Chapter 2

Alfred's mother had gone through his luggage four times before she deemed it acceptable. He'd been left with drab sweater vests and khaki slacks, crisp blue blazers and white dress shirts. Even his boxers were a depressing shade of brown.

"You're not a child anymore, Alfred. You shouldn't wear super hero T-shirts and ratty jeans," she fussed at him. Alfred watched with mournful eyes as his Hulk tie was tossed into the waste bin. He'd thought giving up all his precious stuff would be bearable, considering he knew it would make his mother happy, but each thing his mother removed from his luggage broke his heart a little. His mother shot him a rare, pitying look.

"You understand why I'm doing this, right Alfred? You get teased so much. Doesn't it hurt your feelings when the other kids make fun of your clothes? If you were poor and had nothing else, then it would be one thing, but that's not the case at all. You may not have hit your growth spurt yet, or grown into your forehead, but you could have the best money can buy. You could look good even if you don't look good…do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

Alfred was a little loud and a bit of a daydreamer at school, but he wasn't stupid. It was the same message his parents had always given him: people would like him more if he was different. It hurt, but Alfred knew his parents only wanted him to be admired and successful like they were. He tried to plaster on a brave smile as his mother found the Transformer hidden in the secret pocket of his luggage and tossed it on top of the Hulk tie. He didn't even wince as the expensive collector's toy smacked against the trash can.

"I basically have to repack for you. I really didn't have time in my schedule for this today, Alfred. It's already four—did you put on your medicine?"

Knowing a losing battle before it even started, Alfred dragged his feet towards the attached bathroom and the brave smile crumbled. Four times daily he was supposed to march through an arsenal of skin-care products recommended by his mother's dermatologist. The god-awful stuff burned like fire, but if he didn't put it on his mother would know since his face got really oily.

"I'm going, Mom."

"And put on some deodorant while you're in there. I can smell you from here, Alfred. It's just gross…how you ever expect to get a girlfriend is beyond me."

Alfred glanced at his mother resignedly and turned on his bathroom light, eyeing his shiny, pimply face. He would get a girlfriend this year, too. She'd have to be the hottest girl in school— someone that would really impress his parents. Maybe he'd get a French girlfriend. His mother would love that. She was always going on and on about how refined the French ambassador's daughter was whenever they were in town, and hinting at Alfred to make a move even though the girl was at least five years older than him. She even made wistful suggestions that he should marry someone with whom his mother could practice her fluent French on, since Alfred could barely speak English and his father only knew enough Spanish to appeal to the Hispanic voting demographic.

"I'll put on extra deodorant, Mom. Three times a day," Alfred reassured dutifully.

"And your skin medicine four times daily, plus use the cocoa butter before bed."

"But it makes me all slippery…"

"It's crucial for beautiful skin, Alfred. I wasn't able to stay in the modeling business as long as I did because I neglected simple skin care. You know it's only because—"

"Because you love me. I know, mom. Trust me, I want my face to stop oozing as much as you do."

His mother flashed him one of her smiles that never quite reached her eyes as she folded up some new, navy boxers.

"I was going to say I only do it because you're so photographed these days, and while my contacts with the reputable magazines can ensure that your photos are edited on big covers, I can't do anything for the tabloids…but I also love you, of course."

"Of course," Alfred replied a little wryly, leaning against his bathroom doorframe with his face sudsy and burning.

"Now, how will you greet your new roommate?"

Alfred mentally groaned at the reminder. As if it wasn't bad enough he was stuck going to some snobby, ultra-elite high school in a foreign country, his roommate was royalty. Still, Alfred had weathered enough bad situations to know he wasn't a quitter, or one to be easily intimidated.

"The first time I meet him I call him 'Your Royal Grace Prince What's-His-Face'."

"Not funny, Alfred," his mother replied sharply. Alfred slumped a bit and stretched his memory.

"Andrew?"

"Arthur. You would say, 'I'm glad we're going to be rooming together, Prince Arthur, Your Royal Highness.' It's not that difficult to remember, Alfred."

"You really think he wants me to call him all that?"

"Alfred, it shows that you're cultured and you respect the crucial role his family has played in the development of the United Kingdom. America has a special relationship with the U.K., which we don't have with anyone else. If you somehow manage to screw that up…"

"I'll remember what to say, Mom. I promise I won't let you down. I'll write it on my hand if I have to. Can I wash this off now? My skin is melting."

"So dramatic! Yes, wash it off, and hurry up about it. We should have been at the airport a half-hour ago."

Gratefully, Alfred scrubbed the suds off his face. He started to pick at a spot on his chin, but his mother's voice rang out into the bathroom.

"Don't pop them!"

Comically, Alfred's head dropped in dismay. His mother couldn't even see him, and yet she knew his bad habits so well. It was like she had radar for whenever he was screwing up.

Dragging his feet, Alfred returned to his beloved bedroom, which had been stripped of a large portion of the posters and toys. Only things that Alfred had begged on hands and knees for had been allowed to remain. His soft Superman sheets still adorned the king size bed, and the autographed bust of Batman was still in its case on the bookshelf. His comic books had been boxed up and moved to storage (until Alfred could appreciate them without becoming obsessed) and his toys had been mostly donated to charity. His mother wanted to toss them out, but Alfred had bargained for giving them to less fortunate children. Praising him for having a "rare moment of intelligence," they'd had the whole thing filmed as a PR stunt.

Alfred had only wanted his beloved collections to go to kids that would at least enjoy them, and he'd gotten a little choked up watching one little boy hug his old Superman action figure, but the headlines had blared ALFRED THROWS A FIT - PARENTS DONATE HIS TOYS TO CHARITY.

Sometimes, Alfred felt like he never caught a break.

He said a tearful goodbye to his beloved pet, and left her napping on his pillow.

"I really wish you could come. I'm gonna miss you so much, girl. I'm gonna make a lot of friends, but you'll always be my best friend ever, so don't worry. I'll send you lots of postcards!"

"It's a cat, Alfred. Not a real friend. Now let's go before Air Force One leaves without us."

Wiping away his tears, Alfred hurried down the stairs after his mother, giving his only friend in the world one last pitiful glance before he did.

Alfred was exhausted by the time he reached the school. An upperclassman had shown him to his room, where he entered without thinking. He'd never had a roommate before, and so didn't give a thought to who might be already occupying the space.

Someone was, in fact, occupying the space. Said someone had just removed his shirt to reveal a pale, unblemished back, and a little sliver of his briefs.

"Err, oops! I didn't think you'd be in here already, uh, your Lord Graceship Prince…person."

The young man turned with a light blush on his cheekbones and a formidable glare for one so young. The prince hastily pulled on his shirt.

"It is customarily considered polite etiquette to knock before one barges into a room," Arthur chided. Still standing a bit dumbly in the doorway, Alfred awkwardly pulled all his luggage inside (managing to make the most god-awful racket in the process) and then proceeded to trip over his own rolling suitcase. A part of him hoped his new roommate would take pity on him and help him up—show anything but frosty disdain—but he was to be disappointed.

"I merely requested you be polite. There's no need to grovel at my feet," the haughty prince quipped sarcastically. Wincing in pain, Alfred untangled his feet from his luggage (they were forever tripping him up, huge and seemingly four sizes too big for his body) and used the nearby table to gain his footing. Of course, Alfred leaned on it wrong and it wobbled, and the elegant vase that had been sitting atop the marble tabletop crashed to the floor, soaking the thick, beige carpet with smelly water.

"Shit!" Alfred cursed as he attempted to collect the fragments and will them back into vase form with the power of desperation. The attempt failed.

"Well…I'm just going to step into the hallway and see about getting myself a new roommate. Do excuse me, will you? It really has been a pleasure." The sarcasm dripped off the boy's voice just as the water dripped from the shards of the ruined vase. True to his word, the royal left (stepping delicately and smoothly over Alfred's mess), leaving Alfred with the impression that he hadn't made a very good one.

Alfred cursed again under his breath.

'No! I'm not letting it happen all over again here! I'm going to make a damn friend if it kills me!' With this thought, Alfred propelled himself out of the room and after his roommate, managing to catch him by the hand. Unbeknownst to Alfred, a small group of their year mates paused in the hallway to see what all the commotion was about.

"Wait! You've got to listen to me! My name is Alfred F. Jones, and even if you think I'm a total weirdo, you're going to love me, so you can just get used to it right now!"

For a long moment, there was stunned silence in the hallway. Arthur stood, his emerald green eyes wide in alarm, half-pinned against the wall by his crazy, dripping wet American roommate, who held a fistful of his shirt prisoner as well as his hand. Arthur's alarmed expression was mirrored in Alfred's eyes, who had just realized that he'd said "love" instead of "like."

A classmate with a thick French accent finally quipped, "Well, Your Royal Highness…it seems as if your new roommate is consumed with the desire to be your copain. Perhaps because you are so short, he mistook you for a woman, no?"

The hallway erupted in laughter, and the crowd parted to reveal an immaculately dressed young Frenchman, tall and well muscled, with flowing blonde hair and a cruel expression of glee. At the sight of his long-time rival, Arthur roughly shoved the American away, clenching his fists and turning his impressive glare to 'vaporize-with-burning-hatred' mode.

Not at all phased, the French boy merely sauntered into a nearby room and laughed at the furious glaring of the short, British royal, who had not been able to think of a come-back due to being so enraged at the mere sight of Francis Bonnefoy. The crowd of onlookers dispersed some-what, muttering things like "That's the U.S. President's kid, right? He's as weird as the papers say" and "So are those two gay, or something?"

Slowly, with furious calm, Arthur re-entered their room and slammed the door. Even from half-way down the hall, Alfred could hear the lock slide firmly into place. Alfred stumbled back against the hallway wall and banged his head a few times for good measure. The water from the vase smeared away the tiny words he'd meant to say that had been printed on his hand: I'm really glad we're going to be roommates, Your Royal Highness.

Feeling defeated, Alfred slid to the floor, head in his arms. A quiet voice interrupted his solo pity party.

"For what it's worth, I know you didn't mean it to come out the way it did. Sometimes I get a little tongue-tied, too."

Alfred looked up hopefully, trying not to sniffle, to see a boy who looked remarkably similar to himself. They probably could have passed as brothers, though the other boy had much longer hair and a softer look about his eyes and lips. Everything about him radiated gentleness. He extended a hand to Alfred, who took it gratefully, not quite daring to hope he might get a second chance at making a friend.

"I'm Matthew, from Canada. You're Alfred Jones, right?"

"Yeah. Thanks for…not thinking I'm gay freak?" Alfred finished awkwardly, chuckling at his own horrible situation. Quite suddenly, however, the other boy flinched and his kind expression turned hurt.

"Well, if that's how you feel about gay p-people, next time I won't help you. I'd h-heard Americans were closed-minded, but it's not very n-nice to call people freaks, you know." The quiet boy disappeared into his room almost as if he'd never been there at all, and Alfred marveled at his ability to mess up every social interaction he ever encountered.

This was exactly the reason he preferred living in the world of comic books. He never pissed anyone off in his fantasy world.

'Yeah,' he thought sadly, 'And you don't have any friends there either. New school, new city, same old Alfred.'

With a sigh, Alfred trudged back to his door and slumped against it, exhausted from the ridiculously long plane ride, his nerves frayed and his confidence shattered, hoping that his roommate took pity at some point and let him back inside.

Prince Arthur did let Alfred back inside a few hours later, though he seemed less than pleased about it. He'd merely opened the door with harsh swiftness, causing Alfred to fall inelegantly into the room, since he'd been sleeping against the door. It was nearly nightfall, and Arthur had already turned out the lights, so Alfred was forced to rummage through his bland clothing in near total darkness. He went into the bathroom to change, wash his face, and brush his teeth, and when he emerged, the prince was waiting in the doorway looking amazingly intimidating for such a short kid.

"If you touch me in my sleep, I'll have you expelled. Am I perfectly clear?"

"I'm not—I don't—I only meant…"

"A simple 'yes' or 'no' will suffice."

"I won't touch you," Alfred said resignedly. Arthur nodded in a satisfied sort of way and then added an afterthought.

"And while we're on the subject, do not speak to me any more than necessary, do not make contact with me outside of this room for any reason, never touch my things, don't even think about selling photos of me to the paparazzi, and give up your ridiculous quest to make me your friend, because I'll tell you right now—it's not happening. Am I still speaking slowly enough for you?"

"You're kind of an angry little guy, aren't you?" Alfred asked with a yawn, so tired at that point that he'd lost what little sense of self-preservation he'd normally possessed. The punch flew hard and seemingly from nowhere. One minute, Alfred's mouth was hanging open in a massive yawn, and a second later, his jaw was cracked to the side from the blow of a tiny, angry fist.

"OWWW!" Alfred roared, cradling his injured jaw. "What the hell?"

"Oh, and I forgot to mention it, but the proper address is 'Your Royal Highness, Prince Arthur.' Why don't you practice that in a mirror a few times so that the next time you want your bloody jaw ripped off, you'll at least call me by the correct title before I oblige you."

Afraid to speak anymore (and not quite sure he was even able) Alfred stumbled clumsily to his bed and crawled in, pulling the covers meekly over his aching head. He'd survived day one of school and he'd only gotten hit once. Trying to stay optimistic, Alfred thought to himself, 'Hey, at least that's a new record.'