Chapter 32
"Hey stranger," Matthew said, as he dropped down beside Alfred in the library. The blond boy glanced up in surprise. He'd been doodling rather than doing his history assignment, which was no doubt what Arthur had left him in the library to complete while he was at music club.
"Stranger? We see each other every day in that class we have together…you know…the one with all the maps and that one dude that talks a lot," Alfred replied. Matthew grinned.
"You mean World Politics…and by 'that dude' I suppose you mean our teacher?" he suggested. Alfred scrunched up his nose in distaste.
"Yeah, that one. Thank god it's only half a semester," Alfred said.
"We also have that class with Ivan, and you spend the whole period goofing off with him in the back," Matthew chided. Alfred smiled guiltily.
"Maybe…but it's so boring," he defended. Matthew didn't even bother reminding Alfred that he, out of all the World Academy students, should have more of a vested interest in politics considering who his father was. Alfred seemed to forget his status in the world most of the time.
"Very true, but you should still pay attention. What good will it do having a boyfriend at World Academy if you get kicked out of World Academy?" Matthew mused, pretending to ponder deeply on the subject. Alfred stuck his tongue out.
"Yeah, yeah…I'll study more—mother," Alfred replied. Matthew sighed dreamily.
"I wish I had your mother's cheekbones, and her hair…wouldn't mind her skin either."
"Did you just say you want to wear my mother's skin? You are so weird," Alfred joked. Matthew rolled his eyes.
"You know what I meant. Seriously, though, how come Arthur's the only one you spend any time with these days, huh? What am I? Chopped liver?" Matthew asked, smiling to let Alfred know he was only joking.
"I seem to remember asking you to play rugby with me just last week—"
"That's weird. I have no memory of that whatsoever," Matthew said, suddenly scowling with pouty irritation. Oblivious to the atmosphere, Alfred plowed onwards.
"What? You have to remember! I got you geared up and took you out and you threw like a two year old girl."
"That must have just been a dream you had," Matthew replied through gritted teeth. Finally catching on (and recognizing the opportunity to be annoying) Alfred grinned broadly.
"Nope. Pretty sure it was real. Then you went crying to Francis because you had grass stains."
Matthew finally settled the argument by whacking Alfred with his binder. The other boy laughed and ineffectually blocked, losing his glasses in the scuffle.
"Alright, alright! I'll stop teasing you!" Alfred said. Matthew smiled in satisfaction and returned to his seat.
"That's better. Now why are you all alone in the library? Heck, why are you out of Arthur's room? Did you guys finally have so much sex that your penis started molting?" Matthew asked, perfectly straight-faced. Alfred's expression instantly turned alarmed.
"What the hell? I've never heard of that! What's molting?" Alfred asked, in a dramatic, horrified whisper. He was shifting uneasily in his seat. Matthew glanced at him in feigned surprise.
"Every gay guy knows about molting. Relax, Alfred—as long as you haven't been doing it, you'll be fine."
Alfred turned dark, dark red, and he was half-hidden behind his text book when he replied in an embarrassed mumble.
"What if…what if we have been doing it? You gotta tell me man, what the hell is molting?" Alfred begged. Matthew was trying so hard not to laugh, but he managed to stay cool as a cucumber.
"You know…it's when the skin of your penis just kind of…molts off," Matthew said. Alfred looked horribly confused, and red as a tomato.
"I wore a condom though! Arthur's dad said that would stop STDs," Alfred harshly whispered. Matthew noticed Alfred was now cupping himself nervously under the table. Matthew pretended to consider this new information.
"Hmmm…what size condom?" Matthew asked. Growing more and more worried, Alfred coughed and replied a little shiftily.
"Err…XL," he said. Matthew raised a delicate brow. Alfred reddened impossibly further and sunk down in his seat. "Fine! Average, okay? Geez…just tell me if my penis skin is gonna fall off or not!"
This had been said rather loudly, and the snooty girl from French club shot Alfred a disgusted look before sauntering past their table. Matthew faked a cough to hide his grin.
"Well, it all depends on Arthur, really, and your size. I'm afraid being average size just makes you more susceptible to the molt. If he…you know…when you…you know…then it could definitely lead to molting," Matthew said.
"Shit, man! I'm pretty sure he…when I…shit! Mattie, what do I do? There's gotta be a lotion, or a cream, or something!" Alfred said helplessly. Matthew just shrugged.
"Gee, Alfred, you should go to the nurse. She probably gets molting cases all the time," Matthew said. Then he frowned in mock sympathy as he stood and collected his polar bear book bag. "I'm really sorry to hear you got the molt, pal. Good luck with it, eh?" Matthew said.
"Mattie—how long do I have? My junk is starting to itch now!" Alfred confessed, biting his lip. Matthew shook his head solemnly.
"Not long, Al. Itching isn't good. Whatever you do—don't scratch. It'll make it molt faster."
Alfred's hands instantly slammed to the table, but his legs squeezed together in an effort not to scratch his imaginary molt.
"I gotta go, Mattie. If I have to be hospitalized or something, tell Arthur that I love him—even if he gave me molt."
At that, Matthew nearly lost it, but he ducked behind a bookshelf with a goodbye wave over his shoulder and muffled his laughter into his hand once he was out of sight. From where he'd been listening behind the books, Francis was shaking with silent guffaws.
Alfred waddled out of the library, still red as a tomato and practically crying.
"Oh…that was really mean," Matthew said, wiping away tears from his eyes. Francis slung his arm around Matthew's shoulders, ducking their heads close together.
"Well, that will teach him to make fun of your athletic ability," Francis snickered. Matthew shook his head but grinned all the same.
"I can't believe he fell for that. Do you think he'll really go to the nurse?" Matthew asked.
"Hopefully. Though I don't know what would be funnier—if he went to the nurse first, or to see Arthur."
"I'm sure we'll hear about it later. But I guess now the mystery is solved—they have been doing it," Matthew said. Francis's hand slipped casually off Matthew's shoulder and into Matthew's back pocket. The two boys began leisurely walking towards the cafeteria.
"Asking about the condom size was a nice addition to the plan," Francis praised. Matthew pouted.
"I wasn't going to, but then he made that crack about the two-year-old girl…"
"You're more devious than I give you credit for, mon cher," Francis praised. Matthew smiled, all innocence and sweetness.
"Why, thank you," he said. Then he added with a wry glance at Francis, "You're likely just a bad influence." Francis chuckled.
"That is entirely possible."
USUK
Arthur hit several wrong notes as the door to the music room banged open and Alfred came in, huffing like an angry bull. Roderich glared, as did the few other members congregated around the piano.
"Arthur! I gotta talk to you now!"
Meghan (who had joined music club only because Arthur had) rolled her eyes.
"Piss off, Alfred! You get Arthur all the time! Music club is my time with him!"
Arthur shot Meghan a slightly disturbed look and then reluctantly addressed Alfred.
"Just what is so important that it can't wait till I've finished my performance?" Arthur demanded. Alfred didn't seem to be hurt, though he was blushing a rather dark shade of red.
"It's private!"
"What?" Arthur asked.
"Can you two speak in the hallway? We are having a meeting here," Roderich inserted. Scowling in annoyance, Arthur collected his things and apologized hastily for leaving early. Once in the hall, he crossed his arms in an annoyed fashion.
"Just what exactly is going on?"
"Matthew told me the skin on my junk was gonna fall off because we did it, and that it was called the molt, and that I should go to the nurse, and I did, and she told me she didn't have any cures for stupid, but she's wrong because I'm not just being stupid—I do have the molt! Artie, my penis is itching like crazy and Mattie said that's the first sign, and if I scratch it it's gonna molt, and I googled molting and it's not pretty! Don't you understand? My penis is too pretty to molt!"
Arthur slapped him. It was a light slap, but still. Alfred's blue eyes widened impossibly huge, and he sniffled, completely shocked.
"Alfred, listen to me very carefully. Does your knob have feathers?" Arthur asked. Alfred blinked in confusion.
"Jesus, now my door knob has something to do with my melting penis skin? What the hell kind of STD is this?"
"Stay calm or I'm going to slap you again," Arthur warned. Alfred managed to look a little less hysterical, but that wasn't saying much.
"Knob is slang for penis. Your penis does not have feathers, therefore, it can't molt. There's not an STD called molt. Matthew was pulling a prank on you—likely in cahoots with Francis. If the nurse was less of smartass, she would have told you they were just messing with you. Nothing is going to happen to your penis, so if you've got an itch, by all means, give it a scratch."
"Thank god," Alfred moaned in relief, only barely glancing down the empty hall before he furiously rubbed at his crotch. Arthur just shook his head, perhaps in a stupor that he'd actually fallen in love with the idiot.
"Anything else you'd like to clarify before I return to my club meeting?" Arthur asked, with insincere politeness. Alfred, totally missing his tone, just shook his head, looking a little pathetic.
"No…you didn't have to slap me," he pouted. Arthur stretched onto his toes and pressed a kiss to Alfred's puffy lips.
"Poor baby. First the molt and then your boyfriend smacks you around," Arthur teased. Alfred shoved him, though not at all hard.
"Yeah, yeah...laugh it up. Now that hot girl from French club thinks my penis is little and sickly. She overheard Mattie and me talking in the library." Arthur just smirked.
"Love, she likely thought your penis was little before she overheard the two of you talking."
"You can go back to your club meeting now if you're gonna be like that. Is it 'be-mean-to-Alfred' day and I just missed the memo?" Alfred asked, crossing his arms over his chest in a huff. Unable to resist, Arthur stole another kiss, grinning all the while.
"What? You missed it? But I left the memo in your clean underwear drawer…oh. I guess you didn't see it this morning, then. You really need to start changing those once a week, you know."
"Shut up! I change my underwear! Arthur, you're supposed to be nice to me! You're my boyfriend."
Arthur grinned as he wrapped his arms around Alfred's hips.
"Oh, is that right? Well, then I apologize. I'll be nice. Come here and I'll kiss away that cute little pout of yours," Arthur said. Smiling (just a little bit) Alfred leaned down and sealed his lips over Arthur's. When they parted, Arthur smacked Alfred lightly on the bum.
"Now get going. I still have another fifteen minutes in my meeting, and you have homework to be doing so that we can do other things tonight. You'll see how mean I am if I'm ready to get naked and you're still 500 words short on the Battle of the Bulge."
"How 'bout we skip the essay and you just battle my bulge?" Alfred asked, waggling his eyebrows. Arthur stared up at him, totally blank faced.
"Wow. That was dreadful. I mean…really, really dreadful." Arthur was forced to crack a smile when Alfred mercilessly started tickling his sides, pinning him against the wall with his heavier frame so he could not escape.
"Hahahaha! You thought my joke was funny! You're laughing!"
"Wanker!" Arthur gasped in between giggles.
"We are TRYING to play music in here! Kindly take your foreplay elsewhere!" Roderich's voice boomed. For a single second, Arthur and Alfred looked a little embarrassed, but then they both collapsed against each other snickering.
Arthur pecked Alfred's lips lovingly and smiled against his lips.
"Go on. I'll see you later," Arthur said, nudging Alfred's nose with his own. Alfred nudged back, and kissed the shorter boy's chin.
"But…I already miss you," Alfred said. Arthur debated on remaining in the hall and indulging in a good snog, but decided in the end to be more mature.
"Well I can't miss you if you don't leave. Goodbye, Alfred. Go do your homework."
"M'kay, m'kay…love you," Alfred said, walking reluctantly backwards down the hall. Arthur glanced over his shoulder at his boy and rolled his eyes.
"I love you, too," he said, before slipping back into the music room. Alfred smiled happily until he remembered Matthew and Francis's prank.
If he abandoned his homework to get revenge…then he wouldn't get naked time with Arthur. If he let the prank go and finished his essay, then he'd get naked time with Arthur, and Arthur would be in a good mood afterwards and would likely help him plot. He'd need the help—plotting was not his strong suit.
With a sigh, Alfred trudged back towards the library. He had a history essay to finish.
USUK
Matthew's eyes widened in alarm when Gilbert casually dropped into the seat across from himself and Francis.
"Find another seat, stoner," Francis said immediately, his blond brows furrowing downwards in displeasure. Gilbert just smirked and pointedly flipped him the bird.
"As I recall, your pretty butt-boy here got stoned with me. So, I'm guessing you don't object to sitting with a stoner—just me, specifically," Gilbert said. Matthew flushed dark red, and wished a snappy retort would come to mind, but his words jumbled in his chest and clogged in his throat.
Francis, however, didn't share this problem. He stood, his hands splayed on the table, and leaned rather menacingly towards Gilbert.
"You're exactly right. It is just you. You can leave now, or I can escort you," Francis purred.
"Ha! Escort me? Jesus, you Frenchies make everything sound so flowery and gay. Are you trying to say you'll kick my ass? But what if you break a nail?"
"Gilbert! Is there a specific reason you're here?" Matthew finally managed, glancing warily between Gilbert and Francis, who had sat back down with a huff beside him.
"Actually, there is. I need a favor. Ya see, I just so happen to be failing French."
"That is because all the pot has whipped up your brain cells into a soufflé of fluffy stupid," Francis replied. Gilbert blinked at the strange comment and then shook his head, as if dismissing Francis from the conversation.
"Yeah…anyway…the professor recommended you as a tutor. At first, I was all 'fuck tutoring!' but then I remembered how awesome your blow jobs are, so I figured what the hell? We can smoke some chronic, speak some French, and you can suck some dick. What'dya say?"
Matthew's wide-eyed, horrified expression said all that Francis needed to hear. He grabbed his and Matthew's book bags and stood, extending his hand to his boyfriend.
"Come on, mon cher. We do not have to listen to this," he said. Gilbert smirked at Matthew knowingly, and even winked.
"Alright. I get it. You don't wanna beg in front of your poodle boyfriend. Once you ditch him, just come find me—you know where—our special place."
"Matthew," Francis half-growled, his hand still waiting. With an annoyed glare at Gilbert, Matthew took Francis's hand and ducked into his side.
"I'm sorry," he whispered as they left the cafeteria, tears already clouding his violet eyes. Francis brusquely kissed the top of his head.
"Forget it. I will take care of it." Francis's voice was cold and hard, like the steel edge of a blade. Matthew bit his lip in worry, but didn't dare argue with Francis about the proper way to handle it.
USUK
"You like the view?" Ivan asked. Yao turned, the sunset fading at his back, and tucked his silky hair behind the curve of his ear as it caught the wind. Ivan smiled gently at the sight and crossed the roof. He walked with a slight limp now—so minor, though, that one had to know to look for it. The doctor didn't know if it would ever fade.
"It is nice up here, now that the weather is warmer," Yao said. Ivan tangled his fingers in Yao's silky hair, enjoying the feel of it for a few moments, before slipping his hand downwards to cup Yao's soft jaw.
"You should not come up here. The winds are too strong, and the stones are slippery."
Yao frowned slightly, pulling away from Ivan's touch. "I can go where I please," he replied archly. He stepped backwards, closer to the edge. There was a challenge in his dark eyes—the return of a fiery spirit that had been temporarily snuffed out by the shooting, a fire that was rekindling now day by day. Ivan both hated and loved that look. He hated it because it meant Yao had learned nothing, not really, from their horrifying experience, and he loved it because it was the part of Yao he was most attracted to, and when Yao had been so terrified of his own shadow, Ivan had thought it might be gone forever.
"Come now. Do not be stubborn and stupid. You can watch the sunset from my window," Ivan said, turning back towards the door and burying his hands in his coat. Despite Yao's claim, the weather really wasn't that much better. It was still cold and unpleasant outside. Even now, dark rainclouds threatened the warmth of the sunset.
"You and Alfred come up here all the time," Yao replied. Ivan paused mid-step, his expression slipping into one of fake cheeriness. He turned, grinning happily.
"Fine. Slip off the roof and stain the snow with all your pretty blood. Do not say I did not warn you!"
Yao was about to argue, but a particularly strong wind lashed across the gently sloped roof, as if to merely prove Ivan correct. Yao was forced back a step, then another, and he slipped on an ice-capped stone. He fell hard, and his eyes widened in alarm when his hand grasped at nothing but air. There was a small ledge, a foot high, and Yao had landed precariously on top of it. In the two seconds it took him to fall, Yao scrambled to find his balance, and was startled to see the end of Ivan's brand new scarf billowing like a crisp sail just in front of his face.
Ivan steadied him—with a hand wrapped around his shoulder—dangerously close to his throat.
"Now, what did I tell you? Are you just determined to kill yourself, or are you testing to see how many times I will risk my own safety to preserve yours?" Ivan asked. His tone was still cheery, as if he were merely curious. The cold warning in his ice pale eyes conveyed his true emotion. Yao gulped, feeling the movement ripple across Ivan's hand.
Gripping Ivan's shirt, he managed to regain his footing on the safe side of the ledge.
"I didn't tell you to follow me. I haven't asked for your help since—"
"Since I took a bullet for you? Well, it has only been a month or so. Surely, even you can't get into trouble that fast."
"Technically, we're not even dating," Yao said pettily, his fists clenched in Ivan's coat. His feelings for the other boy were so complicated, sometimes they simply overwhelmed him. There was gratitude, plenty of it, but also a healthy share of reluctance. He knew what Ivan was capable of first hand. He'd returned to him, perhaps stupidly, and now he saw the darkness always—it baffled him that he hadn't truly seen it before. It was a touch just a little too hard against his skin. It was a look that burned rather than warmed. It was a cheery smile paired with a malicious glint in his eyes.
For now, Ivan wanted to keep him safe, protected even from himself, but how long would that last?
"I think we are beyond such silly labels, da?" Ivan asked. His gaze shifted past Yao, to the last dredges of the sunset. "It is a beautiful sunset, though. It reminds me of a huge sunflower, the sun at its center."
"Ivan…do you love me?" Yao asked, after a few moments of silence. His voice sounded confused and unsure to his own ears. Ivan's gaze slowly returned to Yao's. Yao flinched away, no longer able to stare at the other boy for very long in the eyes. Ivan seemed to like it—his inability to challenge him for very long.
"I don't love you. Love is useless—just a word. You belong to me, and so I take care of you. That is a more solid thing than love."
"And if…if I love you?" Yao asked. Ivan smirked.
"Do you?" Ivan asked. The wind whipped at them angrily, but Ivan was heavy and firm-footed. Even though the gale tried to snatch and tug Yao over the edge, Ivan gripped him like a vice. The wind could pull all it wanted—in Ivan's grip he was as secure as a tree rooted to a mountain.
"I run away from you almost as fast as I run towards you. Is that love?" Yao asked. Ivan smirked.
"All that running, yet you go nowhere. Da, that is probably love. Like I said—useless. Now get off the fucking roof."
"Why couldn't I have been claimed by someone more charming?" Yao grumbled, as Ivan all but carried him back up the gentle slope towards the door that led to the stairs.
"Because Prince Charming didn't want to climb all those damned stairs and leave a perfectly heated building to stand in a rain storm." True to Ivan's cheery words, fat drops of rain were now assaulting the roof, and the two students who had been tempting fate by standing so close to the edge.
"Can we at least get some food before you drag me back to your filthy room?" Yao asked, in a perfectly polite tone of voice that just barely masked his annoyance.
"I am contemplating saying no, so you'll get even more pissy, and then we can fuck angry instead of soft," Ivan mused. Yao frowned, secretly thinking that the "fucking" as Ivan so crudely called it, was never truly soft.
"I am getting dinner-máo zi," Yao asserted, tacking on the ethnic slur against Russians just for the satisfaction. Ivan chuckled in that light-hearted, childish way of his.
"You're really fucking cute when you curse at me in Chinese, you know? Now you're just trying to get me hard."
Yao rolled his eyes, even as he knew it was partially true. His cock twitched in his uniform trousers and he wondered if they'd even make it to the bedroom. As soon as the door closed safely behind them, blocking out the harsh wind, Ivan pushed him roughly against the surface and claimed his mouth.
'No…we aren't going to make it. I just hope the janitor does not find us again, like last time,' Yao thought, before Ivan roughly palmed his erection and the ability to think at all fled from him.
USUK
It was the end of the final practice before the big game. The student council had prepared the posters and banners, the stadium was prepped, and the plays had been decided. Alfred's father arrived the next morning—Arthur's parents would be driving in that following evening for the game. In the midst of all this activity, Arthur did the same movement over and over again.
The drop, the smooth arch of leg, the almost gentle strike against the ball at the perfect, 45 degree angle, and the effortless follow-through: Arthur's so-called golden kick.
The coach patted his back warmly, looking at him as if he were a long-lost son instead of the unorthodox team mascot he had become earlier in the year. Even Berwald looked at Arthur differently. He seemed to actually see him instead of see over him. The rest of the team was ecstatic. Visions of a win danced in their eyes, and the salvation of a rotten season floated just beyond their reach—Arthur's golden kick was just the extra length they needed to grab hold firmly of a victory.
At first, Alfred acted as though Arthur's glory was his own. After all, he was the talent scout who had discovered him—he'd brought him to Berwald like a faithful dog retrieving a ball, and now the whole team was thanking him instead of cursing him. But deep, deep down, a small seed of resentment burned.
He had trained so hard the entire year. He'd pushed his body past limits he didn't even know he had. How many times had he left Arthur happily playing another level in their game or reading a new chapter of his newest sci-fi novel to go run laps with Ivan, who mocked and laughed at him as he lagged behind? How many times had he stood exactly where Arthur stood now, the ball falling from his own aching hands, to bounce awkwardly and ineffectually off his foot? He had fetched water bottles and taken sweaty towels to the face practice after practice, game after game, all without complaint. He had thrown everything he had against boys twice his size, grunted in pain and humiliation as they plowed over him as if he were nothing.
He'd compromised his morals to earn his jacket, performed cleaning duties all year as a consequence—and still been willing to sacrifice the jacket for Arthur; this was identical to the jacket now abandoned in the back of Arthur's closet, a mere afterthought to the disinterested prince.
He was glad Arthur was going to save their team and help them secure the win…had begged him to do so, even…but as he watched all his teammates crowd around Arthur at the end of practice, smiling and joking with him, just wanting to praise his effortless talent, Alfred felt his mood darken. For the first time, he slipped away from practice before the coach officially said it was over, and undressed alone in the locker room. His disappearing act went unnoticed by everyone.
Alfred tried to control his irrational temper, tried to will it away and remember that his new, amazing teammate was the same boy he made love to and snuggled with at night, but in his mind, they had become separate somehow.
There was his Arthur: prickly and just a little bit punk, always with his nose stuck in a book and something witty on his tongue, kisses ever at the ready. Then there was this new boy, who stepped onto the rugby field without even knowing the rules, who really couldn't care less, who claimed all the glory Alfred had fought so hard for without even trying.
"I'm being ridiculous!" Alfred scolded softly, as he harshly tugged off his helmet. Nerves about the game, resentment towards Arthur, worries about his father's visit—it all swirled around in his brain as if someone had flushed his mind like a toilet.
Petulantly, even a little babyishly, Alfred tossed his helmet and watched it bounce harmlessly across the locker room floor.
It wasn't very satisfying. He pulled off his pads, unlaced his pants and cleats, and left the gear in a sweaty, foul-smelling heap. He hit the back shower, turning the water as hot as he could stand. After a few more minutes of solitude, the other boys noisily entered, all singing Arthur's praises.
"You'll be the star player next year, Princess…err, I mean Arthur!"
"Man, your golden kick is gonna knock those stupid Falcons right out of the air," Mike's voice rang out boisterously.
"We're going to have an after-party once we win. You gotta come, Arthur!"
Alfred glared moodily at the tile wall of the shower. He'd gone to every game and practice, but the other guys had never invited him to one of their parties.
"Alfred?" Arthur called out, at the entrance to the shower. Alfred stayed silent, pretending like he couldn't hear Arthur over the spray of the water and the loud voices of the team.
"Yeah, hey, where did towel boy go? I need to give him my laundry," the old team Captain said casually. He'd been giving Alfred shit work to do all year, even though he wasn't in the games and was only playing during practice. Arthur had told Alfred not to do it for him—he'd made him feel like he was weak for caving to the other boy's demands.
"His name is Alfred. He's been on your team all year, you know," Arthur replied back snippily. The old captain's laughter rang out loudly, assaulting Alfred's ears.
"Yeah, yeah…guess I should call him your butt boy instead of towel boy. Well, at least he did something right by finally bringing you to a practice."
Alfred balled up his fist angrily and punched it against the tile before slamming the water off, securing a towel around his waist, and storming out of the showers. He pushed past the ex-Captain roughly, making sure he caused him to stumble, and snatched up his gym bag.
"Alfred, wait!" Arthur said, struggling to escape his own pads and helmet, which Alfred usually helped him to remove.
"Aww, we hurt his feelings. He's probably gonna go hug his mommy now."
"Fuck, I wanna hug his mommy. I'd bend her over the president's desk and give her my weapon of mass destruction!" Mike joked crudely. Alfred stopped dead in the doorway.
"Alfred, let's just go," Arthur said bracingly. But it was no good. The sound of Arthur's voice only enraged Alfred further. The tense muscles in the taller boy's shoulders flexed. His fists curled. He dropped his gym bag and walked up to Mike with a slow calmness that Arthur now recognized—it was just how Alfred had acted before he beat Celio bloody.
"Alfred. He's your teammate. You all joke that way, all the time—he's not saying anything new. Let's just go."
Mike grinned cockily. "What's up, brace face? Got something to say to me?" Mike asked.
Alfred spared a quick, side-long glance at Arthur before his frown deepened.
"Yeah. I got something to say. I'm not his butt-boy. I do the fucking. Oh, and one more thing: don't say another god-damned word about my mother, or I'll cripple you, you fucking retard." Alfred's fist slammed forward, glancing off Mike's jaw as the other boy dodged reflexively to the side. Alfred stumbled off balance and fell hard when Mike slapped him on the back, driving him down to the ground. Alfred was back on his feet in a second, fists swinging again, and he managed another punch that cut Mike's brow, courtesy of the plain, silver cross ring Alfred wore on his right hand—a gift from his departed grandfather.
Mike cursed at him and swung back, punching Alfred hard in the shoulder and sending the thinner boy sprawling over a bench. The fight would have escalated, but Berwald intervened. It shocked nearly everyone, since the huge upperclassman usually stayed out of everything except the game. Now, he pushed Mike off roughly (with total ease) and pulled Alfred to his feet.
"Go after him," he said simply, indicating the door to the locker room that was still swinging restlessly from when Arthur had barreled through just second before. Dazed and hurt, Alfred pulled away roughly and stormed out, grabbing his bag as he did so.
He ducked into the restroom at the end of the hall and dressed, wincing at the difficulty he had in lifting his shoulder. Once he was dressed, his wet hair casting off droplets and his back stinging from the harsh slap he'd taken, Alfred stormed off to his room.
He'd never been so grateful that he hadn't fully moved back in with Arthur yet. Mostly it was because of a lack of time. Most of his clothes were back in Arthur's room, as well as his night things, but he'd just been too lazy to officially take all his things back over.
Now, he took great satisfaction in the fact that his things were mixed with Ivan's instead of Arthur's. He'd be perfectly happy if he didn't see Arthur the rest of the night. He slammed the door to his and Ivan's room shut with a fierce bang. He lucked out; Ivan must have been out with Yao. Alfred collapsed onto his bed with a huff—wincing when his back hit the mattress.
His mind was an angry hornet's nest, all stirred up and too busy to make any sense. He rolled onto his side with a loud, angry curse and let the anger hum away, till it distracted him from the pain and emotional upset.
Screw rugby. He was going to quit. Let Arthur win the stupid game—everyone could cheer him on until his ego exploded, but Alfred wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He'd go out with Ivan, instead. They'd get drunk and do stupid shit and Alfred would flirt with someone tall and ripped, and with normal eyebrows.
'Yeah, take that Arthur. We'll see who's a butt boy!' His emotional, petty (and rather senseless) thoughts on the subject bounced around in his enraged mind, while the adrenaline and anger pumped through him hotly.
Meanwhile, Arthur had finally freed himself of the stupid football padding and the idiotic helmet, which had done everything to protect him from physical blows, and nothing at all to protect him from the beating his heart had just taken from the boy who had promised not to hurt him anymore.
A/N: *sigh* In case you started thinking of Alfred as all mature and adorable, here's your reality check, lol. But boys will be boys, no? Sorry this chapter started with penis molt and did a total 180 into angsty drama, but I wrote the first half last night, and the second half today, lol.