Savior [17.5/?]
anonymous
February 28 2010, 02:45:48 UTC
Arthur laughs, laughs. “Well that explains it. That explains it all. No wonder coach wouldn’t cut you from the team. I suppose it’s hard to find a student slutty enough screw you, isn’t it? In order to stay on the team, you fucked him, right?”
His voice turns hard, steely. “That was your payment to him. Just like a common prostitute. You whore.”
“S-stop, Arthur…”
“I’ll tell.” Arthur spits at him. “I’ll tell everyone everything and they’ll see who this Golden Boy really is. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Wouldn’t that be fucking fantastic? I think it would!” He lets out a harsh, high chuckle. “Maybe I’ll go right now.”
“No!” Alfred squeaks out. “D-don’t, don’t, please don’t tell!”
And Arthur stops, because Alfred is still on his knees. Because Alfred is crying.
No, not crying. Sobbing.
His shoulders are shaking, his face is ducked down, causing fat tears to drip onto the carpet. He’s hugging himself, trembling as if he’s cold, mumbling something nearly unintelligible.
“Don’t tell… Don’t tell… Said I’d get kicked out if I told, that I’d have to go home… Please…”
Arthur stands there, not knowing what to do. He had expected anger, fury. Not this. Not Alfred, sobbing, terrified, at his feet.
It's pitiful.
“N-not a whore… ‘M not… Didn’t want to… I didn’t want to, said please…” Alfred inhales shakily, breath getting caught in his throat, and he coughs and gags.
Didn’t want to?
Oh.
Oh god.
Everything Arthur just said, every angry word rushes back like a punch in the gut. I called him a… oh god. He doubles over, nausea swimming through his head. He wants to vomit, but he can’t. He settles for sinking to his knees, opposite Alfred.
“Al… Alfred, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” He whispers, reaching a hand out, silently begging Alfred to grab out and touch it. “Y-you’re not a-”
Alfred flinches back, away from the hand. “You hate me, you hate me for doing this.” He chokes out. “B-but if I don’t he said he’d cut me from the team a-and I’d have to go home.” He sobs. “Don’t wanna go home…”
“N-no, Alfred! I don’t hate you, I never hated you.” Arthur touches Alfred’s shoulder, and this time, he doesn’t flinch away. “I-I was just upset, and…” He feels close to tears himself, but his pride would never let him cry. He wonders how hurt Alfred’s pride is, and the thought makes him sick.
“Hey, Al, remember when you watched that horror movie?” Arthur murmurs soothingly, reaching for a tissue. Tears and mucous run down Alfred’s face, and he carefully wipes them up, even as more fall. “I said I’d protect you from the monsters, right? I promised. A-and, I’m a man of my word. I swear to you, I won’t let him keep hurting you, I won’t let him touch you ever again.”
He cups Alfred’s face, like one would a young child, and wipes the tears away with the handkerchief in his pocket.
Alfred buries his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck, and Arthur carefully rubs soothing circles on his back. “It's all right,” he whispers. “Alfred, I'm so sorry.”
He’s furious. Furious with coach, for doing something so despicable, but mainly furious with himself, for not noticing. For not seeing the signs.
“Arthur, I need to tell you something. I-it’s about coach.”
He had tried to tell him, and Arthur had just brushed it off.
He feels nauseous. He wants to hurt coach, for reducing Alfred to this. He wants to hurt himself, because he couldn’t - didn’t - do anything to stop it.
But he can’t do either of those at the moment, so he just waits for the wracking sobs to stop driving knives into his soul.
That's all for tonight. Crappy climax, sorry guys. x_x
Savior [18/20]
anonymous
March 1 2010, 02:10:49 UTC
It seems like hours before Alfred stops shaking.
Maybe it is hours.
He pulls back, looking at Arthur through glassy eyes. His mouth opens and closes, like he wants to say something.
But he doesn’t.
Arthur is the first to stand, and Alfred follows suit, arms limp, like a puppet.
Arthur swallows the lump in his throat. “You have to tell, Alfred.”
Alfred’s eyes grow wide, afraid. “N-no! I can’t! He said… Coach said…”
“He lied, Alfred. He played on your weaknesses to keep you coming back. To make you think you had no other choice.”
There’s misery in those blue eyes, pure, undisguised misery. “Oh. God, I’m so stupid.” He slams his fist into the wall, causing Arthur to flinch. “It’s my fault, if I hadn’t…” There are spots of blood where knuckles connected with plaster.
“No,” Arthur says, vehemently. “Alfred, it’s not your fault. Don’t let anyone tell you it is.”
Alfred sighs, as if all the energy has been sucked right out of him. He looks so young, so tired…
“Get to sleep,” Arthur manages, not knowing what else to say. “I’ll call in, you can stay in the dorm tomorrow.”
And Alfred just nods, moving stiffly toward his bed. He doesn’t even bother to change into pajamas, simple drops into the mattress.
Arthur does the same on the other side of the room, knowing neither of them will actually do any sleeping.
---
It’s two days before Alfred goes back to class, even after a weekend of solitude, broken only by Arthur bringing up a tray of food.
“Are you sure you want to go, Alfred?” Arthur frets, biting at his nails. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. “I mean, I’ve been saying you’re sick, and I don’t think any of the teachers are complaining…”
Alfred grins, and some of the old sparkle is back. Some. “Yeah, I can’t spend forever in here, right? Besides, I could use the fresh air. All this cafeteria food is going to make me fat.”
“Oh, and those burgers you buy for yourself are just the epitome of healthy,” Arthur teases, shrugging on a jacket against the chilly winter air.
“Wha? Of course they are! They’re the All-American food!” Alfred’s big blue eyes truly looked shocked.
“Yeah, well, I’m British. My taste is a bit more refined then yours.”
“Then how come you suck at cooking?”
“Y-you git! I do not!” The two walk together to the school building, breathing in the crisp, icy air. Arthur smiles to himself. It’s good to see Alfred laughing, despite what’s happened.
They stop in front of the large doors. Students scramble everywhere, crowding into the small entrance. Some, mainly athletes, grin when they see Alfred.
“Great to see you back, buddy!” one says, clapping him sharply on the back.
“Yeah,” another smiles, “We’ve all missed you. The football team isn’t the same without you. You coming to practice after school?”
Alfred turns to Arthur, looking green, then back to the teammate. “I, uh… Sure! I-I’ll be there.”
The teammate grins. “Awesome, man! Coach’ll be pleased. He says the team needs you. God, you’re so lucky to be his favorite.”
He disappears into the throng of students before either can reply.
Alfred’s face is ashen, his lips are trembling.
“A-Al? You don’t have to go, you know. I can say you’re not feeling well, or…”
“No, no. It’s fine. It’s totally fine, I can go.”
“Alfred-”
“I don’t want to tell, Arthur, not just yet. I-I’m not quite ready.”
Arthur nods, wishing, praying that there’s something he can do. Alfred flashes him one final grin, lively and determined, and they go their separate ways.
Savior [19/20]
anonymous
March 1 2010, 02:19:56 UTC
Arthur is skipping student council. He’s skipping student council to watch football practice.
He feels a shudder of revulsion, then remembers why he’s there, and feels another shudder of revulsion. At least coach is staying away from Alfred. Or, vice versa. In fact, it looks like Alfred is doing his best to stay as far away from coach as possible.
This is good. Arthur is one step away from extracting his model of Excalibur from the dormitory and running the bastard through.
Or, maybe just shooting him. Guns are easy to get in the States.
Practice is over, Alfred should just leave-
But he’s not.
Because coach is walking toward him, asking to speak with him.
And Alfred’s pale and terrified, trying to make up an excuse, but coach is so insistant…
No. No.
Arthur jumps up, rushes across the field. “Alfred!” he calls out. “Hey, Alfred, you have to go.” He blurts out, anything to get him away. “Your, uh, Chemistry teacher. She said you needed to see her, immediately after practice.”
Coach grins, twinkling eyes and deadly sharp teeth. “Surely your teacher understands, I have something very important to discuss with Al, here.”
“No.” Arthur is surprised at the venom in his voice. “No, she said it was urgent.”
Coach is no longer smiling. “Now, listen, I told you-”
“You spoke to him?” This time it’s Alfred who speaks. His voice is hoarse, shaky. “Where, when? Were you two alone?”
“What? No! What are you-”
“Stay away from him.” Alfred whispers. “Don’t come near him. Don’t touch him, you sick bastard.”
“Alfred, why would you call me something like that?” coach’s voice is so low, so predatory. “What would your father say if I told him you were saying untrue things?”
Alfred freezes for a moment, taking a step back. “You… You’re lying… You won’t do that. You won’t!” Suddenly he’s shouting. “You won’t, you and I both know it! Stay away from me, and Arthur, and everyone else! You goddamn rapist.”
There’s a shocked silence. The faces of the team, all of which had gathered around to witness the altercation, are a mask of confusion. Arthur is stunned, unable to speak. Coach is furious, livid, like he’s going to strangle someone.
Alfred grips Arthur’s arm and runs.
---
“I’m sorry.” Alfred blurts out, as soon as they reach the dorm.
Arthur blinks, confused. “What the bloody hell do you have to be sorry about?”
“I, uh, dunno. I just felt like I should apologize.” He’s still wearing all of his football gear, helmet and padding included. He sighs, coming to this realization himself. “The whole team is probably going to guess what happened. What happens if they cut me because of this?”
“Alfred, no school in their right mind would cut somebody from a team because their coach is a sick, twisted...” He sighs. “Lord, you and your dad must really not get along, if the thought of going home is so bloody terrifying to you.”
Alfred bites his lip, and Arthur notices that he’s shaking. “It’s just, my dad… He doesn’t like me. The way I am. Something like that. I don’t want to go home to him making passive aggressive comments about how I’m going to Hell, or…” he cuts of, covering his mouth. “No, never mind. It’s nothing.”
He sinks into a chair, and buries his face in his hands for a moment. “I’ll head back to the field, later, to go get my regular clothes. I left my lucky shoes in my locker. I just have to wait until he leaves.”
“Do you want me to come with you? As moral support?”
Alfred gives Arthur a dry smile. “I’m not a baby, you know. I can handle myself.”
Savior [20/20]
anonymous
March 1 2010, 02:25:49 UTC
Arthur is worried. Alfred had left a while ago to retrieve his belongings, and still hasn’t returned.
Where is he?
Arthur suspects the worst. He’s lost, he’s dead, he met up with coach…
A writhing ball of nausea plants itself in the pit of his stomach. Oh god, he feels sick.
The doorknob turns. All of Arthur’s senses go into hyperdrive. “Thank God, Alf-”
He breaks off, words dying at his tongue.
Alfred’s back. He’s also bleeding, a trickle of blood running down his chin, and there are bruises slowly blooming on his neck and cheek and eye.
Arthur realizes he isn’t breathing. He had failed to protect Alfred again, when he had promised he would. “Alfred? Are you…? Coach. Did he…?”
“No,” Alfred is grinning, despite the split lip and bruises. His eyes are twinkling with the same light Arthur had seen at the beginning of the year, before any of this had happened. “No, he didn’t. I didn’t let him… Fought him off… Don’t think he was expecting it, he got totally caught off guard…”
Arthur grapples with emotions. He’s safe… He’s safe, dear God in Heaven, thank you.
“I-I’m going to tell.” Alfred’s whole body is trembling, shaking with adrenaline and fear and regret. “I have to; I can’t let him keep haunting me like this. I can’t. It’s… It’s too horrible to think about. I want to be able to sleep again, without hearing his voice.” Arthur nods, because he’s unable to do anything else.
Alfred turns to him, looks him square in the eyes. “Come with me. Please? I-I can’t do it alone, and…” He trails off, wanting to say more, but deciding against it. “Please?”
Arthur smiles at him, letting some of the light in Alfred’s eyes into his own. “Of course.”
---
It’s dark, it’s late. Stars shine above, twinkling like headlights. Alfred and Arthur stand, side by side, facing a door.
Campus Police, it says.
Alfred is muttering to himself, not looking at anyone. “You can do this, you can do this…”
Arthur just stands there, not knowing what to say.
The people inside probably are getting suspicious. Two teenagers hanging around the police station late at night is just begging for trouble.
Alfred stops muttering.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, not looking at Arthur, not looking at anyone.
Arthur cocks a thick eyebrow, confused. “You’re, ah, welcome, but for what?”
“I dunno. For being there, for helping me. For being you.”
The guilt floods back into Arthur. The times he could have done something, could have listened, and the things he’d said that night he saw. He feels guilty, maybe even as guilty as coach himself.
He wonders if this feeling will ever go away.
“A-any time, Alfred.”
“Don’t blame yourself; it’s my fault, really.”
“No!” Arthur hisses, eyes wide. “No, it’s not your fault, it’s no one’s fault but his.”
Oh how he wishes he believed that.
They stare at the door. Alfred starts muttering again. “You can do this, just tell them…”
Their hands brush, and neither flinches away.
“We can do this.”
Their fingers twine together, hoping that the contact will send the other some comfort.
Savior Epilogue [1/2]
anonymous
March 2 2010, 01:23:14 UTC
In two days, coach is taken away.
In a week, people are whispering in the hallways, staring and hiding their mouths, wondering why coach left. Wondering why they saw the police cars and the murder in his eyes.
The team knows; it would have been too hard to keep it from them for too long.
They stare, ashen-faced as the police man describes what happened.
They’re shocked, terrified, confused.
Matt knows. He stands by Alfred, daring anyone to come within a five yard radius.
Alfred wishes they all would stop looking at him like that. He’s fine, he swears.
Sometimes, he wakes up in the middle of the night, ice cold and breathing hard. He curls in on himself, whimpering silently, trying to keep quiet.
But Arthur wakes up every time.
He whispers soothing words, trying not to feel as utterly useless as he always does. He offers tea, or, sometimes, wrinkling his nose, coffee.
Alfred shakes his head, muscles unclenching, and straightens out.
Arthur stays awake with him, waiting until his harsh, shallow breathing becomes slower and more relaxed and his eyelids flutter closed.
And Arthur tries to sleep, as well.
“It’s the trial,” Alfred mutters, sometimes. “What if having a trial makes it even worse? What if I’m moving on with my life, then I have to go and testify, a-and I just break down…”
“You won’t.” Arthur is adamant. “You won’t. I’ll be right there with you, I promise.”
“You’ll hear what he did… You’ll think I’m disgusting…”
“No, no.” Arthur repeats the words like a mantra. “No. You’re not disgusting. You’re not.”
And Alfred always nods, like he wants to believe it, but can’t.
But they’re trying not to think about that right now.
Savior Epilogue [2/2]
anonymous
March 2 2010, 01:32:15 UTC
Alfred wants to stay with football. He loves football, and no force on earth will keep him from it. Not even… Arthur shakes his head. Not thinking about it.
They were given a replacement coach, a typical gym-teacher type, named Mr. Dumont. He doesn’t do much; Vince and Alfred do most of the coaching.
The team is horribly unprepared.
It’s the fourth quarter of the biggest match of the year. People from all over are there. Alfred’s dad is there, looking like slightly less of a demon then Alfred makes him out to be. He looks out of place in his pressed, pin-stripe suit, surrounded by screaming parents in jerseys.
Two minutes left. Their team is losing, 18 to 24. The team is calm, collected, trying to quell the rising panic felt by all.
Fourth down. Hike. They blitz forward, getting knocked over and under and to the side. Somehow, Vince wriggles out of the mass of people. He’s caught the ball, he’s running, adrenaline pumping and pumping and- Touchdown!
It’s a tie. The buzzer rings. The game goes into overtime.
The teams set up, facing each other. This is a death match. Whoever gets the point will win the game.
It all happens in a moment. Time slows down as the teams surge forward, and Alfred has the ball. He stops, drops it, and kicks it all the way across the field.
It flies between the goal posts.
The final score is 25 to 24.
Then the cheering breaks out. People are shrieking, crying, laughing, hugging people they normally don’t associate with. It’s beautiful.
Arthur feels himself lift up, shouting just as loud as everyone else.
He doesn’t even like football.
But he certainly likes Alfred.
People surge on to the field, grabbing the teammates and kissing them, thanking them for everything.
Alfred doesn’t like to be grabbed, and carefully backs out, grinning and shaking.
“Alfred!” Arthur cries, swept up in endorphins and victory. And Alfred reaches out and kisses him. He kisses him, stroking at his cheek clumsily, unsure, everyone watching.
He pulls back, then takes a step back, realizing what he’s done. There’s a pale pink flush on Arthur’s cheeks.
Arthur wants to grab his arms and pull him back into the kiss, but he knows he can’t. So he just smiles, nodding in approval.
Someone starts to clap.
Soon, the sounds of thunderous applause resound throughout the stadium. Most of his teammates hoot and holler, grinning from ear to ear. Everyone’s caught up in jubilation, most not even knowing what they’re clapping for.
Alfred turns, catching the eye of someone. His dad pauses for a moment, and there’s a cool look in his eyes. His lips are pursed, thin.
Arthur bites his lip, nervously.
Then Alfred’s father starts to clap. He allows a smile to cross his face.
Alfred throws his head back and laughs, giving his dad a mock salute. They smile at each other, understanding, accepting.
Alfred laughs, eyes squeezing shut as his face fills with joy.
Everything is alright.
Both of them, Alfred and Arthur, know that it won’t always be. When Alfred wakes up in the middle of the night, whimpering and scared, he will try and fail to stop the horrible memories. And when Arthur sees the bruises from the times he couldn't protect him, he won’t be able to help the writhing pit in his stomach.
But right now, everything is well, and, for the moment that’s all that matters.
The end.
I don't know shit about football. x_x
Sorry if you guys didn't want it to end up as a pairing. I got caught up in the moment. D:
Darn moving...it's taking me forever and a day to get to anything.
A lovely ending to a lovely story anon. I love how they came together and that Alfred isn't afraid to move on in that capacity. It felt very nice and real.
His voice turns hard, steely. “That was your payment to him. Just like a common prostitute. You whore.”
“S-stop, Arthur…”
“I’ll tell.” Arthur spits at him. “I’ll tell everyone everything and they’ll see who this Golden Boy really is. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Wouldn’t that be fucking fantastic? I think it would!” He lets out a harsh, high chuckle. “Maybe I’ll go right now.”
“No!” Alfred squeaks out. “D-don’t, don’t, please don’t tell!”
And Arthur stops, because Alfred is still on his knees. Because Alfred is crying.
No, not crying. Sobbing.
His shoulders are shaking, his face is ducked down, causing fat tears to drip onto the carpet. He’s hugging himself, trembling as if he’s cold, mumbling something nearly unintelligible.
“Don’t tell… Don’t tell… Said I’d get kicked out if I told, that I’d have to go home… Please…”
Arthur stands there, not knowing what to do. He had expected anger, fury. Not this. Not Alfred, sobbing, terrified, at his feet.
It's pitiful.
“N-not a whore… ‘M not… Didn’t want to… I didn’t want to, said please…” Alfred inhales shakily, breath getting caught in his throat, and he coughs and gags.
Didn’t want to?
Oh.
Oh god.
Everything Arthur just said, every angry word rushes back like a punch in the gut. I called him a… oh god. He doubles over, nausea swimming through his head. He wants to vomit, but he can’t. He settles for sinking to his knees, opposite Alfred.
“Al… Alfred, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” He whispers, reaching a hand out, silently begging Alfred to grab out and touch it. “Y-you’re not a-”
Alfred flinches back, away from the hand. “You hate me, you hate me for doing this.” He chokes out. “B-but if I don’t he said he’d cut me from the team a-and I’d have to go home.” He sobs. “Don’t wanna go home…”
“N-no, Alfred! I don’t hate you, I never hated you.” Arthur touches Alfred’s shoulder, and this time, he doesn’t flinch away. “I-I was just upset, and…” He feels close to tears himself, but his pride would never let him cry. He wonders how hurt Alfred’s pride is, and the thought makes him sick.
“Hey, Al, remember when you watched that horror movie?” Arthur murmurs soothingly, reaching for a tissue. Tears and mucous run down Alfred’s face, and he carefully wipes them up, even as more fall. “I said I’d protect you from the monsters, right? I promised. A-and, I’m a man of my word. I swear to you, I won’t let him keep hurting you, I won’t let him touch you ever again.”
He cups Alfred’s face, like one would a young child, and wipes the tears away with the handkerchief in his pocket.
Alfred buries his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck, and Arthur carefully rubs soothing circles on his back. “It's all right,” he whispers. “Alfred, I'm so sorry.”
He’s furious. Furious with coach, for doing something so despicable, but mainly furious with himself, for not noticing. For not seeing the signs.
“Arthur, I need to tell you something. I-it’s about coach.”
He had tried to tell him, and Arthur had just brushed it off.
He feels nauseous. He wants to hurt coach, for reducing Alfred to this. He wants to hurt himself, because he couldn’t - didn’t - do anything to stop it.
But he can’t do either of those at the moment, so he just waits for the wracking sobs to stop driving knives into his soul.
That's all for tonight. Crappy climax, sorry guys. x_x
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Captcha: nationalists zambian. I love you, Captcha
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I feel bad for liking this all so much.
strengthen outback ... yes recaptcha, they need all the strength they can get.
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Oh...oh god indeed. Very well done with these very important chapters. Poor Alfred... :-(
Can't wait to see where this will be heading next.
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Maybe it is hours.
He pulls back, looking at Arthur through glassy eyes. His mouth opens and closes, like he wants to say something.
But he doesn’t.
Arthur is the first to stand, and Alfred follows suit, arms limp, like a puppet.
Arthur swallows the lump in his throat. “You have to tell, Alfred.”
Alfred’s eyes grow wide, afraid. “N-no! I can’t! He said… Coach said…”
“He lied, Alfred. He played on your weaknesses to keep you coming back. To make you think you had no other choice.”
There’s misery in those blue eyes, pure, undisguised misery. “Oh. God, I’m so stupid.” He slams his fist into the wall, causing Arthur to flinch. “It’s my fault, if I hadn’t…” There are spots of blood where knuckles connected with plaster.
“No,” Arthur says, vehemently. “Alfred, it’s not your fault. Don’t let anyone tell you it is.”
Alfred sighs, as if all the energy has been sucked right out of him. He looks so young, so tired…
“Get to sleep,” Arthur manages, not knowing what else to say. “I’ll call in, you can stay in the dorm tomorrow.”
And Alfred just nods, moving stiffly toward his bed. He doesn’t even bother to change into pajamas, simple drops into the mattress.
Arthur does the same on the other side of the room, knowing neither of them will actually do any sleeping.
---
It’s two days before Alfred goes back to class, even after a weekend of solitude, broken only by Arthur bringing up a tray of food.
“Are you sure you want to go, Alfred?” Arthur frets, biting at his nails. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. “I mean, I’ve been saying you’re sick, and I don’t think any of the teachers are complaining…”
Alfred grins, and some of the old sparkle is back. Some. “Yeah, I can’t spend forever in here, right? Besides, I could use the fresh air. All this cafeteria food is going to make me fat.”
“Oh, and those burgers you buy for yourself are just the epitome of healthy,” Arthur teases, shrugging on a jacket against the chilly winter air.
“Wha? Of course they are! They’re the All-American food!” Alfred’s big blue eyes truly looked shocked.
“Yeah, well, I’m British. My taste is a bit more refined then yours.”
“Then how come you suck at cooking?”
“Y-you git! I do not!” The two walk together to the school building, breathing in the crisp, icy air. Arthur smiles to himself. It’s good to see Alfred laughing, despite what’s happened.
They stop in front of the large doors. Students scramble everywhere, crowding into the small entrance. Some, mainly athletes, grin when they see Alfred.
“Great to see you back, buddy!” one says, clapping him sharply on the back.
“Yeah,” another smiles, “We’ve all missed you. The football team isn’t the same without you. You coming to practice after school?”
Alfred turns to Arthur, looking green, then back to the teammate. “I, uh… Sure! I-I’ll be there.”
The teammate grins. “Awesome, man! Coach’ll be pleased. He says the team needs you. God, you’re so lucky to be his favorite.”
He disappears into the throng of students before either can reply.
Alfred’s face is ashen, his lips are trembling.
“A-Al? You don’t have to go, you know. I can say you’re not feeling well, or…”
“No, no. It’s fine. It’s totally fine, I can go.”
“Alfred-”
“I don’t want to tell, Arthur, not just yet. I-I’m not quite ready.”
Arthur nods, wishing, praying that there’s something he can do. Alfred flashes him one final grin, lively and determined, and they go their separate ways.
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He feels a shudder of revulsion, then remembers why he’s there, and feels another shudder of revulsion. At least coach is staying away from Alfred. Or, vice versa. In fact, it looks like Alfred is doing his best to stay as far away from coach as possible.
This is good. Arthur is one step away from extracting his model of Excalibur from the dormitory and running the bastard through.
Or, maybe just shooting him. Guns are easy to get in the States.
Practice is over, Alfred should just leave-
But he’s not.
Because coach is walking toward him, asking to speak with him.
And Alfred’s pale and terrified, trying to make up an excuse, but coach is so insistant…
No. No.
Arthur jumps up, rushes across the field. “Alfred!” he calls out. “Hey, Alfred, you have to go.” He blurts out, anything to get him away. “Your, uh, Chemistry teacher. She said you needed to see her, immediately after practice.”
Coach grins, twinkling eyes and deadly sharp teeth. “Surely your teacher understands, I have something very important to discuss with Al, here.”
“No.” Arthur is surprised at the venom in his voice. “No, she said it was urgent.”
Coach is no longer smiling. “Now, listen, I told you-”
“You spoke to him?” This time it’s Alfred who speaks. His voice is hoarse, shaky. “Where, when? Were you two alone?”
“What? No! What are you-”
“Stay away from him.” Alfred whispers. “Don’t come near him. Don’t touch him, you sick bastard.”
“Alfred, why would you call me something like that?” coach’s voice is so low, so predatory. “What would your father say if I told him you were saying untrue things?”
Alfred freezes for a moment, taking a step back. “You… You’re lying… You won’t do that. You won’t!” Suddenly he’s shouting. “You won’t, you and I both know it! Stay away from me, and Arthur, and everyone else! You goddamn rapist.”
There’s a shocked silence. The faces of the team, all of which had gathered around to witness the altercation, are a mask of confusion. Arthur is stunned, unable to speak. Coach is furious, livid, like he’s going to strangle someone.
Alfred grips Arthur’s arm and runs.
---
“I’m sorry.” Alfred blurts out, as soon as they reach the dorm.
Arthur blinks, confused. “What the bloody hell do you have to be sorry about?”
“I, uh, dunno. I just felt like I should apologize.” He’s still wearing all of his football gear, helmet and padding included. He sighs, coming to this realization himself. “The whole team is probably going to guess what happened. What happens if they cut me because of this?”
“Alfred, no school in their right mind would cut somebody from a team because their coach is a sick, twisted...” He sighs. “Lord, you and your dad must really not get along, if the thought of going home is so bloody terrifying to you.”
Alfred bites his lip, and Arthur notices that he’s shaking. “It’s just, my dad… He doesn’t like me. The way I am. Something like that. I don’t want to go home to him making passive aggressive comments about how I’m going to Hell, or…” he cuts of, covering his mouth. “No, never mind. It’s nothing.”
He sinks into a chair, and buries his face in his hands for a moment. “I’ll head back to the field, later, to go get my regular clothes. I left my lucky shoes in my locker. I just have to wait until he leaves.”
“Do you want me to come with you? As moral support?”
Alfred gives Arthur a dry smile. “I’m not a baby, you know. I can handle myself.”
Arthur nods, and they sit in silence.
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Where is he?
Arthur suspects the worst. He’s lost, he’s dead, he met up with coach…
A writhing ball of nausea plants itself in the pit of his stomach. Oh god, he feels sick.
The doorknob turns. All of Arthur’s senses go into hyperdrive. “Thank God, Alf-”
He breaks off, words dying at his tongue.
Alfred’s back. He’s also bleeding, a trickle of blood running down his chin, and there are bruises slowly blooming on his neck and cheek and eye.
Arthur realizes he isn’t breathing. He had failed to protect Alfred again, when he had promised he would. “Alfred? Are you…? Coach. Did he…?”
“No,” Alfred is grinning, despite the split lip and bruises. His eyes are twinkling with the same light Arthur had seen at the beginning of the year, before any of this had happened. “No, he didn’t. I didn’t let him… Fought him off… Don’t think he was expecting it, he got totally caught off guard…”
Arthur grapples with emotions. He’s safe… He’s safe, dear God in Heaven, thank you.
“I-I’m going to tell.” Alfred’s whole body is trembling, shaking with adrenaline and fear and regret. “I have to; I can’t let him keep haunting me like this. I can’t. It’s… It’s too horrible to think about. I want to be able to sleep again, without hearing his voice.”
Arthur nods, because he’s unable to do anything else.
Alfred turns to him, looks him square in the eyes. “Come with me. Please? I-I can’t do it alone, and…” He trails off, wanting to say more, but deciding against it. “Please?”
Arthur smiles at him, letting some of the light in Alfred’s eyes into his own. “Of course.”
---
It’s dark, it’s late. Stars shine above, twinkling like headlights. Alfred and Arthur stand, side by side, facing a door.
Campus Police, it says.
Alfred is muttering to himself, not looking at anyone. “You can do this, you can do this…”
Arthur just stands there, not knowing what to say.
The people inside probably are getting suspicious. Two teenagers hanging around the police station late at night is just begging for trouble.
Alfred stops muttering.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, not looking at Arthur, not looking at anyone.
Arthur cocks a thick eyebrow, confused. “You’re, ah, welcome, but for what?”
“I dunno. For being there, for helping me. For being you.”
The guilt floods back into Arthur. The times he could have done something, could have listened, and the things he’d said that night he saw. He feels guilty, maybe even as guilty as coach himself.
He wonders if this feeling will ever go away.
“A-any time, Alfred.”
“Don’t blame yourself; it’s my fault, really.”
“No!” Arthur hisses, eyes wide. “No, it’s not your fault, it’s no one’s fault but his.”
Oh how he wishes he believed that.
They stare at the door. Alfred starts muttering again. “You can do this, just tell them…”
Their hands brush, and neither flinches away.
“We can do this.”
Their fingers twine together, hoping that the contact will send the other some comfort.
It does.
“You ready, Alfred?”
A nod.
They enter the station.
-fin-
Epilogue coming, probably tomorrow.
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Well done and thank you!
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I think you did a really great job with this story, can't wait for the epilogue <3
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Sorry I don't have anything more constructive to say, but I'm kind of stunned right now.
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In a week, people are whispering in the hallways, staring and hiding their mouths, wondering why coach left. Wondering why they saw the police cars and the murder in his eyes.
The team knows; it would have been too hard to keep it from them for too long.
They stare, ashen-faced as the police man describes what happened.
They’re shocked, terrified, confused.
Matt knows. He stands by Alfred, daring anyone to come within a five yard radius.
Alfred wishes they all would stop looking at him like that. He’s fine, he swears.
Sometimes, he wakes up in the middle of the night, ice cold and breathing hard. He curls in on himself, whimpering silently, trying to keep quiet.
But Arthur wakes up every time.
He whispers soothing words, trying not to feel as utterly useless as he always does. He offers tea, or, sometimes, wrinkling his nose, coffee.
Alfred shakes his head, muscles unclenching, and straightens out.
Arthur stays awake with him, waiting until his harsh, shallow breathing becomes slower and more relaxed and his eyelids flutter closed.
And Arthur tries to sleep, as well.
“It’s the trial,” Alfred mutters, sometimes. “What if having a trial makes it even worse? What if I’m moving on with my life, then I have to go and testify, a-and I just break down…”
“You won’t.” Arthur is adamant. “You won’t. I’ll be right there with you, I promise.”
“You’ll hear what he did… You’ll think I’m disgusting…”
“No, no.” Arthur repeats the words like a mantra. “No. You’re not disgusting. You’re not.”
And Alfred always nods, like he wants to believe it, but can’t.
But they’re trying not to think about that right now.
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They were given a replacement coach, a typical gym-teacher type, named Mr. Dumont. He doesn’t do much; Vince and Alfred do most of the coaching.
The team is horribly unprepared.
It’s the fourth quarter of the biggest match of the year. People from all over are there. Alfred’s dad is there, looking like slightly less of a demon then Alfred makes him out to be. He looks out of place in his pressed, pin-stripe suit, surrounded by screaming parents in jerseys.
Two minutes left. Their team is losing, 18 to 24. The team is calm, collected, trying to quell the rising panic felt by all.
Fourth down. Hike. They blitz forward, getting knocked over and under and to the side. Somehow, Vince wriggles out of the mass of people. He’s caught the ball, he’s running, adrenaline pumping and pumping and- Touchdown!
It’s a tie. The buzzer rings. The game goes into overtime.
The teams set up, facing each other. This is a death match. Whoever gets the point will win the game.
It all happens in a moment. Time slows down as the teams surge forward, and Alfred has the ball. He stops, drops it, and kicks it all the way across the field.
It flies between the goal posts.
The final score is 25 to 24.
Then the cheering breaks out. People are shrieking, crying, laughing, hugging people they normally don’t associate with. It’s beautiful.
Arthur feels himself lift up, shouting just as loud as everyone else.
He doesn’t even like football.
But he certainly likes Alfred.
People surge on to the field, grabbing the teammates and kissing them, thanking them for everything.
Alfred doesn’t like to be grabbed, and carefully backs out, grinning and shaking.
“Alfred!” Arthur cries, swept up in endorphins and victory. And Alfred reaches out and kisses him. He kisses him, stroking at his cheek clumsily, unsure, everyone watching.
He pulls back, then takes a step back, realizing what he’s done. There’s a pale pink flush on Arthur’s cheeks.
Arthur wants to grab his arms and pull him back into the kiss, but he knows he can’t. So he just smiles, nodding in approval.
Someone starts to clap.
Soon, the sounds of thunderous applause resound throughout the stadium. Most of his teammates hoot and holler, grinning from ear to ear. Everyone’s caught up in jubilation, most not even knowing what they’re clapping for.
Alfred turns, catching the eye of someone. His dad pauses for a moment, and there’s a cool look in his eyes. His lips are pursed, thin.
Arthur bites his lip, nervously.
Then Alfred’s father starts to clap. He allows a smile to cross his face.
Alfred throws his head back and laughs, giving his dad a mock salute. They smile at each other, understanding, accepting.
Alfred laughs, eyes squeezing shut as his face fills with joy.
Everything is alright.
Both of them, Alfred and Arthur, know that it won’t always be. When Alfred wakes up in the middle of the night, whimpering and scared, he will try and fail to stop the horrible memories. And when Arthur sees the bruises from the times he couldn't protect him, he won’t be able to help the writhing pit in his stomach.
But right now, everything is well, and, for the moment that’s all that matters.
The end.
I don't know shit about football. x_x
Sorry if you guys didn't want it to end up as a pairing. I got caught up in the moment. D:
And I have a need for happy endings. -dies-
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A lovely ending to a lovely story anon. I love how they came together and that Alfred isn't afraid to move on in that capacity. It felt very nice and real.
Thank you, thank you very much!
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