These Boots Are Made For Walkin' 2/?
M'kay, so the jist is that I already have the first 5 chapters of this fic, (most of which are on fanfic. net ^.^) so that means that updates should be fairly rapid fire till then.
And thus; ch 2.
And say hello to badass Artie.
Be careful. He's a princess.
Title: These Boots Are Made For Walkin'
Series: Hetalia Axis Powers
Rating: 17
Warning: Polish swears. Prostitute Arthur and his mace. Alfred's idiocy and psychological heriosm. Feliks' wardrobe.
Pairings: US/UK, PolLiet, possible Rus/US (though its fleeting and creepy) and a few more...hanging around.
Summary: Alfred, a student in a London University, has a strong mindset that Love exists as more than a hormone, and that everyone is entitled to love and be loved. So when he meets a male prostitute after a freak escape, will his mindset be shaken?
Alfred's breath gasped and sobbed in his ears. Every drag of oxygen his lungs heaved rattling down his throat. The sound of his pounding feet echoing in the dark, damp air. The world span and watched him run like a vulture. His jeans and one shoeless sock soaked in the cold puddles left behind by the rain. He ran and ran and ran, before finally his head began to clear and he realised that his legs where screaming at him in agony.
Alfred stopped in an alleyway steeped in shadow. The sound of his gasping resounding and sounding back at him in the towering walls fencing him in. And suddenly, the last of the white noise in his brain lifted and the air felt softer on his face. His legs trembled with the effort of keeping him up and he shivered in the cold night air. A sharp pain shocked through his right knuckle, wrenching along his nerves, the pain agonising enough to make him feel sick, blurring his vision. He looked down warily at his hand and after a glance he threw his head back and stared up at the sky. The skin was bruised and ripped, ragged tares lining his fist, the fingers where stiff but somehow they still seemed to be capable of small, involuntary movements, simple, tiny shivers and twitches which just stabbed his hand constantly. That, Alfred thought, is definitely broken.
A sudden clattering sound boomed at the mouth of the alleyway and Alfred whirled around, his heart in his mouth. A small black cat padded out from behind a toppled bin. It looked at him, it's eyes glowing eerily in the reflection of the orange streetlights, mewled, then trotted away.
Alfred stared after the cat for a moment. Something had settled in his stomach, tight and hard, and chuckles soon bubbled their way up his chest and out his mouth. He broke into a fit of ugly giggles, then closed his eyes and laughed. The whole thing seemed ridiculous to him now. He laughed until he cried and the tears cooled and dried on his face. Then Alfred turned around and threw up against the wall. The sound of his retching bouncing off the brickwork. He moaned softly and pushed himself away from the spattered mess, stumbling over to the other side, and crouching down, cradling his hand and moaning.
He was definitely in shock. It was textbook. This could get dangerous if he didn't calm down and get a grip. Alfred leaned his forehead against the cool wall and closed his eyes.
The ghost of Ivan's eyes swam up before him, glinting meanly in the darkness of the alleyway. Cold, groping fingers wound their way around Alfred's arms, creeping tighter, pressing himself closer, breathing on the back of Alfred's neck.
Alfred's eyes snapped open and he flung himself around, eyes sweeping the empty alleyway. He fell onto his bum, soaking the seat of his jeans. He cradled his hand again, panting.
Alfred dragged his good hand through his hair, pushing his dirty, misting glasses, which by some miracle where still on his face, up his nose. And suddenly, the wish to be home, with his roommate, dry and warm, filled his entire being.
Alfred rested his head against the bricks and closed his eyes, standing in his dorm for a while in his mind. Then he groaned and pushed himself up, leaning heavily on the bricks, his shattered hand against his broad chest. Walking was easier than he imagined it would be. His steps where long and steady even though he felt like he was going to sink into the earth and evaporate up into the dark sky at the same time. He let go of the wall and emerged from the alleyway, blinking in the sudden glare of the streetlights.
He glanced around. The street was completely devoid of all life. Litter and rubbish strewn across its sad, tarmac surface. A few puddles left behind by the abrupt shower dotted here and there. The buildings large and cramped, like a face with too many teeth in it's jaw. Alfred sighed, then looked at the pavement, watching his feet as they walked, beginning what would be a long journey home.
Alfred didn't know how long he had been walking. It felt like time had dragged by slowly, every minuet wrapping its arms around his neck and weighing on his hunched back. Step, step, step. How many songs had he been playing in his head? Step, step, step. How many buildings and districts had he passed? Step, step, step. How-
Alfred looked up at the sound of distant voices, hope making his heart soar, dread dragging it back down. He had finally come to a bank of buildings that looked inhabited, lights other than streetlamps nailed to the walls, and shinning through drawn curtains. There where porchlights and florescent bulbs and insect repellents, throwing the streets into a spectrum called Urban Glow. Alfred kept walking, too tired to care too much, but the horror of the situation still prevented him from believing that he was truly safe now. He stared towards the alleyway where the noises where floating towards him from the opposite side of the road.
“What you on about?”
“He's havin' a laugh.”
“I assure you, I'm perfectly serious. No compromise, no sale.”
Alfred looked down the alleyway in alarm. God forbid, all he needed was to be an unwilling witness to some underground drugs transaction. The two voices sounded scummy and rough, mocking the third man. But the third voice sounded calm and calculating. The vocabulary and persuasiveness of a businessman, subtly influenced by the soft and authoritative tones of a teacher.
Two men where standing in the mouth of the alleyway. Disbelieving and cock-sure grins plastered thickly on their young faces. One leaned casually against the other, regarding the man in front of them with a cruel, hungry glint in their, otherwise dead, eyes.
The third man stood alone. Head up and looking at the taller men, hands on his hips.
Alfred stopped. He stared. He forgot how to breath. And his heart, quite literally, skipped a beat.
The man was looking at the two before him in a way that suggested he was reading them like a book. His face was pale and slightly feminine around the edges, his cheekbones, and nose. Even from across the street Alfred could make out smoky grey make-up rimming his deep green eyes, and gloss coating his pink lips. His hair was a washed out blond, styled in thick, choppy curtains. The clothes he wore clung to his frame and hung off him in folds, accenting his small shape. A thin black shirt cut low to his chest standing out against his stunning pale skin. A large coat swamping him, reaching his knees which were decked out in thigh-length, steel-tipped, high-heeled boots. A strip of pale thigh was exposed underneath a pare of tight, high-waisted shorts. All of it black. All of it leather.
Alfred suddenly realised just what the man was selling: Himself.
The two men looked at each other and laughed. The sound rolling across the street and pounding against Alfred's eardrums, making him grimace. “You don't know what your dealin' with, mate.”
“'Ay, I've 'ad enough of this. I'm not fuckin' payin' you.”
The men straightened up and moved forwards, one grabbed the prostitute by the lapels of his jacket, shaking him and leaning forward to meet the shorter man's eyes. The prostitute placed his hands over his assaulter's gripping fists, a fierce, dark look crossing over his beautiful face.
“Slag” the man spat, the words dripping with gravelly loathing “where do you get off tellin' us what to do?” He shook the smaller man again so hard that his head snapped back and forth. Then the darker haired man grabbed the prostitute by the sleeve and pushed, shoving him face first against the damp, dirty wall.
Alfred jumped then and bolted forwards before he knew what he was doing. “HAY!” He called out. His voice booming across the street. The two men started and whirled around, eyes wide, and Alfred thanked god for the second time that night, this time for his misleading build. The prostitute just looked at him from behind his arm. His eyes connected with Alfred's, and Alfred felt a tug in his stomach, a flow of burning cold energy snaking its way underneath his ribs searing him deep in his chest.
The prostitute broke contact. Turning his head he leaned forward and snapped one foot back, kicking the dark haired man with his steel-tipped boot, sending him flying into a huddle of dustbins, then he reached into a pocket and swiftly pulled out a small bottle, arcing his arm up as the second man twisted around. The prostitute pressed a button and sprayed what Alfred had a sneaking feeling was probably mace directly into his grimy face.
The man screamed and pressed his hands to his eyes, stumbling to the side. “That's what you get when you don't follow my rules, bastards.” The prostitute watched the man as he rubbed his burning face, his expression one of complete uncaring. Alfred stared, his mouth open before noticing the first man pulling himself to his feet, his face contorted with rage.
“Watch out!!” Alfred yelled, the words tearing up his throat. The prostitute looked at him, then whirled around, his coat flying. There was a sickening clang and Alfred let out a small, choked sound. The prostitute stumbled back against the wall, then slid down. Alfred looked at the dark haired man, clutching a metal bin lid, and panting.
Alfred was running before his mind caught up with him. He threw himself forward, colliding with the man and tackling him to the hard ground. The man cried out as his head connected with the wet tarmac, then went still.
Alfred didn't move at first, but then slowly he got to his knees, bringing a hand to gently touch his broken fist. His jaw worked soundlessly. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
After struggling with the mind-numbing pain for a few minuets, Alfred finally stood up, and looked around, his sky blue eyes coming to rest on the form of the prostitute, sitting on the ground, looking at him. A patch of hair on his forehead was matting together with blood, a dribble of deep red liquid staining his pale face and dripping from his chin.
Alfred focused on breathing. He glanced at the moaning figure of the man still pawing at his eyes as if he had been struck blind. Then he stepped over to the blond prostitute. He extended his left hand, his broad, rough palm facing the night sky. The prostitute looked at it, then glanced back up to met Alfred's gaze.
Then he broke into a smile that didn't quite reach his large, green eyes. “Go home kid.”
Alfred blinked.
“I can't just leave you.” He said.
“I don't need your help. I've grown up with this. I'm fine.”
Alfred looked at the prostitute. Sitting on the damp, dirty ground, and still speaking to him like he had just stepped out of some company meeting. Then he looked at his eyes. Those beautiful, emerald eyes that.
...That looked strangely unfocused.
“No you're not” Alfred crouched down. His academic side kicking in. He pointed at the prostitute. “You have a concussion. How many fingers am I holding up?” He lifted his left hand.
The prostitute frowned. “Three”
“No, one. You're coming with me.” And before he could respond Alfred had lifted him up into his arms, and walked away, leaving the dank alleyway behind.
The prostitute didn't take it quietly, for all the blood pouring from his head, it seemed he still had enough to fill his cheeks. “Put me down you bastard! What the fuck do you think you're doing?”
Alfred ignored him, and after the sixth block they passed, the smaller blond quietened down. Eventually they reached a part of the city that had more life in it, and Alfred set the prostitute on his feet, keeping a firm grip on his forearm to prevent him from falling, or meandering dizzily to the left.
“So” he said, his cheeks burned under the awkward silence. “What's your name?”
“What? What's it to you, boy?”
Alfred pretended he didn't notice the sharpness in his tone. “I dunno, I guess I'm just sick of referring to you as 'The Prostitute' in my head.”
The smaller blond narrowed his eyes at Alfred, his glossy lip curling.
“It's Arthur.” He said.
Alfred grinned. “I'm Alfred.”
Arthur smiled sarcasticly. “Oh goodie.” he said.
Alfred pouted. Then he looked around. They stood on a street lined with shops, a few street lights, and dotted with cars. Relief washed through his entire body and Alfred felt like falling to his knees and thanking god (for a third time). “C'mon” He tugged on Arthur's hand “I know his part of town.”
Arthur looked at him from under smoky eyeshadow, snatching his hand back. “I'm not so sure I'm going to let you take me where ever it is you're taking me.” He said.
Alfred turned and looked straight at the smaller man. “Well, for one thing you won't be capable of walking straight for quite a while, give or take an hour. For another, I have a med' box in the cupboard under my sink that is stuffed full of painkillers. And lastly, if I don't get home right now, get a cup of coffee, and sleep for the next week, I am going to curl up here on the floor and die because I've had what has to be, the worst night of my entire life.”
And the thought of you leaving and never seeing you again makes me feel like I'd rather break my fist for a second time.
But he didn't say that part.
Arthur regarded him for a moment longer before looking up at the lightening sky, glancing at the ground, then back to Alfred.
“Fine.” He sighed.
Alfred smiled.
Alfred had barely gotten a single knock on the light, polished dorm door before it was practically wrenched off it's brass hinges by a flustered, blond, Polish boy.
“JESUZ' CHIST GDZIE BYŁAŚ?!?!”
Alfred tilted his head to the side and looked at Feliks tiredly. “I missed you too, Feli”
Feliks reached forward and dragged his friend into a crushing hug, burying his face into Alfred's broad shoulder. Alfred patted him on the back gently with his good hand, feeling the familiar soft cotton shirt beneath his tan fingers.
“In English that would be; Jesus fucking Christ, Alfred, like, where have you been??”
Alfred held Feliks at arms length, the Polish man must have been in a real state. His blond hair was mused from where he had probably been running his fingers through it in restlessness. His fair skin was completely clean, not a spot of make-up on his face. His clothes where simple, and creased from pacing, sitting down, then getting up and pacing again.
“Jesus.” Alfred remarked. “Remind me never to be kidnapped again, unless I've called you first.”
“YOU WHAT-?” Feliks halted, his green eyes wide, then they flicked to the side, passed Alfred's shoulder. “I kto w [jest to?”
Alfred feared that his friend might suddenly decide that it was all too much and have a nervous breakdown right there in the doorway so he patted Feliks on the arm and dragged him back inside, leading him over to the sofa.
“Dude, the Polish.” He said.
“Who.” Feliks said, staring unblinking at the person behind Alfred, and managing to walk backwards quite expertly. “Is. That..”
“That?” Alfred threw a glance over his shoulder. “Oh, that's just Arthur.”
“Alfred. Do you know that Arthur is a whore?”
Alfred swallowed. “Yes, Feliks. I am perfectly awair that Arthur is a whore.”
“Do you also realise that Arthur is a whore with an apparent concussion?”
“Yes, I do, thanks. That's why I brought him here.”
Arthur made a displeased noise behind them. He folded his arms and looked down, watching his foot tap the carpet of the hallway nervously and pretending like the blush on his cheeks didn't exist.
Alfred turned from where he was helping Feliks sit down on the sofa. “Dude. You can come in you know.”
Arthur gave a quick nod of the head and stepped through the doorway, his steps carrying him with false confidence, making his hips sway with practised ease.
Alfred swallowed again then cleared his throat. “Listen, Feli, I'll tell you everything, I promise, but right now I gotta go down to the uni's med centre.”
“Dude, It's called a ward.” Feliks said quietly, no real humour behind it. Alfred flinched, but appreciating it for the attempt.
He smiled, looking at Feliks until he met his green eyes. “Whatever, tranny. I gotta go get fixed up, and so does Arthur.” Alfred chuckled “But he can't go down like that. Do you..have anything he could borrow?” Alfred gestured awkwardly at the size difference between the three of them.
Suddenly Feliks' emerald eyes sparked, locking directly onto Alfred's.
“Do I ever, does the devil wear Prada? I'm, like, totally going with the sweater-jeans on him. Or OH OHMIGOD HE WOULD SO ROCK OUT A SKIRT!!”
Alfred stifled a laugh and stood up. Feliks' smile froze and shattered on his pretty face.
“Oh my god, Alfred what happened to your hand?”
Alfred glanced down, his stomach flipping at the rather ghastly sight of red, raw and broken skin. “Oh. All part of the experience, Feliks. Now, Arthur needs your creative wardrobe. Stat.”
Feliks collapsed back against the sofa for a moment, pressing a hand over his eyes and sighing deeply. Then he stood up and strode over to Arthur, peering at him up and down. Arthur unfolded his arms, leaning on his back foot and watching Feliks run through his mental wardrobe and colour schemes. Then Feliks grinned, and Arthur visibly recoiled slightly, a billion fashion combinations flairing in his eyes like a fire with lighter fluid thrown on it. The Polish student grabbed the prostitute by the sleeve and dragged him off to his room, slamming the door behind them, ending Arthur's chance for escape.
Alfred looked after them for a moment, then collapsed onto the abandoned sofa, sighing heavily and cradling his right hand. He closed his eyes and let his body deflate, his tired bones sinking into the cushions. The entire night played on a roll of film onto his flickering eyelids, a blur of violet eyes, darkness, puddles, fear and pain, then Arthur.
Arthur.
Arthur.
Shit. Alfred thought, for want of a better phrase. He pushed some hair out of his eyes and rubbed at the back of his head. What he'd do for a nice hot shower. And for the agony of his hand to go away. And some dry pants...And a shoe while he was at it.
He opened his eyes and sat up, hooking a toe into the back of his shoe and kicking it off. Alfred suddenly drew a sharp breath, a hand flying uselessly to pat his chest. His jacket. He had left behind his jacket.
Alfred flopped back against the sofa, gripping a handful of hair in a clenched fist, a frustrated noise forcing itself out from between clenched teeth. He looked over to the coat stand by the door and was grateful that Feliks hadn't thrown his leather flying jacket into his face earlier that night. He didn't know what he'd do if he lost that.
Probably go back and get it actually.
Alfred saw an image of those eyes again, and shivered.
God. He thought. You spend your life reading, and hearing about things like this. Even now, in school he was studying things like this. He chuckled. Hell he could even be a subject in his own lessons. I had no idea, Alfred thought to himself. That it was this real.
Alfred jumped as the door to Feliks' room banged open.
Arthur stood slightly awkwardly. On his small feet he wore a pare of soft, black converses. A pair of baggy, denim jeans, complete with zips and button-pockets lining the sides, hung low on his hips. And a dark, woollen jumper hugged his slim form, and loved his figure. His hair was combed and naturally unruly, his face flushed and scrubbed clean, and still he was adorable.
“Taa-daa!” Feliks sang, with jazz-hands.
Shit. Alfred swallowed.
Alfred stood up, mindful of his hand, and waited for the two of them to approach.
“I think I've, totally, outdone myself.” Feliks purred, admiring his work with warm pride.
“Yeah, he looks really great, Feli.” Alfred blanched and flushed, biting his lip, and wishing he could take the words back.
Feliks fixed him with a searching stare.
“C'mon lets go.” Alfred turned his back on his friend and Arthur's deep, green eyes, and walked to the door of the dorm. He toed his feet into a pair of clean shoes, busying himself and praying that he was not as transparent as he felt. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the well lit hallway. Doors leading to other dorms set into the cream walls every few yards. Each with a little brass number plate fixed to the face of the wood and marking it out as individual. Alfred turned back and smiled at Feliks, who leaned against the door frame, folding his arms across his chest and tapping the carpet with one bare foot. Arthur came and stood in the hall, eyes travelling leisurely across the details.
“Make sure to come back this time.” He said. Half joking, half serious.
Where have I heard that tone before? Alfred thought. “I will Feliks” He said, hoping his face conveyed the honesty he felt. “It's just the med ward. It's in the same building.”
“Be quick, Alfie.” And Feliks smiled at him as he closed the door with a soft click.
Alfred sighed. Then looked at Arthur and smiled. “It's just a few floors down.”
“All right.” Arthur said, then appeared to reel a little.
Alfred leaned forwards and grasped the smaller man's forearm. “Hay, you ok?” he asked. His voice wrapped in cottony concern.
Arthur blinked. “Yeah. I just. Feel a bit ill.”
“We'll get that fixed” Alfred promised, “hang on.”
They walked in silence down the hall, keeping their eyes on the end of the corridor. Alfred with his hand under Arthur's forearm, steadying him gently. Then they came to a pair of large metal doors, and Alfred pushed the button to call the lift. There was a soft humming sound and the doors slid open with a 'ding'. Alfred stepped in, guiding Arthur, and pressed a button that glowed happily. The doors slid closed again.
Seconds passed and Alfred and Arthur stood in silence, elevator music dancing through the air, and tapping on the walls. Alfred worried his lower lip and glanced around, then his eyes drifted to Arthur. Arthur was gazing straight ahead, his eyes half-lidded, and an apparently unimpressed expression on his soft face. Something stirred in Alfred's chest and he shifted on his feet restlessly, dropping his hand, eyes on the smaller man beside him. There was something inside him. It leaked out his pores and into the atmosphere. It saturated the molecules and atoms electrifying them and making the air buzz. Then it was drawn back inside his poor, worn body, setting his blood into that strange, freezing fire. The feeling was everywhere. Everything. He wanted to break it, for something to change, anything. He needed it to be snapped. He needed it to stop.
“Hay, you never told me your full name.” He suddenly said. The words forming themselves and jumping suicidally off his tongue.
Arthur looked up, the bored expression shifting to slight irritation, his eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth turning down.
“Quite right.” He said.
Alfred looked at him, his eyebrows raised. “Well...Could you tell it me?”
The prostitute's face darkened visibly. “Tell it to me.” He said.
Alfred blinked with intelligence. “..What?”
“Tell it to me.” Arthur said again.
“Err, sure.” He grinned and extended his left hand. “The names Alfred. Alfred Jones.”
The irritation slid off Arthur's face and he looked at the American boy as if he couldn't quite grasp the levels of idiocy he possessed. Alfred's grin flickered and went out like a dying light. He lifted his extended hand and ran it through his hair.
“I jus' wanted to know.” He muttered quietly.
Arthur sighed deeply and looked ahead again. “I can't just go around giving out my name, kid.” He said.
Alfred's hand stilled mid hair-comb. “Why not?” He asked.
The disbelieving expression was back on Arthur's face. He met Alfred's eyes and said “Because I'm a prostitute.”
Alfred processed this, then let out an understanding “Ahh...”
He lowered his hand, and put it in his pocket. Looking at the floor he let the information sink in properly. It made his heart feel heavy, and his soul shrink. Arthur was a completely unique individual. One who probably had never had a fair shot at life, through reasons unknown. And there where probably many reasons. Why shouldn't he have had a good life? Why wasn't he in some position of power? He was smart, good looking, persuasive, enigmatic, sexy, -and nooooo, his thoughts where definitely not straying there. But...But.
That didn't mean things had to stay that way.
“Could you...” Alfred wet his lips, keeping his eyes on the metal floor. “Could you tell me?”
A few heartbeats of silence passed and Alfred eventually looked up. Arthur was looking it him, a ghost of something raw and vulnerable passing over his beautiful face, glittering in his eyes. Then it was gone.
He cleared his throat, and hardened his eyes.
“Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.”
Alfred grinned and ripped his hand out his pocket, forcing it into Arthur's and shaking it warmly.
“Yo Arthur” He said “The names Alfred F. Jones, it's good to meet you.”
Disgust tugged at Arthur's face, but there was something in his eyes. Something that was fresh and alive and hopeful.
He wrenched his hand out of Alfred's grip. “Idiot! You already said that!”
“No I didn't” Alfred winked. “I missed out the F part.”
Arthur blanched and Alfred ducked out the opening elevator doors, escaping the onslaught of verbal abuse, laughing.
This was what he was born to do. And if a few psychological walls had to be broken, and a pretence of idiocy established, then so be it. He would give this prostitute a second chance at life.
After all; what else was he good for?
And thus; ch 2.
And say hello to badass Artie.
Be careful. He's a princess.
Title: These Boots Are Made For Walkin'
Series: Hetalia Axis Powers
Rating: 17
Warning: Polish swears. Prostitute Arthur and his mace. Alfred's idiocy and psychological heriosm. Feliks' wardrobe.
Pairings: US/UK, PolLiet, possible Rus/US (though its fleeting and creepy) and a few more...hanging around.
Summary: Alfred, a student in a London University, has a strong mindset that Love exists as more than a hormone, and that everyone is entitled to love and be loved. So when he meets a male prostitute after a freak escape, will his mindset be shaken?
Alfred's breath gasped and sobbed in his ears. Every drag of oxygen his lungs heaved rattling down his throat. The sound of his pounding feet echoing in the dark, damp air. The world span and watched him run like a vulture. His jeans and one shoeless sock soaked in the cold puddles left behind by the rain. He ran and ran and ran, before finally his head began to clear and he realised that his legs where screaming at him in agony.
Alfred stopped in an alleyway steeped in shadow. The sound of his gasping resounding and sounding back at him in the towering walls fencing him in. And suddenly, the last of the white noise in his brain lifted and the air felt softer on his face. His legs trembled with the effort of keeping him up and he shivered in the cold night air. A sharp pain shocked through his right knuckle, wrenching along his nerves, the pain agonising enough to make him feel sick, blurring his vision. He looked down warily at his hand and after a glance he threw his head back and stared up at the sky. The skin was bruised and ripped, ragged tares lining his fist, the fingers where stiff but somehow they still seemed to be capable of small, involuntary movements, simple, tiny shivers and twitches which just stabbed his hand constantly. That, Alfred thought, is definitely broken.
A sudden clattering sound boomed at the mouth of the alleyway and Alfred whirled around, his heart in his mouth. A small black cat padded out from behind a toppled bin. It looked at him, it's eyes glowing eerily in the reflection of the orange streetlights, mewled, then trotted away.
Alfred stared after the cat for a moment. Something had settled in his stomach, tight and hard, and chuckles soon bubbled their way up his chest and out his mouth. He broke into a fit of ugly giggles, then closed his eyes and laughed. The whole thing seemed ridiculous to him now. He laughed until he cried and the tears cooled and dried on his face. Then Alfred turned around and threw up against the wall. The sound of his retching bouncing off the brickwork. He moaned softly and pushed himself away from the spattered mess, stumbling over to the other side, and crouching down, cradling his hand and moaning.
He was definitely in shock. It was textbook. This could get dangerous if he didn't calm down and get a grip. Alfred leaned his forehead against the cool wall and closed his eyes.
The ghost of Ivan's eyes swam up before him, glinting meanly in the darkness of the alleyway. Cold, groping fingers wound their way around Alfred's arms, creeping tighter, pressing himself closer, breathing on the back of Alfred's neck.
Alfred's eyes snapped open and he flung himself around, eyes sweeping the empty alleyway. He fell onto his bum, soaking the seat of his jeans. He cradled his hand again, panting.
Alfred dragged his good hand through his hair, pushing his dirty, misting glasses, which by some miracle where still on his face, up his nose. And suddenly, the wish to be home, with his roommate, dry and warm, filled his entire being.
Alfred rested his head against the bricks and closed his eyes, standing in his dorm for a while in his mind. Then he groaned and pushed himself up, leaning heavily on the bricks, his shattered hand against his broad chest. Walking was easier than he imagined it would be. His steps where long and steady even though he felt like he was going to sink into the earth and evaporate up into the dark sky at the same time. He let go of the wall and emerged from the alleyway, blinking in the sudden glare of the streetlights.
He glanced around. The street was completely devoid of all life. Litter and rubbish strewn across its sad, tarmac surface. A few puddles left behind by the abrupt shower dotted here and there. The buildings large and cramped, like a face with too many teeth in it's jaw. Alfred sighed, then looked at the pavement, watching his feet as they walked, beginning what would be a long journey home.
Alfred didn't know how long he had been walking. It felt like time had dragged by slowly, every minuet wrapping its arms around his neck and weighing on his hunched back. Step, step, step. How many songs had he been playing in his head? Step, step, step. How many buildings and districts had he passed? Step, step, step. How-
Alfred looked up at the sound of distant voices, hope making his heart soar, dread dragging it back down. He had finally come to a bank of buildings that looked inhabited, lights other than streetlamps nailed to the walls, and shinning through drawn curtains. There where porchlights and florescent bulbs and insect repellents, throwing the streets into a spectrum called Urban Glow. Alfred kept walking, too tired to care too much, but the horror of the situation still prevented him from believing that he was truly safe now. He stared towards the alleyway where the noises where floating towards him from the opposite side of the road.
“What you on about?”
“He's havin' a laugh.”
“I assure you, I'm perfectly serious. No compromise, no sale.”
Alfred looked down the alleyway in alarm. God forbid, all he needed was to be an unwilling witness to some underground drugs transaction. The two voices sounded scummy and rough, mocking the third man. But the third voice sounded calm and calculating. The vocabulary and persuasiveness of a businessman, subtly influenced by the soft and authoritative tones of a teacher.
Two men where standing in the mouth of the alleyway. Disbelieving and cock-sure grins plastered thickly on their young faces. One leaned casually against the other, regarding the man in front of them with a cruel, hungry glint in their, otherwise dead, eyes.
The third man stood alone. Head up and looking at the taller men, hands on his hips.
Alfred stopped. He stared. He forgot how to breath. And his heart, quite literally, skipped a beat.
The man was looking at the two before him in a way that suggested he was reading them like a book. His face was pale and slightly feminine around the edges, his cheekbones, and nose. Even from across the street Alfred could make out smoky grey make-up rimming his deep green eyes, and gloss coating his pink lips. His hair was a washed out blond, styled in thick, choppy curtains. The clothes he wore clung to his frame and hung off him in folds, accenting his small shape. A thin black shirt cut low to his chest standing out against his stunning pale skin. A large coat swamping him, reaching his knees which were decked out in thigh-length, steel-tipped, high-heeled boots. A strip of pale thigh was exposed underneath a pare of tight, high-waisted shorts. All of it black. All of it leather.
Alfred suddenly realised just what the man was selling: Himself.
The two men looked at each other and laughed. The sound rolling across the street and pounding against Alfred's eardrums, making him grimace. “You don't know what your dealin' with, mate.”
“'Ay, I've 'ad enough of this. I'm not fuckin' payin' you.”
The men straightened up and moved forwards, one grabbed the prostitute by the lapels of his jacket, shaking him and leaning forward to meet the shorter man's eyes. The prostitute placed his hands over his assaulter's gripping fists, a fierce, dark look crossing over his beautiful face.
“Slag” the man spat, the words dripping with gravelly loathing “where do you get off tellin' us what to do?” He shook the smaller man again so hard that his head snapped back and forth. Then the darker haired man grabbed the prostitute by the sleeve and pushed, shoving him face first against the damp, dirty wall.
Alfred jumped then and bolted forwards before he knew what he was doing. “HAY!” He called out. His voice booming across the street. The two men started and whirled around, eyes wide, and Alfred thanked god for the second time that night, this time for his misleading build. The prostitute just looked at him from behind his arm. His eyes connected with Alfred's, and Alfred felt a tug in his stomach, a flow of burning cold energy snaking its way underneath his ribs searing him deep in his chest.
The prostitute broke contact. Turning his head he leaned forward and snapped one foot back, kicking the dark haired man with his steel-tipped boot, sending him flying into a huddle of dustbins, then he reached into a pocket and swiftly pulled out a small bottle, arcing his arm up as the second man twisted around. The prostitute pressed a button and sprayed what Alfred had a sneaking feeling was probably mace directly into his grimy face.
The man screamed and pressed his hands to his eyes, stumbling to the side. “That's what you get when you don't follow my rules, bastards.” The prostitute watched the man as he rubbed his burning face, his expression one of complete uncaring. Alfred stared, his mouth open before noticing the first man pulling himself to his feet, his face contorted with rage.
“Watch out!!” Alfred yelled, the words tearing up his throat. The prostitute looked at him, then whirled around, his coat flying. There was a sickening clang and Alfred let out a small, choked sound. The prostitute stumbled back against the wall, then slid down. Alfred looked at the dark haired man, clutching a metal bin lid, and panting.
Alfred was running before his mind caught up with him. He threw himself forward, colliding with the man and tackling him to the hard ground. The man cried out as his head connected with the wet tarmac, then went still.
Alfred didn't move at first, but then slowly he got to his knees, bringing a hand to gently touch his broken fist. His jaw worked soundlessly. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
After struggling with the mind-numbing pain for a few minuets, Alfred finally stood up, and looked around, his sky blue eyes coming to rest on the form of the prostitute, sitting on the ground, looking at him. A patch of hair on his forehead was matting together with blood, a dribble of deep red liquid staining his pale face and dripping from his chin.
Alfred focused on breathing. He glanced at the moaning figure of the man still pawing at his eyes as if he had been struck blind. Then he stepped over to the blond prostitute. He extended his left hand, his broad, rough palm facing the night sky. The prostitute looked at it, then glanced back up to met Alfred's gaze.
Then he broke into a smile that didn't quite reach his large, green eyes. “Go home kid.”
Alfred blinked.
“I can't just leave you.” He said.
“I don't need your help. I've grown up with this. I'm fine.”
Alfred looked at the prostitute. Sitting on the damp, dirty ground, and still speaking to him like he had just stepped out of some company meeting. Then he looked at his eyes. Those beautiful, emerald eyes that.
...That looked strangely unfocused.
“No you're not” Alfred crouched down. His academic side kicking in. He pointed at the prostitute. “You have a concussion. How many fingers am I holding up?” He lifted his left hand.
The prostitute frowned. “Three”
“No, one. You're coming with me.” And before he could respond Alfred had lifted him up into his arms, and walked away, leaving the dank alleyway behind.
The prostitute didn't take it quietly, for all the blood pouring from his head, it seemed he still had enough to fill his cheeks. “Put me down you bastard! What the fuck do you think you're doing?”
Alfred ignored him, and after the sixth block they passed, the smaller blond quietened down. Eventually they reached a part of the city that had more life in it, and Alfred set the prostitute on his feet, keeping a firm grip on his forearm to prevent him from falling, or meandering dizzily to the left.
“So” he said, his cheeks burned under the awkward silence. “What's your name?”
“What? What's it to you, boy?”
Alfred pretended he didn't notice the sharpness in his tone. “I dunno, I guess I'm just sick of referring to you as 'The Prostitute' in my head.”
The smaller blond narrowed his eyes at Alfred, his glossy lip curling.
“It's Arthur.” He said.
Alfred grinned. “I'm Alfred.”
Arthur smiled sarcasticly. “Oh goodie.” he said.
Alfred pouted. Then he looked around. They stood on a street lined with shops, a few street lights, and dotted with cars. Relief washed through his entire body and Alfred felt like falling to his knees and thanking god (for a third time). “C'mon” He tugged on Arthur's hand “I know his part of town.”
Arthur looked at him from under smoky eyeshadow, snatching his hand back. “I'm not so sure I'm going to let you take me where ever it is you're taking me.” He said.
Alfred turned and looked straight at the smaller man. “Well, for one thing you won't be capable of walking straight for quite a while, give or take an hour. For another, I have a med' box in the cupboard under my sink that is stuffed full of painkillers. And lastly, if I don't get home right now, get a cup of coffee, and sleep for the next week, I am going to curl up here on the floor and die because I've had what has to be, the worst night of my entire life.”
And the thought of you leaving and never seeing you again makes me feel like I'd rather break my fist for a second time.
But he didn't say that part.
Arthur regarded him for a moment longer before looking up at the lightening sky, glancing at the ground, then back to Alfred.
“Fine.” He sighed.
Alfred smiled.
Alfred had barely gotten a single knock on the light, polished dorm door before it was practically wrenched off it's brass hinges by a flustered, blond, Polish boy.
“JESUZ' CHIST GDZIE BYŁAŚ?!?!”
Alfred tilted his head to the side and looked at Feliks tiredly. “I missed you too, Feli”
Feliks reached forward and dragged his friend into a crushing hug, burying his face into Alfred's broad shoulder. Alfred patted him on the back gently with his good hand, feeling the familiar soft cotton shirt beneath his tan fingers.
“In English that would be; Jesus fucking Christ, Alfred, like, where have you been??”
Alfred held Feliks at arms length, the Polish man must have been in a real state. His blond hair was mused from where he had probably been running his fingers through it in restlessness. His fair skin was completely clean, not a spot of make-up on his face. His clothes where simple, and creased from pacing, sitting down, then getting up and pacing again.
“Jesus.” Alfred remarked. “Remind me never to be kidnapped again, unless I've called you first.”
“YOU WHAT-?” Feliks halted, his green eyes wide, then they flicked to the side, passed Alfred's shoulder. “I kto w [jest to?”
Alfred feared that his friend might suddenly decide that it was all too much and have a nervous breakdown right there in the doorway so he patted Feliks on the arm and dragged him back inside, leading him over to the sofa.
“Dude, the Polish.” He said.
“Who.” Feliks said, staring unblinking at the person behind Alfred, and managing to walk backwards quite expertly. “Is. That..”
“That?” Alfred threw a glance over his shoulder. “Oh, that's just Arthur.”
“Alfred. Do you know that Arthur is a whore?”
Alfred swallowed. “Yes, Feliks. I am perfectly awair that Arthur is a whore.”
“Do you also realise that Arthur is a whore with an apparent concussion?”
“Yes, I do, thanks. That's why I brought him here.”
Arthur made a displeased noise behind them. He folded his arms and looked down, watching his foot tap the carpet of the hallway nervously and pretending like the blush on his cheeks didn't exist.
Alfred turned from where he was helping Feliks sit down on the sofa. “Dude. You can come in you know.”
Arthur gave a quick nod of the head and stepped through the doorway, his steps carrying him with false confidence, making his hips sway with practised ease.
Alfred swallowed again then cleared his throat. “Listen, Feli, I'll tell you everything, I promise, but right now I gotta go down to the uni's med centre.”
“Dude, It's called a ward.” Feliks said quietly, no real humour behind it. Alfred flinched, but appreciating it for the attempt.
He smiled, looking at Feliks until he met his green eyes. “Whatever, tranny. I gotta go get fixed up, and so does Arthur.” Alfred chuckled “But he can't go down like that. Do you..have anything he could borrow?” Alfred gestured awkwardly at the size difference between the three of them.
Suddenly Feliks' emerald eyes sparked, locking directly onto Alfred's.
“Do I ever, does the devil wear Prada? I'm, like, totally going with the sweater-jeans on him. Or OH OHMIGOD HE WOULD SO ROCK OUT A SKIRT!!”
Alfred stifled a laugh and stood up. Feliks' smile froze and shattered on his pretty face.
“Oh my god, Alfred what happened to your hand?”
Alfred glanced down, his stomach flipping at the rather ghastly sight of red, raw and broken skin. “Oh. All part of the experience, Feliks. Now, Arthur needs your creative wardrobe. Stat.”
Feliks collapsed back against the sofa for a moment, pressing a hand over his eyes and sighing deeply. Then he stood up and strode over to Arthur, peering at him up and down. Arthur unfolded his arms, leaning on his back foot and watching Feliks run through his mental wardrobe and colour schemes. Then Feliks grinned, and Arthur visibly recoiled slightly, a billion fashion combinations flairing in his eyes like a fire with lighter fluid thrown on it. The Polish student grabbed the prostitute by the sleeve and dragged him off to his room, slamming the door behind them, ending Arthur's chance for escape.
Alfred looked after them for a moment, then collapsed onto the abandoned sofa, sighing heavily and cradling his right hand. He closed his eyes and let his body deflate, his tired bones sinking into the cushions. The entire night played on a roll of film onto his flickering eyelids, a blur of violet eyes, darkness, puddles, fear and pain, then Arthur.
Arthur.
Arthur.
Shit. Alfred thought, for want of a better phrase. He pushed some hair out of his eyes and rubbed at the back of his head. What he'd do for a nice hot shower. And for the agony of his hand to go away. And some dry pants...And a shoe while he was at it.
He opened his eyes and sat up, hooking a toe into the back of his shoe and kicking it off. Alfred suddenly drew a sharp breath, a hand flying uselessly to pat his chest. His jacket. He had left behind his jacket.
Alfred flopped back against the sofa, gripping a handful of hair in a clenched fist, a frustrated noise forcing itself out from between clenched teeth. He looked over to the coat stand by the door and was grateful that Feliks hadn't thrown his leather flying jacket into his face earlier that night. He didn't know what he'd do if he lost that.
Probably go back and get it actually.
Alfred saw an image of those eyes again, and shivered.
God. He thought. You spend your life reading, and hearing about things like this. Even now, in school he was studying things like this. He chuckled. Hell he could even be a subject in his own lessons. I had no idea, Alfred thought to himself. That it was this real.
Alfred jumped as the door to Feliks' room banged open.
Arthur stood slightly awkwardly. On his small feet he wore a pare of soft, black converses. A pair of baggy, denim jeans, complete with zips and button-pockets lining the sides, hung low on his hips. And a dark, woollen jumper hugged his slim form, and loved his figure. His hair was combed and naturally unruly, his face flushed and scrubbed clean, and still he was adorable.
“Taa-daa!” Feliks sang, with jazz-hands.
Shit. Alfred swallowed.
Alfred stood up, mindful of his hand, and waited for the two of them to approach.
“I think I've, totally, outdone myself.” Feliks purred, admiring his work with warm pride.
“Yeah, he looks really great, Feli.” Alfred blanched and flushed, biting his lip, and wishing he could take the words back.
Feliks fixed him with a searching stare.
“C'mon lets go.” Alfred turned his back on his friend and Arthur's deep, green eyes, and walked to the door of the dorm. He toed his feet into a pair of clean shoes, busying himself and praying that he was not as transparent as he felt. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the well lit hallway. Doors leading to other dorms set into the cream walls every few yards. Each with a little brass number plate fixed to the face of the wood and marking it out as individual. Alfred turned back and smiled at Feliks, who leaned against the door frame, folding his arms across his chest and tapping the carpet with one bare foot. Arthur came and stood in the hall, eyes travelling leisurely across the details.
“Make sure to come back this time.” He said. Half joking, half serious.
Where have I heard that tone before? Alfred thought. “I will Feliks” He said, hoping his face conveyed the honesty he felt. “It's just the med ward. It's in the same building.”
“Be quick, Alfie.” And Feliks smiled at him as he closed the door with a soft click.
Alfred sighed. Then looked at Arthur and smiled. “It's just a few floors down.”
“All right.” Arthur said, then appeared to reel a little.
Alfred leaned forwards and grasped the smaller man's forearm. “Hay, you ok?” he asked. His voice wrapped in cottony concern.
Arthur blinked. “Yeah. I just. Feel a bit ill.”
“We'll get that fixed” Alfred promised, “hang on.”
They walked in silence down the hall, keeping their eyes on the end of the corridor. Alfred with his hand under Arthur's forearm, steadying him gently. Then they came to a pair of large metal doors, and Alfred pushed the button to call the lift. There was a soft humming sound and the doors slid open with a 'ding'. Alfred stepped in, guiding Arthur, and pressed a button that glowed happily. The doors slid closed again.
Seconds passed and Alfred and Arthur stood in silence, elevator music dancing through the air, and tapping on the walls. Alfred worried his lower lip and glanced around, then his eyes drifted to Arthur. Arthur was gazing straight ahead, his eyes half-lidded, and an apparently unimpressed expression on his soft face. Something stirred in Alfred's chest and he shifted on his feet restlessly, dropping his hand, eyes on the smaller man beside him. There was something inside him. It leaked out his pores and into the atmosphere. It saturated the molecules and atoms electrifying them and making the air buzz. Then it was drawn back inside his poor, worn body, setting his blood into that strange, freezing fire. The feeling was everywhere. Everything. He wanted to break it, for something to change, anything. He needed it to be snapped. He needed it to stop.
“Hay, you never told me your full name.” He suddenly said. The words forming themselves and jumping suicidally off his tongue.
Arthur looked up, the bored expression shifting to slight irritation, his eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth turning down.
“Quite right.” He said.
Alfred looked at him, his eyebrows raised. “Well...Could you tell it me?”
The prostitute's face darkened visibly. “Tell it to me.” He said.
Alfred blinked with intelligence. “..What?”
“Tell it to me.” Arthur said again.
“Err, sure.” He grinned and extended his left hand. “The names Alfred. Alfred Jones.”
The irritation slid off Arthur's face and he looked at the American boy as if he couldn't quite grasp the levels of idiocy he possessed. Alfred's grin flickered and went out like a dying light. He lifted his extended hand and ran it through his hair.
“I jus' wanted to know.” He muttered quietly.
Arthur sighed deeply and looked ahead again. “I can't just go around giving out my name, kid.” He said.
Alfred's hand stilled mid hair-comb. “Why not?” He asked.
The disbelieving expression was back on Arthur's face. He met Alfred's eyes and said “Because I'm a prostitute.”
Alfred processed this, then let out an understanding “Ahh...”
He lowered his hand, and put it in his pocket. Looking at the floor he let the information sink in properly. It made his heart feel heavy, and his soul shrink. Arthur was a completely unique individual. One who probably had never had a fair shot at life, through reasons unknown. And there where probably many reasons. Why shouldn't he have had a good life? Why wasn't he in some position of power? He was smart, good looking, persuasive, enigmatic, sexy, -and nooooo, his thoughts where definitely not straying there. But...But.
That didn't mean things had to stay that way.
“Could you...” Alfred wet his lips, keeping his eyes on the metal floor. “Could you tell me?”
A few heartbeats of silence passed and Alfred eventually looked up. Arthur was looking it him, a ghost of something raw and vulnerable passing over his beautiful face, glittering in his eyes. Then it was gone.
He cleared his throat, and hardened his eyes.
“Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.”
Alfred grinned and ripped his hand out his pocket, forcing it into Arthur's and shaking it warmly.
“Yo Arthur” He said “The names Alfred F. Jones, it's good to meet you.”
Disgust tugged at Arthur's face, but there was something in his eyes. Something that was fresh and alive and hopeful.
He wrenched his hand out of Alfred's grip. “Idiot! You already said that!”
“No I didn't” Alfred winked. “I missed out the F part.”
Arthur blanched and Alfred ducked out the opening elevator doors, escaping the onslaught of verbal abuse, laughing.
This was what he was born to do. And if a few psychological walls had to be broken, and a pretence of idiocy established, then so be it. He would give this prostitute a second chance at life.
After all; what else was he good for?