#do u accept his offer he said I offer u my heart and then recreates a mortal kombat fatality or ‘/…. ummm maybe it’s like��…

[bimbosupreme]

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[forloveoflibertea]

To Be Remembered | o n e

[ originally published on Wattpad : May 23rd, 2017 . unedited . word count: 2,196 . updated January 23rd, 2018 . ]

o n e

« w h y d o y o u w a n t t o k n o w w h o i a m ? »

'"Who am I?"

'"Only you can know who you are, child; no one else can command you to become someone you are not. You are, at your innermost core, who you truly are—only you can know, only you can choose to bare your truest self to the world."

'"And if I do bare my true self? What then?"

'"The world is beautiful, but cruel. It does not know us, in the same way that we do not know its truest extent. To bare one's true self—to bare one's heart—makes us vulnerable. If you bare your true self to the world, there is no telling to the extent of the pain you will go through. I tell you, my child, only bare your truest self to the one that you love, the one who can accept who you truly are."'

He blinked tiredly at the screen, the light reflecting off of his reading glasses. With a huff, Arthur shut off his laptop directly after saving and closing the file. He pinched the bridge of his nose, blindly pulling off the glasses and placing it atop his nightstand.

Green eyes gazed at the ceiling, glazed over in thought as they idly followed the white pinpricks which were supposed to resemble the stars in the night sky. He'd long finished his homework, the papers neatly tucked into his binders, which were, in turn, carefully stashed into his messenger bag. That wasn't the problem, nor was his elder brother's distinct absence from his own house.

Arthur had met Antoinette, Camden's wife and his sister-in-law, as he'd tried to silently stalk up the stairs as soon as he'd come back to the house that afternoon. Or it was more that Antoinette, the French bitch she could be, successfully ambushed him after fifty tries ever since he'd traveled across the pond to live with his brother and his wife, and had persuaded him to join them for a disastrous dinner. (A cynical Briton forced to sit before an eccentric French woman do not a successful heart-to-heart over dinner make.)

The problem was that, as much as Arthur tried, he couldn't seem to get rid of that look in the American boy's eyes during that History class. There was incredulousness there—that was already a given—but what bothered the Briton was the smallest glint of sadness he'd managed to get a glimpse of in that tiny moment that their eyes met.

He didn't understand why that bothered him—after all, he didn't know the boy personally, aside from the occasional rumours he overheard.

"Alfred F. Jones," he muttered under his breath, the name rolling off of his tongue. The American was rather popular in the campus populace—both with the females and males, what with the widespread 'fact' that the boy was bisexual. (Although, with hearsay from the popularity-crazed teenagers who went to World Academy, Arthur could only take what they said with a grain of salt.)

A stereotypical all-American cliché—high school American football quarterback, energetic, and an everyone-loves-me kind of bloke, from the Briton's occasional (unintentional) eavesdropping on the rumour mill. But there were odd occurrences: the first was that the boy—now a Junior, like Arthur—had quit the football team the school year before, when he was a Sophomore, after building up a reputation of being the 'Golden Boy' of the academy. (Or, as Arthur could gather from what he heard through the grapevine, as the 'Crown Prince' of the social hierarchy.)

It only proved to become even stranger by the fact that no one really knew what the true reason was behind the sudden—and completely unexpected—event. The second odd occurrence was that Alfred F. Jones seemed to join the so-called 'Suicide Squadron' shortly after what was widely known in the campus as 'The Tragedy' and 'The Apocalypse'.

The third was that no matter how much Arthur tried to dig deeper into the true essence of those two events, he couldn't get a single clue from every student he came across. Each one had their lips zipped tight, and immediately left after he posed the question.

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his messy blond hair.

What a troublesome web of mysteries.

—

In World Academy, there were three unspoken rules which every student—both in the Social Hierarchy and out of it—already knew by heart, and the corresponding punishments labeled to each.

The first rule: Each student must be subject to one caste only.

There were two primary castes: the Royals and the Commoners. The Royals consisted of the highest-ranking in the Hierarchy, and were made up of the most popular and the richest students. The Commoners were neutral students, or those who were average in everything a high school student considered to be important: looks, luxury, and intelligence. The Commoners were the middle class in the Hierarchy.

The second rule: No student should ever associate with one who is not from their own caste without permission from the King.

To be allowed communication with a Royal for a Commoner was treated to be a special privilege. There was a strict criteria that the current King of the Hierarchy, Ivan Braginski, followed, and thus there were limited allowances for a student to mingle with someone who wasn't from their own caste.

And the third: Associating with the Suicide Squadron or anyone rumoured to be in cohorts with the Bad Touch Trio will immediately be punished.

These were the three unspoken rules of World Academy—and Arthur Kirkland, being a newcomer to the lions' den, unwittingly branded himself a 'Rogue' as he broke the rules.

—

"Say, Arthur, why do you always want to remain anonymous?"

The addressed Briton turned around, catching the stare of the green-eyed brunette. He offered a polite half-smile as the girl tapped at the printed sheets of the articles he had left upon her desk for her perusal.

"It's better this way." He said, and the girl—Elizaveta Héderváry, the Editor-in-Chief of the campus paper—frowned heavily. She stood from her seat, sweeping up the papers to wave them in front of the mildly startled Briton as she approached him.

"Don't you know how many of the students love the works you've been submitting to the paper ever since you came in that first week?" She demanded, advancing towards the uneasy Briton, who backtracked a step with each inch she moved forward.

He remembered the first time he'd gone to the school paper office with remarkable clarity. (And an underlying embarrassment.)

It had been the Friday afternoon of his first week at World Academy, just after his final class for the day. He'd planned to spend it the way he had the entire week after school: hiding out on the rooftop of the main building, writing and discarding what he wrote until the sun lingered just above the horizon in the few moments before it finally sunk and gave way to the night.

Arthur never liked to go back to his brother's house; the layout of the entire edifice reminded him too much of their home back in England. Camden had even tried to recreate the look of Arthur's own bedroom back at the old house, perhaps to alleviate the 'homesickness' the teenager didn't have. But there were too many memories lingering in every nook and cranny which resembled the old house, too many voices crowding his mind and begging his attention.

Too many regrets he could never erase.

So he spent as much time at the campus until he was forced to go back to the house. And that afternoon, as he was heading out of the main building, he met Elizaveta, who had been locking up the school paper clubroom. Or it would be more accurate to say that he literally bumped into her, and the impact sent his papers flying every which way.

He had apologized, of course, and had almost regretted doing so when she grabbed him by the shoulders and screeched, "I found you!" (Later, Arthur would realize that she had found out from whom the anonymous poem he'd left at the school paper office's submissions box earlier that week came from due to the similar handwriting both pieces—the one he'd left and the one she was clutching that day—had.)

"Your poems alone garnered so much praise, Arthur," her voice quieted, and he almost breathed a sigh of relief. When Elizaveta got going, it was extremely difficult to stop her. "Why don't you want anyone to know who's the writer behind these beautiful pieces?"

The brunette held up one of the articles, and Arthur glanced at his own looping script.

"I wait on these shores for one who'll never come back;

I wait beyond seas, beyond oceans of tears I lack."

"'And I turn away from hope, from hope that's gone,'" Elizaveta whispered, as the Briton looked away, "'And I turn to these lands, where forever I wait alone.'"

"It's better this way," Arthur repeated firmly. "Who would want to know someone like me, lass?"

Who would want to know someone who's given up on himself long ago?

The Hungarian girl smiled, and she turned around, walking towards her desk, upon which she perched herself with a knowing grin. "Oh, you never know, Arthur."

She jutted her chin in his direction, to which he elegantly raised a brow in questioning. Elizaveta merely grinned even wider, raising a hand and waving towards someone in the boy's general direction.

"Hello, Alfred!"

Arthur immediately turned around, and guarded green eyes met with amused blue. He forced himself to maintain his usual façade, crossing his arms across his torso as he regarded his fellow Junior.

The American strode into the room, nodding his head in recognition to the only girl in room with a bright grin. "Hey, Liz. Mattie's been looking for ya'; apparently, he needs your help with keeping a tight leash on the BTT again."

The Hungarian sighed, shaking her head as she hopped off of her desk, smoothing out her black Fall Out Boy tee, which was paired with a checkered skirt and ankle-high boots. (Arthur internally approved.) "Let me guess: Gil's at it again with some of the Royals, isn't he?"

Alfred nodded, stopping just a yard or so away from the Briton with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket. "Pretty much." He agreed, tilting his head in the direction of the door. "Also Franny's been flirting with the King's sisters again, while Toni... Well, I haven't seen him anywhere today."

"When will that French idiot learn that Natalya can turn his skinny ass into a freaking shish-kebab?" Elizaveta grumbled as she slung her bag over her shoulder, stomping her way to the door. (The Briton carefully kept his distance.) She turned to look at the two, tipping her head in the direction of the door. "Better get out while I'm still here; the lock on this door's been busted for a while now, which means that if somebody closes it with too much force, anybody who's still inside might get stranded for hours, and you do not want that to happen to you. Just ask Kiku—that happened once."

Arthur immediately sped out through the doorway, waiting for the Hungarian to follow suit as Alfred did the same. He kept his head turned away as Elizaveta passed by with a wave, which he returned, rather reluctantly.

He made to walk away, perhaps go up to the rooftop if he still had time, when the American reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, abruptly whirling around on his heel to face the boy.

"What was that—"

"'Who would want to know someone like you', huh?" Alfred said, and Arthur narrowed his eyes, shoulders hunching defensively. The damn American had the nerve to listen in on a private conversation.

"What's it to you?" He uttered calmly, his tone of voice betraying the underlying current of tension which threaded through his taut muscles. It had been one of his few moments of weakness, a question of bitterness he'd unknowingly let slip in front of the only person he considered an acquaintance in this school, and now this enigma—this Alfred F. Jones had overheard him.

He couldn't have been more careless.

Alfred was a mystery—a mystery he was in the process of unraveling, and perhaps in doing so, he might unravel the mystery about himself that he tried so hard to protect.

He couldn't let anyone know who he really was.

"Well.. I guess you could say that I want to know you." He smiled, and still Arthur remained tense, unable to relax.

"Why?" He finally managed after a brief moment of silence which stretched between them. "Why do you want to know who I am?"

Alfred only smiled wider.

"That's for me to know, and for you to find out, Artie."

It was when the American had started to walk away that Arthur let loose an outraged shout at the bloody insufferable nickname.

—

Notes:

Camden Kirkland — OC! Scotland

Antoinette Kirkland (neé Michel) — Nyo! France