Chapter 20

Arthur opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the pain in his face and in his head. For a breathless moment of terror he wondered if he'd been attacked again, and then everything came rushing back.

Two weeks since the attack. Numbness. Anxiety. Hearing rumors and gossip about what had happened to him no matter where he went, and Alfred trying so hard to be anything he needed but all he really needed was space and for the attack to have never happened in the first place.

Then yesterday…Alfred getting into another stupid fight with Francis, and then all of them getting hauled into jail, and then actually getting booked because Alfred was an idiot, and then having a meltdown and then drinking with everyone and feeling good for the first time in two weeks…until Alfred had gone and ruined it by talking about their problems in front of everyone. He loved the git but he truly couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his damn life.

It had been quite possibly the worst two bloody weeks of his entire life.

The door opened softly and Yao poked his head in. Arthur sat up a little bit, desperate for some water and some pain pills. Yao appeared to have both.

"Bless you," Arthur said as Yao smiled over the tray of warm tea and a glass of ice water. Arthur chugged the water and then took a soothing sip of the tea, swishing down the pills as he did so.

"Better?" Yao asked after Arthur had rehydrated and then bolted into the bathroom to vomit. When he was back in bed, Yao sat beside him delicately and brushed Arthur's bangs off his sweaty forehead. It was oddly maternal, and Arthur was surprised to find himself comforted by it. Yao's hands were soft and cool, and he let his eyes drift shut trustingly.

"It was hard for me, you know. After the shooting. Ivan was a stupid idiot. He was always there, always too loud, or too quiet, and I just wanted to be alone. At the same time, I was terrified and I wanted to feel safe again."

Arthur soaked Yao's words up like a sponge, and peeked his good eye open to see Yao's expression. He looked serene and thoughtful, and upon seeing Arthur's look, he flashed a gentle smile.

"It will get better with time. Talk to a professional. Tell Alfred you need some space."

"I want to…but I don't want to be alone. I'm…I'm terrified. And I hate that!"

"Arthur…you know you need to go home. I talked to your mother earlier and she told me your parents are begging you to come home. It is the best thing for you right now."

"I don't know how Alfred will take it," Arthur said worriedly, biting his lip. Yao gave a delicate shrug.

"If he loves you, he will wait. The media here will be crazy. It has already leaked to the press you were in jail yesterday, and your mother kept calling your phone. I finally answered her earlier and we talked about what happened. I told her once you woke up, Francis and I would take you to the airport."

"I can't just leave like that. He'll think he's won if I do that. I'm not a coward and I won't be—"

"Arthur, be quiet. You are irrational right now. You need to go home. I have already talked to Francis about it and he is going to fly back with you. That is mostly why he came back. He is worried about you…we all are."

"Where's Alfred?"

"Ivan took him back home last night. He would try to stop you from leaving, or try to go with you. You need to do this for you. Everything with Alfred will sort itself out later."

"I should talk to him, though. I can't just go and—"

"Arthur, you are not understanding. The news broke last night. Alfred is locked up in the White House. Unless you want to go spend the next few weeks in hiding with him there, then you need to get on the plane while it is still early."

"What time is it?" Arthur asked, only then realizing it was still dark beyond the windows.

"Almost six. We can take Zakhar's car to the airport whenever you are ready. You might want to shower first."

Feeling like he really didn't have much choice, and simply too tired to care much anymore, Arthur obediently did what he was told. He showered and dressed in one of Yao's old T-shirts and a big coat from Ivan. The collar on it was fluffy enough to practically hide his face. When he got downstairs, Francis was sitting on the arm of the couch, watching Matthew sleep below him.

"He is ready," Yao said. Francis offered him a weak smile.

"Let's go, Arthur. Your mother is worried sick and your brothers keep calling me every half hour."

"You really intend to fly me home and then hop on a plane right back? That's ridiculous Francis. Just get me to the airport. I'll be fine flying back alone," Arthur insisted. Francis and Yao exchanged worried looks.

"Arthur, it is really no trouble. I came back to make sure you were okay…"

"I refuse to let you go to the all that trouble. I appreciate the gesture, Francis, and I can't thank you enough for taking care of me last night, Yao, but you're both right. I want to go home. I'll be fine on the airplane and my brothers will come pick me up as soon as I get off in London."

"So be it, but let us go. It is only a matter of time before the paparazzi show up here," Yao said. He fetched the keys and gave them to Francis. In the cold, October morning air, they bundled up in the simple black car and drove to the airport. Arthur sent only one text message to Alfred, just before he boarded the plane.

I need some space. I love you, but don't try to call me or come after me. Please. Goodbye, Alfred.

Sending the text made him cry, and made him hate himself for what he was doing to Alfred because of what had been done to him. Wordlessly, Francis held his hand as they walked to the terminal. He turned his phone off for the duration of the flight, and spent fourteen hours staring at the clouds slipping by and feeling absolutely miserable.

Alfred woke up to the sight of his bedroom ceiling blurred above him. He felt like he was going to be sick, so he rolled to the side rather violently and grasped for the trashcan he knew was beside his desk. How he got to the White House was anybody's guess, but the trashcan was just where it was supposed to be and thankfully it caught most of the mess.

Alfred felt like shit. He didn't really remember much of the previous night, as they'd started drinking almost as soon as they'd been released from jail and had continued drinking till nearly two in the morning, but he did remember that his life had become spectacularly fucked up in just a short day.

As if to confirm this, his bedroom door opened just as he was wiping the sick off his mouth, and Alfred was confronted with the sight of his father. As a kid, Alfred had only been spanked a handful of times. Usually, it was only when he really messed up beyond all hope of salvaging the situation, or when he disappointed his father more than the appearance-obsessed man could bear.

Now, he had that same look on his face—the look that had told a six year old Alfred that he was about to get his butt beat.

"I'm s-sorry, Dad! I know it's really bad, but—"

"Shut up, Alfred."

Alfred had never been very good at that. He opened his mouth to stutter out another excuse, but that was when he noticed his father actually had his belt in the hand that had been behind his back, and Alfred's eyes went wide. He was too old to be spanked. The idea was ridiculous, preposterous!

And then his dad was on him and Alfred, even with all his youth and athleticism, stood no chance. His dad flipped him over and popped him over the backside at least ten times. He poured all his remaining strength into the eleventh. It was embarrassing. It was painful. It made Alfred feel about six inches tall.

"I don't give a fucking damn that you're sixteen. NO son of mine will pull the shit you pulled yesterday. That was completely un-fucking-acceptable! You prance around like a goddamed fairy with that ugly British kid and I keep my mouth shut, but jail? Getting drunk out by some ditch and having a goddamed Russian mafia kid bring your sorry ass home? Un-fucking-acceptable!"

Tears stung Alfred's eyes as the belt popped down again, though his father had lost most of his strength by then and it really didn't hurt as badly as the first eleven had.

"You're grounded, and your mother won't get you out of it this time. No phone. No computer. No car. No leaving your damn room. No fucking limey boyfriend, none of your fag friends, no football, and no fucking clubs. No school even! Want to know why? Because you've been fucking suspended. I hope you're fucking proud of yourself. I sure as hell am not. You better not step a fucking toe out of this room because if I so much as see your face before at least a week is up, I'll make that ass-whooping look like a kiss and a cuddle. You hear me?"

"Y-yes sir!" Alfred sniffled, as he tried to force away his tears by squeezing his eyes shut as hard as possible.

"Disgusting. Clean that shit off your face and take a damned shower. You smell like piss and puke."

Alfred winced as his bedroom door slammed shut, and he finally gave into the urge to sob like a little boy.

Matthew entered his dorm room to find Alex still sleeping, and a rerun of some old slasher flick playing on the television. With a sigh, he turned off the TV and went straight to the shower. He stood under the spray for a long time, totally spaced out, refusing to think about anything.

When he emerged from the shower, it was nearly an hour later. It readily became apparent that life was not ready to cut him a break.

"Seriously? Both of you?" Matthew asked, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Francis sat on his bed, sneering at Alex and his messy side of the room, while Gilbert stood nearby clearly mid-debate with a very disinterested Francis.

"Mattie!" Gilbert said, breaking into a huge grin.

"Don't 'Mattie!' me. You do realize what yesterday was, right?"

"Uh…Saturday?" Gilbert asked hopefully. Matthew gave him a flat look.

"It was our one month anniversary. I came to surprise you, but you were too out of it to get up and eat the breakfast I made you. So I went walking…alone…on our anniversary…and ended up in jail. I called you, as my one phone call, and guess who was still stoned and didn't pick up? So Ivan, of all people, had to bail me out of jail. Then, because I don't think I've ever had a more depressing anniversary, I got hammered with an ex…who kissed me yesterday, by the way. I'm not even going to lie to you and say I didn't enjoy it, either. Somebody should kiss me on my anniversary, for maple's sake!"

"I knew you were hitting on him!" Gilbert said triumphantly, and pointed an accusing finger at Francis. The French boy rolled his eyes, and Alex looked at Matthew in shock.

"Damn, socio, you went to prison without me?" Alex joked weakly.

"Gilbert, all the weed has killed what little sense you had left. How could you treat Matthew that way on your anniversary? The day of your love?"

"Shut up! You cheated on him and all kinds of shit like that!"

"Both of you, just go! I don't like either of you right now!"

"Mattie…teddy bear…are you, like, dumping me?" Gilbert asked, his brown eyes more red than usual. Mattie glared at him.

"I don't believe it. You're still high. You've been baked the whole weekend, Gilbert! Enough already!"

"He wants you to leave, stoner," Francis jeered.

"After you, asshole!" Gilbert replied. Despite trading insults, the two didn't actually seem all that mad at each other. They left disappointed, but not overly angry. Matthew slammed the door behind them anyway. He was certainly pissed.

"Your parents called, socio. You're kinda…on the news."

Matthew let his head bang dully against the wood of the door. It was going to take some serious amounts of maple syrup to turn such a shitty morning around.

Yao pretended the spoon was a helicopter and finally convinced Raivis to open his mouth and eat some of the applesauce. Ivan came into the kitchen from the trip he'd made to World Academy to drop off Matthew and groaned as he dragged a hand over his face. He started muttering to himself in low, grumbling Russian. All Yao heard was the phrases "lightweights," "pussies," and "faggots" repeated more than was appropriate for the young ears that were present.

"Ivan," Yao warned in a pleasant tone. The Russian boy cast a falsely cheery smile at him and then dropped his breakfast plate onto the table with a clatter. He kissed Natalya on the head, all with that same, fake cheerful smile, and then kissed Raivis's forehead and Yao's cheek.

"Better, da?" he asked sweetly. Yao rolled his eyes and spoke in babying Chinese to Raivis.

"Daddy is an idiot, yes he is. A big stupid western pig with a dirty mouth. We will wash his mouth out with Chinese soap, won't we? Yes we will," Yao cooed. Raivis, having next to no understanding of Chinese, clapped his chubby hands in delight. Ivan, who now was very fluent in Chinese insults, merely huffed in amusement and stuffed his mouth with the fried bread and the mushroom congee Yao had prepared for breakfast.

"Ivan? You have weird friends," Natalya said matter-of-factly.

"I don't have any friends. I have underlings." Ivan replied, with his same false cheer. Natalya rolled her eyes as if to say "my brother is so weird."

"Whatever you say, big brother."

"Did you get Matthew back alright?" Yao asked, convincing Raivis to eat one last bite. Ivan chewed noisily and swallowed loudly. He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve and Yao winced in displeasure.

"No. I took him to a bridge and left him there with all the other drunk petookh opooscheny."

"Natalya, clean your dishes and go to your room," Yao said sweetly. The young girl rolled her eyes again but did as she was told.

As she left, she grumbled, "I'm not a baby. I know what a gay prison prostitute is."

"Ivan, what is bothering you?" Yao said simply once Natalya had left. Ivan stayed stubbornly silent, scowling at his meal more than eating it. Yao crossed the kitchen and stood at Ivan's side until the hulking teen scooted his chair back in defeat and patted his leg. Yao sat in Ivan's lap with practiced ease and stared deeply into Ivan's pale eyes. For a moment, Ivan let Yao see the disappointment and the frustration. Yao leaned forward, so that their foreheads rested against each other's for a moment. Then Yao sweetly kissed Ivan's lips.

"You could not help what happened with the rapist. It was not your fault he got away. If you had not gone back to the school, Arthur would likely be dead," Yao said. Ivan sighed and kissed Yao deeply, tasting his boyfriend's tongue and holding him tightly against his chest. When Ivan pulled away, he gave Yao's lips a brief little peck and then stood. Yao slid gracefully to the floor.

"You are right, but I am still upset. Arthur is your little bitch friend. I should have protected him better."

"I really will get the soap," Yao threatened. Ivan smirked and kissed Yao once more.

"You just try, cuchka derganaya," Ivan said with his homicidal grin, laughing even as Yao grabbed a nearby frying pan and all but chased him out of the kitchen with it. Raivis giggled and shouted, "Pan! Pan!"

All in all, drunken misadventures aside, it was just another typical morning in the Braginski-Wang household.

Alfred was completely freaked out the first day of his grounding. He worried obsessively about Arthur, about Matthew, about anything and everything really. He thought about trying to escape, and then remembered his father's warning and decided to stay put. He counted all the Superman logos on his bed sheets, wrote Arthur a letter, tore up said letter because it was sappy and the grammar was terrible, and then started doing pushups.

That was day one. At least the morning of day two started with a plate of food shoved quickly into his room by one of the maids, though she refused to talk to him and locked the door firmly after she left the food. Alfred ate his rations glumly and wondered why he'd even bothered leaving jail. It seemed he'd just traded one for the other. He skipped the letter writing that morning and went straight into the work out. Situps. Pushups. Pullups on the bar over his bathroom door. A constant and steady stream of reps until his muscles screamed at him and his body was soaked in sweat.

When he collapsed into a hot bath after a freezing cold shower, Alfred started to do something that he hardly ever did—he thought about what he'd done, and how he'd handled the past two weeks.

Being a teenager was really freaking hard, he decided. He wondered if his life was so crazy because he was famous, or if all teenagers had such dramatic sophomore years. For God's sake, he was sixteen and he had a mugshot.

Even Alfred could admit that his life had gotten off-track somehow, and things had spun wildly out of his control. The problem, he realized, was that he didn't have any freaking clue how to fix everything. Then, Arthur's words came back to him almost like the touch of a ghost. He couldn't fix other people's problems. Then they wouldn't learn anything.

Is that what was happening to him? Was he so worried about what was happening to everyone else that he was neglecting to fix his own problems and learn from them? First it had been all the fame, and the way he'd messed up things with Mattie, and then all the modeling stuff and the eating disorder (and Alfred could admit now that it had been, in fact, an eating disorder)…that was enough for one boy, wasn't it? Taking care of Michelle and looking out for Matthew and trying to constantly be on guard against some shadowy horrible rapist, for god's sake, it was just too much! He was only one teenager. He wasn't some sort of real life superhero, he was just Alfred. Nerdy, loser Alfred who sucked at making friends and never should have left the world of Dungeons and Dragons.

That was what it boiled down to. He just sucked at being famous and glamorous and popular. It wasn't his life, it wasn't who he was meant to be, and it wasn't a role he could play anymore. He was the kid who fantasized about being a hero—not the kid who actually became one. As Alfred sunk under the water, he playfully blew bubbles and watched them pop up around his nose. When had everything gotten so serious and grown up? He was sixteen, not fucking forty. He was just over it. All of it.

Whenever he got his freedom back, he was going to reactivate his World of Warcraft account and put all his old computer games back on his desktop at school. He was going to draw shitty comics again, and go back to studying deck strategies for Yu-Gi-Oh cards instead of algebra. He was sick of being popular Alfred with the sexy boyfriend and all the fame and six million followers on twitter.

He was going to get his old life back, because at least then he'd been happy, and the world had been simple. Alfred knew how to live that life, but he didn't know how to live his current one.

Alfred's eyes lit up in delight and he hastily drained the water out of the bathtub. He toweled off quickly and rushed into his bedroom, lifting up the mattress to find…yes! It was still there. His faithful Gameboy was right where he'd left it nearly two years ago, hidden from the last of his mother and father's nerd purges. After some new batteries, the electronic device beeped to life and Alfred let out a sigh of pure relief and relaxation. Putting everything—absolutely everything—out of his mind, he escaped into the world of Pokemon.

Arthur spent a lot of the first week crying. There'd been no word from Alfred, but Arthur had heard through Matthew that Alfred was being held like some kind of prisoner in his own home as punishment for the trouble he'd gotten into. Arthur wanted to worry about him, but he just couldn't manage to care about anything really. He knew he was depressed. His mother finally cracked and called for a therapist, and the woman had been coming dutifully every afternoon. For two days, Arthur had just sipped his tea and pretended like she wasn't there. On day three, he'd listened as she talked soothingly about which of Shakespeare's plays was her favorite. On day four, over his mother's rather excellent scones, Arthur had cracked and told her everything. Afterwards, he felt completely drained. No matter how empty and numb he felt after each session, somehow the next day he managed to summon up all the emotional upset again and trudge through it all again no matter how much pain it caused. Half the time he just repeated rants about how angry he was that he'd been violated, and how infuriating it was that he'd been scared off from school, and how maddening it was that he couldn't decide whether his boyfriend's touch comforted him or made him want to throw up.

Mostly, she just listened. Around day six, she started offering him ideas on how to cope. They tried a few things together and Arthur decided he wanted to move past it. He didn't want to spend the rest of his teenage years broken and angry. He started really listening during the sessions, and now it had been almost two weeks at home, secluded from all his old friends and the school, and Arthur almost felt better. His parents knew just how to handle him—never too loud or pushy, but always right there when he needed them. Colin came and had a long talk with him as they went riding together. The fresh air and the gentle message of love and support from Colin had done Arthur good. Patrick showed up, too, and sneaked in alcohol. They got drunk together playing cards and listening to Irish punk bands turned up way too loud far too late into the night.

And Arthur thought about things. He thought about what his life had become with Alfred, and he thought about the man he wanted to be when the year was over, and he thought about life beyond school. He thought about what had happened to him. He thought about what hadn't happened to him—namely, he was still alive. He'd survived against all odds. He took his piercing out and he threw the stud away. He decided he needed a change, even if it was just in his style, and he vowed that when…if…he returned to World Academy he'd throw away all the punk clothes he'd taken to wearing. His therapist told him rape victims often felt the need for change, and that it was okay. As long as he didn't want to hurt himself. So Arthur filled his new wardrobe with sweater vests and crisply ironed khakis and he decided he was going to renew his focus on his studies. Books had been his salvation, his one steadfast friend in the past, and he could rely on them now. He read all hours of the day, all subjects and authors, all his old books and then bags full of new ones. He read anything that caught his eye in the impressive family library, and even a few things that had never interested him before.

He was startled to realize one morning that he'd lived without his cell phone since that call from Matthew about what was happening to Alfred. He hadn't logged onto a computer or turned on the television. He'd done nothing for three weeks except talk to his therapist, read book after book, and spend a small amount of time with his family. It was nearly the start of November when Patrick came to visit again. This time, he didn't bring alcohol.

They sat on Arthur's bed, and Patrick frowned slightly at Arthur's immaculately neat clothes—they almost looked strange on such a young man.

"Arthur…mum is never going to say this, but someone has to."

"What?" Arthur asked, idly flipping a page in his latest novel. Patrick sighed loudly enough that Arthur glanced up at him.

"You've been hiding at home for almost a month. We all knew you needed a safe place to recover for a bit, but you can't stay here forever. You need to get back out there, Art. Mum called the headmaster at the WA branch in London. They've made arrangements for you to continue your sophomore year there. You could stay in England all four years. New friends, new faces…what do you think, Art?"

Arthur flipped another page and stared through the book rather than at it.

"I have to go back. To Washington."

"Arthur…this is what mum was afraid of. We still don't think it's safe. This isn't a pride thing. We all know you're a fighter, kid, but there's a psycho there who's already hurt you. I'm not saying you should go back there. I'm not saying that at all. Is this about Alfred? Because I know you love him, or you think you do, but you're sixteen. The chances that you and Alfred will actually end up together are—"

"Patrick. Stop. Just stop. I know you only want to protect me, and I know you all think you know what's in my heart…but you don't. Right now, I don't even entirely know my own mind. I know I have to make a decision soon, and I shall. But not right now. Maybe tomorrow."

Patrick frowned and studied his kid brother seriously for a moment before he admitted defeat. Arthur would find his own way, but he wasn't going to let anyone pressure him into something he didn't want to do. After what he'd been though, none of them really had the heart to force him to do anything. It would have to be Arthur's move. If need be, his family would shelter and support him forever. If Arthur wanted to launch back out into the world, nobody was going to push him.

A/N: I really like this chapter. For starters, it felt like this story was moving SO slowly, so I'm happy that I found a good place to do a little time skipping. I also wanted to show how everyone is kind of wrapped up in their own little worlds, and I wanted to step back a little and put things in perspective for each character.

When (if?) Arthur returns to WA in Washington, a month will have passed with essentially very little communication between the original six characters of the story. Who will Matthew have chosen? What will Alfred be like? What will the two lovers who have, for all intents and purposes simply stopped talking for an entire month, have to say to each other? Are they even still together? And let's not forget, Arthur's attacker is still waiting in the wings…

Next time! Love you guys!