, or had there been some ulterior motive hidden in his subconscious, urging him to get as far away from the bungalow and Dad as possible? Either way, some force pushed him to his feet in the middle of James' rant, and some demonic presence erupted deep within him.

"What do you want me to say?!" he yelled. "I've tried, I really have! I've apologized, now what else?! What else do you want me to do?!"
At the beginning of his outburst, his dad had clamped his mouth shut. By the time it ended, he had opened it again, knowing exactly what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say.

"I want you to stop acting like a child," he muttered darkly. "You're sixteen now, Alfred. Grow up, would you?"

Abashed, he glared haughtily at his father. A hardened, rock jaw, chiselled and bristling with youthful stubble, a few tones darker than his strawberry blond locks gave way to oddly smooth cheeks. Despite their fullness and the hair that speckled them, had they been shaved they'd have probably been like porcelain, easy to slide one's finger across. Two piercing blue eyes stared coldly at him, devoid of warmth or affection, sitting atop a short nose moulded with thin nostrils and a pointed tip. He did not harbour raging beauty, yet he wasn't ugly either. For a few moments, Alfred wished he were less attractive so he could dislike his appearance as much as he disliked his emotions. Even though this man was being cruel and unfair, he was still his father and somewhere, deep down in his heart, he still loved him. Somehow. Taking a shaky breath, Alfred opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off rather abruptly.

"Didn't you wear a jacket?" James muttered, frowning as he looked down at the simple black T-shirt that his son was clad in. "You'll catch your death out there. It's cold."

Despite how he almost – almost – seemed to care enough about his son to ask such a blunt question after giving him probably one of the most degrading rebukes ever known to teenagers, even Alfred could sense that there wasn't much caring, if any, in his voice. He hesitated, vaguely remembering the red coat that he'd been clad in as he rushed out of the door, strapped himself in…driving…
His mouth parted into a small 'O' shape, and surprise lit up in his eyes as he recalled probably one of the most prominent events of the night. Arthur. Abnormally charming with a fascinating personality that Alfred wished he could've delved more into, the Brit had, undoubtedly, been one of the most attractive males that he'd chanced upon. And in such an unfortunate way too. He knew he shouldn't have, but flirting with Arthur had been amusing, especially as he'd been quite dense to the American's advances. Either that, or he'd just been cold purposefully, neither rejecting Alfred coy techniques nor properly accepting. That meant he was (well, might be, but he could dream, right?) a homosexual or just incredibly thick when it came to philandering, and Alfred seriously couldn't imagine the cute Englishman to be unintelligent, especially as he had such a gaudy vocabulary. So…he might've actually been gay…
He masked a small smile at the thought. He doubted that he'd ever meet him again, partly because he'd seemed to live so far away and partly because he couldn't remember his address in the dark, yet he wouldn't have minded spending more time in the endearing Brit's company.

Alfred had accidentally loaned his jacket to Arthur after he'd delivered him home. The conversation had been brief as he'd pulled over just outside a looming, portentous structure that the smaller had claimed to be his home. It had looked more like a haunted mansion than a place where somebody would live. Once the Brit had caught his breath and ceased hyperventilating, since he'd been screaming, yelling and swearing throughout the whole ride, he'd instructed the American to go no further than where he'd parked (next to a meadow and quite a number of yards from the house itself) and attempted to leave the vehicle without any assistance. Thanks to his twisted ankle, he'd almost fallen onto the concrete, and had needed Alfred to aid him towards a hedgerow that had rimmed a field next to some stables before insisting that he could make it to the manor by himself. He still remembered the tears that had glistened in his jade eyes and the deep sadness behind them, although he honestly wasn't sure whether it was due to the fact that he'd lost his horse, he'd hurt himself terribly or some other hidden factor that Alfred hadn't known of. Either way, he'd reluctantly stayed to watch Arthur hobble painfully up the road and disappear behind a grove of tall trees. It was only when he'd started driving again that he realized he still had his red jacket. Nonetheless, it didn't matter. He had plenty of jackets, and he wouldn't miss that one. It wasn't special.

"No," Alfred lied, almost giddily. "I didn't have one."

"You idiot," James breathed, although it wasn't as harsh as his former tirade and came across as more of a jest. "Don't come crying to me if you get the flu."

"Fine," came his son's dismissive answer. The icy night winds against his bare arms had been stinging with frost, however he knew that Arthur would need more warmth than he since he was thinner and Alfred knew he had a strange ability to keep a constant body temperature. Although he could feel the cold, it didn't seem to affect him, outwardly or inwardly. The last time he'd had a cold was when he'd been five, and even then it had just been a runny nose. Matthew was always the one who got sick easily. Besides, the teen liked playing the hero, and would much rather swoop in to rescue somebody rather than stand by and watch as someone else suffered. In this case, Arthur had been suffering and he'd swooped in with his thick red jacket to "save" him.

"Go to bed," his father ordered brusquely, seeing the loose circles underneath Alfred's eyes for the first time that morning. "You look dreadful."
Murmuring an obscure "thanks," he turned away, wanting nothing more than to just collapse in his bed and forget everything. Except Arthur. Some things were better of remembered, even if Alfred had almost killed him by knocking him off of his horse and caused him to cry. More than once. He wanted to shudder, yet his body couldn't seem to find the strength to do so.
"Oh, and Alfred," James continued, causing the teen to halt momentarily, his ears thirsting for what kind of words would leave his dad's mouth now. "Your grandparents don't know about this, and I don't mean to tell them. I wouldn't want them to be disappointed in you."

What did he just say? Did he just say that he wouldn't tell them? Positively perplexed, Alfred stared doubtfully over his shoulder, mouth wide open. He was mistrustful, not wanting to believe the words that his own father had said, yet the man wasn't smiling as though it were all some big joke. He didn't like that. Why wouldn't he tell them? It surely couldn't be mercy or some sort of reprieve. So, what was it? What made his father keep quiet? Yet, Alfred certainly wasn't urging him to be truthful. He didn't want his grandparents to think as lowly of him as his parents. That would just hurt too much, especially after all of the affection they'd showed towards him, affection that he'd previously been starved of.

And then he thought back to the car journey when James had interrupted his confession that he was gay. He wasn't being compassionate, or forgiving, or sympathetic. He was ashamed. Ashamed that they'd judge the both of them put together and blame him for Alfred's shortcomings. He knew that if he revealed what his son had actually done that night, he'd be impugned. There was no kindness or understanding. There was nothing. Suddenly feeling extraordinarily dizzy and sick, Alfred snapped his head around and power-walked to his room, wanting to bury himself in his duvet and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. If he was lucky, he wouldn't wake up until supper time.

If he wants to be like that, I don't care. Perhaps he should've been grateful for his father's silence, but he certainly didn't feel like thanking him. The light 'tep tep' sounds from the floorboards above signalled that his grandparents were awake and mobile, shuffling across their bedroom and preparing to come down to prepare breakfast and whatnot. Alfred honestly couldn't care less, and he hoped absent-mindedly that they wouldn't mind him sleeping late into the day, closing the bedroom door behind him with more force than necessary. The walls vibrated as he continued and slumped onto the duvet, still ruffled from last night, kicking off his jeans and replacing them with a pair of red striped shorts and tearing his T-shirt over his head. He collapsed, swiping his face to search for signs of tears, since he didn't know if he'd let some loose in the brief time that he'd stormed from the living room – there were none, thank God – before removing his glasses and wrapping the blankets around himself, encasing his entire body in a soft prison. It may have proven to be too hot for it, but he honestly couldn't find the capacity in his brain to care.

Poking his face through an opening in the swathe of sheets, Alfred stared mindlessly through the window and at his clock. The digits read 7:09am, and he could just about see the rising sun over the field, illuminating the shapes of cows below and the fresh grass sweeping in the breeze. A sea of rippling blades. It would've been a beautiful morning had his mind not been tainted with negative thoughts, and he almost- just almost – let himself cry. In situations like this when he'd argued with his father (his mother wasn't exactly…an argumentative person), Matthew would always be waiting to listen and console him. But there was nobody beside him, sitting on the bed to hear his rants nor was there anyone to offer him words of kindness and solace that he knew weren't true. Matthew wasn't there. Matthew was in France. That thought alone was enough to make him weep, yet he held in it bitterly, trapping the tears that threatened to fall behind his irises. Alfred felt them, hot, and desperately wanting to seep down his cheeks, yet he wouldn't let them. He never cried, and he wouldn't succumb to such emotions now of all times.

Instead, he smiled. It was a little smile, obviously forced, but a smile all the same. Peeking through the covers, his lips stretched outwards and curled upwards. If he smiled enough, maybe the day would get better when he awoke. Maybe he'd wake to the smell of delectable food floating through his closed door and his grandmother's grin, and his grandfather's brilliant jokes and playful teases. That would make him feel much better, he knew. And so he fell into slumber, exhausted by the night's activities and hoping for a brighter tomorrow.

Dreamful and cavernous. Just the way he liked it.

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Dying moonlight bathed the sheets a pale rose-pink, playing with the intricate designs on the duvet and teasing the violet patterns that spread out across the carpet on the floor. It was oddly cold, though the window was closed, and the curtains hung still, undrawn and letting only the smallest slivers of light through. Silvery, it wreathed across the bedroom, a long finger that poked the blankets tentatively, worming all across the floor. Shadows draped the areas that it didn't touch, deep, marble grey and dim. Not as impenetrable as the blackness outside though, Arthur noted. He lay, breathing deeply, with his eyes wide open and staring at his chest of drawers. Somehow, his mind was alive, racing with colourful thoughts and images that warded off sleep. Despite spending most of the night and morning outside in the cold, he could not find himself tired enough to fall into a slumber. His ankle ached, not as painful as the burning sensation that had ripped through it before when he'd been limping up the drive, but a dull throb in the early hours of the morning.

He didn't dare check what the time was on his clock. If his hunch was correct, it would be coming up to half past six. A sleepless night – huh…Arthur wasn't unused to those. He was restless, stubborn to the advances of sleepiness, yet he didn't move and stayed rooted to his spot, hollowed in the mattress. Something bound him there, and whether it was the fear of waking his parents or brothers if he dared to move or the fact that he was in quite a comfortable position where he lay – wait, this position wasn't comfortable at all – he wasn't sure. His injured leg was stretched out awkwardly under the heavy duvet, whilst he curled the other up to his abdomen. Arms snaked around one of his pillows as though it were a real person, he supported his neck with his shoulder. It wasn't very practical for sleeping.

Just mere minutes ago, Arthur had been limping across the field towards the stables, the mad hope that he might be able to haul himself through the branches of his familiar oak tree and through the window that would lead him to his bedroom running through his mind. Terrified that the rev of Alfred's stupid car would arouse his family from their dreams, he'd adamantly insisted that he could make his way to the manor house alone. Even though he'd sourly regretted that decision as he'd dragged himself over to the great building, a silhouette waiting in the rays projected from the moon silently voiced to him that his final resolution had been rather sensible. He hadn't expected it, and almost jumped out of his skin when he saw the figure waiting by the stone structure of the stables, but Cillian had been standing there since three in the morning. The redhead had shuffled from his dwelling by the gatepost, shamrock eyes glittering murderously, and strode down to where Arthur struggled through the meadow. His words had been clear, the conversation quick and short.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" he'd cursed. "What in the name of fuck did you think you were doing, going out riding at a time like this!? I've been here for the best part of three hours, worried sick about you. When Allistor said you hadn't come back from the stables, I'd thought that you were just throwing a strop, but it's six o'clock, Arthur! Six o'fucking clock!"

The thought that Cillian had actually been worried was puzzling enough – he never appeared to care for anyone but himself – and Arthur couldn't for the life of him think why he was so pissed about him returning home at six in the morning. It was a tight schedule, but he'd wandered through the gates at later than that before, reeking of alcohol and sometimes tobacco. Wisely, he'd decided to leave that out in his explanation, deducting that his eldest brother was ignorant to his secret nightlife, just like their parents. He never knew anything about him anyway, not even his birthday. He often got his age muddled up as well, believing him to be fourteen rather than sixteen. That fact alone was incredibly irritating, more so that Alfred, the American twit who couldn't drive to save his own life, had mistaken him for being thirteen.

"So, what the heck were you doing, then?" Cillian had questioned forcefully, his freckled face almost scarlet with rage. His voice sounded a million times more aggressive with the Irish accent surging through it, harsher and grittier than before. "Tell me why I saw one of the fucking horses galloping across the meadows, without you on its back, with its saddle and reins on. Tell me!"

Yes, apparently Crumpet had managed to find her own way home, uninjured, but severely spooked to the point that she'd reared in fright upon seeing the redhead student waiting for her by the stables. He'd dealt with her accordingly, untacking her and leading her back to her stall where she'd allegedly been by the time Arthur had returned. The news that she was unhurt and safe had been like a Godsend, and he'd almost broken down crying from sheer relief. Yet, he hadn't, knowing he'd have to explain to Cillian his reasons for doing so. Reluctantly, suspiciously, he'd elaborated, wanting nothing more than to get to the sanctuary of his room. The nip of the night air on his face had started to feel painful and he swore the liquid in his eyes would freeze if he stayed outside much longer. That, and his leg had started to feel more and more uncomfortable, throbbing inconsistently as he stood, explaining his situation and listening his brother's outraged reprimands. There hadn't really been anything to say, other than argue back, and Arthur had not been in the mood. He'd wasted all of his words on Alfred.

The Brit scowled, glaring at the red jacket, smeared with mud and grass stains, slumped over the armchair by his window. He'd only realized, after Cillian had escorted him (rather vehemently, since he'd grabbed his wrist and effectively dragged him back to the house) to the front door, and hissed quietly at him as he limped up the steps, that he'd still been wearing the bloody thing. The stupid American must've forgotten to remind him about it, which made Arthur feel both idiotic and scatter-brained. What was he supposed to do with it? It wasn't like he'd wear it anywhere- it was much too big! Nonetheless, he'd still thrown it to its final resting place, upon the arm of the chair he never used, and found himself staring viciously at it as though it were the Yank himself. That goofy grin that had been stretched across his face had been just about enough to make his blood boil.

What on earth had made him so…touchy-feely? At first, Arthur had been too shocked to do anything other than gawk as the idiot had wrapped his head (albeit badly) in bandages, offered him his coat and carried him, bloody bridal style back to the death-trap car that had almost killed both him and horse. But, afterwards, he'd become incredibly sceptical, especially as he'd tried to physically aid him up the drive when he'd stumbled. Gentlemanly behaviour was definitely not frowned upon by the Brit, but…he hadn't been able to stop thinking that Alfred had been oddly…well, affectionate. Almost as though he was treating him like a woman. Not that Arthur was sexist, of course, but all of those 'kind' acts had been the sort of pick-up attempts at wooing a silly little high school girl. Most of the clichés had been ticked, what with the whole 'being his saviour' in the forest literally trying to sweep him off of his feet. He felt a bit foolish that he hadn't picked up on the strange, strange American's actions until he'd lay down and properly had a chance to think everything through, but the thoughts just wouldn't stop irritating him, delving deep into the parts of his mind. Such a peculiar concept… All of Alfred's actions must've been unorthodox, for they were far too caring and ungainly to be classified as just being helpful. Had he harboured an ulterior motive? What exactly had he been doing? What exactly had he been thinking?

Huffing irately, Arthur closed his eyes in another futile attempt to bid sleep to come. It didn't, and the action only proved to make him more agitated. He didn't particularly want to get up and face his parents later in the morning. What if they'd noticed his absence? No… he doubted it, since the last his mother had seen of him was went he'd been hastily scrambling up to his room. She'd been oblivious to the fact that he'd even left the house. Either way, he was still reluctant to move from his position. It wasn't cosy, yet his limbs felt heavy, leaded and weighed down with fatigue, so much so that it was simply too much effort to do anything other than just lie there.

Arthur didn't know how long he'd actually been resting there, the duvets collapsed on top of him, but by the time he'd started concentrating on the sounds outside of room, he was aware that somebody was moving around. Thumping steps, signalling that someone was awake and active on the second floor, most probably Dylan since the other brothers didn't awaken until much later. Unless his assumptions were wrong and it was later than he anticipated. The moonlight beams had been replaced with a few hazy streams of rippling amber, softly simmering against the carpet and generating all of the colours of the sunrise upon the panelled walls. Dust motes floated in the atmosphere, miniscule shiny specks of light that danced across the flourishing sunshine lazily, completely carefree. Arthur envied them and their easy journey, drifting through the air without a concern or worry or trouble. How different it would be to lead a life like a fragment of dirt. Then again, that would be fairly dreary as well.

Forgetting the pain in his leg for a few seconds, the Brit turned over and hissed, feeling the sharpness jar through his ankle and vibrate along his shin. Shit. Note to self: don't move too much. The previous noises of footsteps were soon accompanied by a repetitive rhythm of sloshing liquid, so Arthur deduced simply that whoever was conscious was in the shower, and it was definitely either Dylan or Allistor, since he could hear the water originating from the bathroom beside his room. He decided that once the mystery person was done doing their business in the shower, he would attempt to get up, even if his leg ached terribly. It wouldn't do to just stay in bed all day. He would be going to boarding school soon, and he had to prove that he was well enough to do so.

With an abrupt realization, Arthur recalled that he would actually be leaving in just two days' time. It had already been arranged that Arthur would catch a bus to Bristol and board a train there that would take him up to York, North Yorkshire. He was content with the idea of publicly travelling, since the other option would've been that his father drove him for the entire five hour journey. Had Allistor obtained his driving license, he would've gone with him instead (since Allistor would've dropped him off en-route to Edinburgh) which would've been about five times more acceptable, but one hundred times more stressful. He preferred taking a train, to be brutally honest about it. Also, it meant that there wouldn't be too much fuss about him trying to get his guitar out of the stables. Obviously, he'd be taking that with him, yet he'd have to smuggle it away somehow without either of his parents noticing. It seemed that they trusted him enough to at least get to the bus stop alone, so he could swindle it away whilst saying farewell to the horses. And then he'd be free, at last.

Away from all of the tiresome religious practices, away from church, away from his suffocating Bible lectures. Just, away. And he wouldn't have to deal with any of the shit that such a perfectionist family loaded onto him anymore. Oh, the joys of boarding school! Arthur only wished it could've been further away. Although his family weren't expecting any phone calls, e-mails or letters from him, a five hour drive away was still inconvenient. He was still in the same country as them which didn't help matters. Then again, he wasn't bilingual, so if he were going to an English-speaking boarding school, he'd have either had to look extremely hard or go to America. And thus, the thoughts of Alfred F. Jones flooded back into his head.

Bloody hell, why am I still thinking about that arse-brained Yank!? Scowling, Arthur craned his ears for a noise that wasn't there anymore. The torrent of water from the shower had ended, meaning that he'd have to force himself to get up. There wasn't any physical activity that he was particularly ravenous on doing, but he still had hopes of visiting the stables, just to check Crumpet and see if Cillian's words had been true or not. And maybe he could catch up on some guitar practice. Thankfully, he didn't have a hangover though he'd downed some whiskey and beer, so Arthur just propped himself up onto his elbow, discarding both his pillows and sheets. He hadn't changed out of his night clothes, still sweat-slathered and grimy with mud, so he shrugged them off before trying to move.

Wincing as a splintering ache exploded in his shin, which was now starting to swell, Arthur just lightly touched his toes to the ground. It did hurt, but if he tried to manoeuvre himself correctly and put as little weight as possible on it, he might just be able to stumble across the room, have a shower and get outside without causing too much of a fuss. Easier said than done. Bare-chested, he fumbled in the dimness of the bedroom for his robe, illuminated only by the cascade of orange light, and wrapped it loosely around himself, being sure to obscure the dark angel wing tattoos on his back. It just wouldn't do if one of his brothers managed to spot the lingering ink. In fact, he might as well have just died if they did. It would've been better than facing his parents. Proceeding to remove his jeans, which had left a nice red line across his waist where they'd been digging in all night, Arthur shuffled through the door and into the hallway.

Luckily, there was nobody there, and whoever had occupied the shower beforehand had moved on. Taking a short amount of time to wash himself and apply deodorant, he just staggered back to the safety of the bedroom again, clutching the walls for support. Family portraits glared down at him, the rebellious teenage boy tripping down the corridor, their eyes gleaming under their thick locks of wiry hair known as eyebrows. Some had nimble and delicate features, gently curving and not so bad to look at. Others wore pensive expressions, their jawlines bold, jagged and sculpted to match the dark colour of their hair. Arthur knew which side of the family was most reminiscent in his features, that was for sure. Much like the young ladies with hair sewn from fine, golden silk, his facial construction resembled that of a child, not abundantly boyish, but only holding a few streaks of pubescent masculinity here and there. Sometimes he was grateful for his eyebrows for they made him look stronger and brasher, more like a man. Not that he wanted to look like a complete and utter brute though. He'd rather look sophisticated, yet wild…an abnormal combination, yet somehow it worked with both his fashion sense and personality.

Once within his haven again, Arthur just tugged on a couple of clean clothing items, laid out neatly in his scarce chest of drawers. He would have to get most of his attire – that hadn't already been packed – washed again before adding it to his bulging suitcase. It was problematic trying to tug on some chinos but, with a few whines and yelps of agony along the way, he managed to fully clothe himself and began half-hopping, half-walking (purposefully) down the hall. The stairs awaited him, yet they proved to be an easily overcome obstacle, especially since he had the support of the banister. It was once he was in the entrance hall, walls stretched out far away from each other with a vast yawning space in front of him, did he check the time on the great grandfather clock in the corner. Its pendulum swung cyclically, a mesmerising instrument of hypnotism that had used to lull him to sleep when he'd been a toddler, watching with rapt fascination as it swayed back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth…Arthur snapped out of his childhood sonata with a twitch of his neck and a flick of his hair. What time was it again? Oh yeah. 7:39am.

He could pass for some tea to calm his head, he decided, and milled around in the kitchen for a few moments, leaning on the counter to support himself, before he sensed the presence of another being strolling around the house. Just as he was leaving the pot to brew on the stove, a flutter of footsteps upon flagstones alerted his ears and Arthur briefly glanced over his shoulder. He snorted. In the doorway, tall and lanky with a bundle of damp hair falling onto his shoulders was Dylan. His jaded gaze was focused on the blond, staring with rapt tiredness at his heavy deportment. Following a brief flash of surprise that swam across his eyes, he shuffled to a counter not-to0-far, yet not-far-enough and fished a mug out of the drawer, most probably to make himself a cup of tea or coffee.

"I thought you'd have gone out again last night," he muttered simply. Dylan was due to leave for Wales to attend university in three days, travelling in much the same way as Arthur, though he'd be catching a train to Cardiff across the Channel instead of York.

"No," his younger brother snorted irritably. "I just…stayed in the stables…" The lie was jagged, tasting somewhat sour on his tongue, but Dylan either didn't notice or didn't care.

"Cillian was worried." His response to Arthur's explanation was blunt, simply stating the obvious as the blond fiddled around the pot, filled to the brim with infusing tea and wondered whether he should reprieve the teacup waiting at the edge of the counter. He traced patterns across the hot surface, lost in thought for a few minutes. All he could manage after a while was a scowl at the reminder of Alfred's wide, uncaring grin and the mischievous glint behind his glasses. Such an idiot. Arthur wondered what on Earth had compelled the fool to go driving so late anyway, despite being underage. Then again, he could say the same for himself with his erratic drinking habits. After the briefest of brief frowns had passed from his maw, he clutched the cup fervently and started to slosh the freshly concocted tea inside, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't want to continue his conversation with his brother, yet it seemed inevitable as he started to slowly and painfully make his way from the room, struggling to put any weight on the calf that he'd twisted out in the forest last night.
"Why are you limping?" Dylan asked, raising an eyebrow once he'd moved over to where Arthur had been previously standing, kneading his own mug through his fingers.

Arthur paused, scooping up various replies until he settled on something short and menial that didn't require much, if any, elaboration. "I slipped on the stairs." Without awaiting any further interrogation, he had fled from the kitchen and hidden himself away in the drawing room, seated uncomfortably on the piano stool. He had no aching desire to play such an elegant instrument, especially since his parents had showed no signs of awakening, yet he found some solace knowing that Dylan would probably retire to the living room, or dining room to sip his tea, or coffee, or whatever beverage he'd been fetching. Arthur wasn't exactly bothered. He leaned back comfortably, staring spacily out of the window to the right side of the room. Thick curtains had been drawn, silky velvet tumbling down to graze the wooden floorboards, but he could still just about see the sun crumbling into view, a few rays bypassing the gnarled roots of the oak tree that he used to climb down so often. It struck him as odd how he'd be leaving all of it behind.

Holidays never counted since they weren't permanent, but Arthur suddenly found himself nervous about moving up to North Yorkshire. He was ecstatic, of course – why wouldn't he be? – but a deeper sense of foreboding had started to worm its way into his mind, adding a heavier, colder feeling to all of the positive thoughts he'd been previously conjuring. They weren't "what if"s, nor were there doubts…they were more of concerns about his new life. He was fairly independent, he knew. He'd survived through high school all alone, hadn't he? Boarding school was something new entirely though. Despite the "college", ahem school, looking very welcoming on the website, with its rustic location and traditional atmosphere along with seemingly cosy dorms for Sixth Formers, Arthur knew that it would be difficult to settle down. He didn't mind being away from family, but the school looked awfully big and this wouldn't just be the simple transition from primary school to high school. This would be his higher education and he had to get it right, otherwise he'd find himself permanently wedged under his parents' roof with a terribly paid job at a greasy garage as an engineer. He shuddered visibly at the thought, a few drops of tea speckling onto his fingers.

Lifting the cup to his mouth, Arthur sipped daintily, relishing the cool taste, not too sweet yet not plain. He always allowed the steam to dissipate so that he didn't burn his tongue, but this time, he could still feel uncomfortable warmth ebbing away on the inside of his cheeks. It mildly scalded his mouth, detracting from the wonderful experience of indulging himself in a cuppa in the morning. Not majorly, but enough to provoke a frown. Enough with the negative thoughts. He didn't need to delve too deep into his future. All that mattered was that he was finally going to get some peace by moving away from his parents and brothers and that his life was finally able to begin without somebody breathing down his neck and secretly instructing him exactly what to think, do, say and believe.

A tight churning sensation erupted in his stomach as he finally set the piece of ornately crafted china down on the coffee table, reminding Arthur of something he should have done the moment he'd gotten out of the shower and dressed into remotely passable attire. Eyes widening at his immense forgetfulness, he was on his feet, albeit whimpering slightly at the abrupt pressure he applied to his foot, and hobbling towards the front door in a matter of minutes. The creaks and groans from the ceiling only accelerated his progress, as he realized that his father was probably awake and preparing himself to depart for work. Considering he hadn't had a real conversation with John Kirkland since he'd been a boy, long years before he'd reached adolescence and even longer years before his father had grown solemn and sombre in the twilight of his youth, discussions between the two were often brief and bitter, and Arthur had no desire to share any words with the middle-aged capitalist. His timing was immaculate, for no sooner had he opened the door, shoved on some shoes and started down the stone steps towards the familiar horse stalls, Mr Kirkland was walking down the staircase to prepare himself a cup of tea to start the day. His son was too far away to notice though.

He limped across the fields that he'd traversed about two hours or so before, his eyes fixed to the place where he knew his horse would be awaiting. An apology was quivering on his tongue, as were many sweet, comforting words for his dear friend, Crumpet, and his hands trembled with the rashness of his actions last night. He would never forgive himself for being so…so…childish. Nor would he forgive his brothers, especially not Cillian. Although it struck Arthur as incredibly odd that he actually gave two craps about him, he did not want to hold that fact in his heart. After all, Cillian was Cillian and most probably incapable of caring about anything other than himself. But, what did Arthur know? He hadn't seen him for the best parts of two years, so his eldest brother's life remained a shrouded mystery, one that he didn't want to probe into.

The blond reached the stables behind schedule, hindered by the troubles his leg caused him. He only hoped that the injury healed by the time he was off to boarding school. The last thing he needed was his mother fretting over him and asking questions, or his first week of freedom to be ruined by something that could've easily been prevented. Wedging his hands by the great, oak doors, he grunted as he pulled them apart, the usual musty smell and scent of horsiness wafting up his nostrils. It was like home, friendly and hospitable. The rafters overhead looked no different to how they'd been last night, and the cobblestones dipped and crumbled in their normal formation beneath Arthur's feet. Probably the only changed was the glass embedded in the soft peat outside, dried whiskey staining it murky orange and saturating the ground around it, a tainted blessing to the earth. Either way, Arthur was not searching for things that he already knew would be waiting for him. Instead, his eyes raked the stalls desperately. What if Cillian had been lying? What if she's actually hurt, or if she's not here?

His pleas for her safe return must've been answered, for when he looked for a second time, this time being more careful with ears and eyes wide open for noise or sight, he heard an acquainted nicker of greeting and noticed a flash of sandy fur behind the stable door, complimented by those same deep eyes that he'd missed so much last night. Arthur barely had enough words to express his joy at seeing her again, this time at home within reach, and instead found himself in her stall, burying his face into her neck whilst crooning apologies. His arms were flung around Crumpet's neck, hands holding her downy fur as though it were a lifeline. To his pleasant surprise, she did not rear her head away or push at him with her muzzle, remembering the unfortunate events of their annulment, but instead nuzzled his shoulder with affection, snorting lowly. Arthur smiled gently, running his fingers through the fleece as though he'd forgotten everything about his horse, exhaling shakily. He'd almost lost her, his only friend. Was it sad to consider her a friend in the first place? Nonetheless, he did, and he wouldn't trade her for the world.

"I'm so, so sorry," he whispered remorsefully, knowing that Crumpet wouldn't be able to understand him anyway. Either way, he hoped that his loving tone and cosseting expressed his sorrow if the content if his words couldn't. After he believed that his stupidity had been at least quarterly justified, Arthur took a hesitant step backwards, falling into the hay. Golden stalks tickled his cheeks, swathing him in an odd sensation of being pricked yet cuddled at the same time. A sigh of relief left his lips at the sudden weight that had been lifted from his leg, and he took the moment of solitary peace as an opportunity to check his injury. Although no longer swollen or inflamed, it still appeared tender and burned to touch. It looked like he wouldn't be doing anything too strenuous for a while. Arthur didn't really mind about that though. The only loss would be horseriding, and he didn't particularly want to stress out Crumpet any more than he needed to by taking her on a long ride. Then again…he wouldn't be doing that for a while.

Since he'd be attending a boarding school, he wouldn't see Crumpet until he came back for the holidays. He doubted he'd want to return during half-term, but Christian holidays like Christmas and Easter would be mandatory unless he wanted to have his arse handed to him on a plate by his father. Damn. Arthur hadn't actually thought about that. He frowned up at the honey-coloured mare from his position on the ground. He didn't want to leave her behind, but he highly doubted he'd be able to take her with him. Firstly, the school definitely wouldn't allow it since it didn't appear as though they had any riding facilities, and secondly, he had no means of transportation to take her. It wasn't like he could just fold her up and shove her into his full-to-bursting suitcase.

"Looks like I won't be spending any more time with you for a while, girl," Arthur sighed. If he had the strength, he would've gotten up to give her a pat, but he didn't, so he just lay there. He knew that in his absence, his mother would take good care of her and the other horses, meaning that he'd have to clean the alcohol out of the tack room, just in case she managed to discover it. Crumpet whinnied softly and lowered her head towards him, rubbing the tip of her nose against his chest. The blond teen just grinned delicately, running his palm from her forehead to her muzzle. An odd thought suddenly struck his mind. If Crumpet were a human, what would she look like? A strange question to ask himself, he knew, but he still began to paint a picture in his mind of what she'd look like as a girl. Blonde hair, probably…and her eyes…? Brown? Arthur wasn't entirely sure. Humans were a species he wasn't particularly fussed about anyway. If Crumpet were actual a human, he couldn't imagine her as being anything but a kindly woman, somehow motherly. Not a friend. He decided that he preferred her as a horse. He didn't need human friends anyway. Most of them were just insolent backstabbers.

Why was he thinking of Alfred again? He wasn't a backstabber. Unlike most, he'd actually helped him. Why am I defending him…from myself!? Arthur justified, as he rubbed his eyes, that he must've been absolutely crazy. Somehow, the stupid American had wormed his way into his mind again. It must've been from lack of sleep, he deduced, realizing that the heaviness in his bones was just because of the unbearable fatigue. After all, he hadn't slept properly for two nights in a row. It was understandable that he was lazy, too lazy to get up and go all of the way back to the house and collapse in his own bed. Besides, Arthur preferred the cocoon of haylage, surrounded by convivial scents and sounds to the old-fashioned blandness of his bedroom any day.

Hence why he drifted off to sleep in a matter of minutes, Crumpet watching over his peaceful form dutifully, how a mother might watch over her child. Or perhaps, how a friend might silently protect another friend.

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Author's Note

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Firstly, the photo. What relevance does that photo have? Why did I go into so much detail? Well, this was an idea that struck me as I was writing since I needed something to fill up the empty space between James' scolding and Alfred arriving home. Originally, it was just supposed to be a photo of his great-grandfather, but of course I added more detail than necessary.

I based the people in the picture on the countries involved in the Battle of Britain (yes, I know that America wasn't involved in the Battle of Britain, but his great-grandfather had to be somewhere in the photo. It's relevant in later chapters). His great-great-uncle represents Canada, hence maple leaf. The guy with the plasters on his face represents Australia, and his little buddy with the fern leaf was New Zealand. Since Australia doesn't really have a confirmed "emblem", I just decided to hide it. I thought it would be a little weird putting a kangaroo on his jacket.

Next, the guy who looked like a girl was supposed to be Poland. The white eagle is the symbol of Poland, just like the black eagle is the symbol of Germany (and was the symbol of Prussia). The person who Poland's ancestor/doppelganger was talking to was Czechoslovakia, who doesn't have a personification, so I just made it up. And, last but not least, the thick-browed friend was, of course, Arthur's great-great-uncle, or whatever. Hurhur, I love historical connections.

So, that's all I have to say, other than I don't particularly like anything about this part or the one after it because nothing actually happens. Well, I have to do some sort of aftermath to the accident though, right? Otherwise it just doesn't seem right.

Thank you to everybody who has reviewed so far (I can't keep track now that I've merged the chapters together) and to those who have added this story to their favourites and alerts lists.

Chapter word count: 10,478 words

Total word count: 60, 596 words

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Thanks for reading!

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