#hetalia sussex | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ellawritesficssometimes · 7 years ago

Text

My Save Year (ch. 1)

Summary: Depressed and rejected by his family, Arthur longs for a new beginning during his first year of University. There he meets Alfred, an optimistic bright-eyed oaf with a sunny smile. An unlikely romance develops between them, one that was already doomed from the beginning. (USUK, multichapter)

Loneliness. Bitterness. Confusion. These were all emotions I've learned to ignore. I refused to validate them, for if I did, there would be no saving me from the hatred of others, there would be no grand escape to a better life. I wouldn't get the chance to make something out of myself.

I was done hating who I was as a person. I was done listening to people lie about how much they cared about me. I was done placing my trust in others.

Truth be, as soon as you become a problem, a burden, if you will, people lose interest in you. They leave you in light of their own selfish desires. Being "there" for someone is the grandest lie of all. You people all leave the moment any effort is required. You make promises you can't keep, all for the sake of looking like a good person when you're not.

It's an ugly reality, but I've learned to not to have expectations anymore. Expectations implied disappointment, and I couldn't be disappointed if I didn't have any hope in the first place.

Am I being depressing? Unequivocally. But am I wrong? Not in the slightest.

I gave this life many, many chances, and they've only proved me right by failing me in my time of need.

I grew up knowing I was gay from a very young age. When I came out at fourteen, I was told that I was going through a phase, that I was confused and didn't know what I wanted. I let these ignorant bastards tell me how I felt because I wanted to be accepted. I preferred living in the shadows, but the g-word may as well have been plastered to my forehead ever since.

Mum didn't like that I was gay, but she tried to accept me anyway; emphasis on tried. Dad, however, was the worst of them all. He refused to acknowledge me at home, and made my life a living hell. It was all smiles and perpetual faking until I was out of sight; only then came the profanity. Slurs were heard on a regular basis, and my brothers were no exception to that rule, all save for one.

Alistair, the eldest of my brothers, was the only one who had no problem with me being gay. As far as he was concerned, the only disappointment was him having to protect my innocence from any dodgy, potential suitors. Idiot. He was still 100% convinced that I was a bottom, erm, not that I had any experience in that area…

I wasn't the most pleasant person to be around, as you'll soon find. I pushed more people away than I could keep.

Regardless, this year was my get away. It was the year where I escaped from isolation, saved myself from my depression. I would learn to live again, going unhindered by my chronic fear of rejection. But, for that to happen, I needed to move on.

It was clear Mum and Dad wanted me gone, so I respected their wishes and left them for good.

I had worked hard in my last year of high school, earning myself a scholarship at a prestigious University. Hetalia University was part of an international chain of schools all over the globe, branching out across several continents and their respective countries.

The campus I was accepted into just so happened to be located right outside of Sussex, England. It was a specialized writing school, where some of the best-known authors had graduated from. I was determined to make a name for myself, despite all the difficult, back-breaking work these next four years would require from me.

Unfortunately, unlike my tuition, my living expenses weren't paid for. I had managed to find a job at the campus's library, so at least I had that. Any place where there was infrequent interaction with other people was my God save. It was easier to exist in a private silence than one where you were constantly being judged and ogled at as if you were a strange specimen. Better yet, a strange specimen that was the odd one out and couldn't stand on their own two feet, let alone think on their own terms.

I was glad to finally be free from the scrutiny of others. Going to this University was a fresh start, a chance to live under the radar without ever going detected by others.

I didn't come here to make friends. I wanted to improve as a writer, to rid myself of the stress I had internalized by writing about how I truly felt.

I didn't want to open myself up to another person. The less people knew about me, the better. I neither wanted to be liked nor disliked. I just wanted to exist, to breeze by, to be one of those faceless students whose name you couldn't remember. I couldn't be lonely if I didn't attach myself to others… if I didn't long for company – I thought I didn't need it.

But, as the Universe had a knack for making things go the opposite of how I wanted them to, my student life quickly became a whirlwind of unwanted – not to mention unexpected – emotions and attachments.

I never thought I would make a friend here. Two friends actually, if you count my pestiferous amphibian of a roommate.

What I didn't realize at the time was the thing I needed most was in fact a true companion. Writing was a distraction; it would never truly alleviate the weight of your depression, nor would it save you from the bottomless pit of your own thoughts and fears.

All it took was one smile, one bright, stupid, and sunny smile to change a bad day into a good one. That bloody yank came into my life out of nowhere, shining brighter than I could have ever imagined with his sappy optimism. He was my beacon of hope, my best friend, my every-

His friendship meant more than I would ever dare to admit.

I may not have realized this until later, but this year, this year was my save year.

I had been saved from myself by another kind, selfless soul.

It's just unfortunate I wasn't able to reciprocate the favor.

Not until it was too late.

…

Move in day on campus was a lot less hectic than I thought it would be. Then again, there were maybe 1500 students total at the University, as it was a private campus. Those students whom I did pass almost never seemed to be speaking the same language. Funny how even in my own country, I'm still the odd one out.

The campus was a mixture of old and new architectural designs, filled with the dreary, rich aura of history in spite of the paradoxical naïve and bright-minded moods of newcomers like myself.

The newer buildings were constructed around several thousand-year old Anglo-Saxon castles. Some of these older buildings would indeed be used for hosting classes, just as the library, round-tower church and dining hall at the center of the small University town were also vacated for academic and student use.

There was still a week before classes started, so most students were using their free time to lounge about on the lawns, enjoying the sun's rays if it was gracious enough to poke its head out of the clouds. Many of these foreigners would soon learn that rain was a most common occurrence in England. Although, I couldn't complain. Rainy weather tended to bring out the best muses in writers. No one knew why, it just did.

Despite the excitement in the air, a sagging feeling in my stomach made me feel uneasy. This campus was ripe with ghosts. I felt their despair and regrets as if they were my own.

Alistair must have noticed this too. The ability to see ghosts ran deep in the Kirkland family; almost every child had this affinity. "The air is really thick here, isna it?" he asked me, furrowing his thick red brows in unease.

I nodded my head. We had stopped in front of my dorm, which was one of the newer buildings on campus. It wasn't anything special, just an ugly rectangular brick building that reminded me of a factory had there not been several windows on its side.

"The campus is rumoured to be haunted," I answered him, feeling uneasy when Alistair's green eyes raked up and down my figure, concern evident on his face.

"You don't say?" Alistair murmured before awkwardly clearing his throat. I really wish he wouldn't tread so lightly with me. Yes, I was depressed, but that didn't mean I was fragile. I almost missed the times he used to tease and rough me up when we were younger. Almost.

"Well, that's it," Alistair concluded, setting my suitcase on the cobble-stone path beneath our feet. "Only ye would bring two suitcases to last ye a whole year. And one of them is full o' books. Yer sure are an oddball, Artie. Are ye sure ye don't need anything else?"

"No, no, I'll be quite all right. I'm not being odd, but practical. This is all I need," I muttered morosely, looking anywhere but at him. Alistair was much taller than me and had a habit of making me feel like a child. This moment couldn't have gotten anymore awkward.

It was unspoken, but Alistair and I both knew I didn't want to bring anything that reminded me of the home I had left behind.

"Would ye like me to help bring yer things?" Alistair spoke lightly, thankfully changing the subject.

I forced a smirk on my face, my chest heavy. "I know you call me scrawny, but really now Alistair, could you get any more patronizing? I'm sure I'll be able to carry two suitcases on my own," I huffed indignantly.

Alistair looked conflicted. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to hug me. In the end, he settled for ruffling my hair, much to my annoyance. "And here I thought I could sneak some extra teasing in with yer roommate. Oh well, I'll be visiting ye soon enough, and ye can count on me bringing photo albums from when ye were a wee little lad. Ye were so cute, I don't know what happened. It's like I'm looking at a grumpy old man instead of my 'adult' little brother."

"You think you're so hilarious," I scowled, ducking out of his grasp. "Do that and I'll set fire to everything you love. You have no right to act like my parent when you're still a child yourself. Must I remind you that I found you this morning dressed in nothing but a lampshade and a washcloth? It's a miracle you were sober enough to drive me here today."

Alistair laughed, his voice deep and gravelly as always. "Ye better not act so pissy with others like ye do with me. It's like ye want to be alone. And yer welcome, ye ungrateful willy. If I didna care about ye so much, I woulda gotten rid of ye too. But I just can't. There's something strangely endearing about ye. Maybe it's those thick eyebrows of yours."

"I would say thanks, but your cheap insults cancel out any gratitude I feel towards you." I raised a brow at Alistair in challenge. "Did it ever cross your thick skull that I prefer being alone?"

Alistair sighed, his shoulders deflating. This was a well-worn out argument of ours. "Artie, you gotta try, ye hear? I at least want ye to make one friend here. I'll be calling every now an' then to check up on ye, unlike some people," he stated bitterly. "I expect more of ye this time 'round. Enjoy yerself a little."

"Just because I'm not a social butterfly like you, doesn't mean I can't have an enjoyable University experience," I crossly retorted.

Alistair wasn't done speaking about our parents just yet.

"Whatever ye say," Alistair raised his hands in surrender. "I just want the best for ye. Mum and Dad may not look like it, but they still do care about ye. I've been tryin' to talk to them, but ye ken how narrow-minded they are. They'll come around, eventually. Yer their son for Christ sake. For now, just focus on yer studies. With yer work ethic, I know you'll do great, Artie. I'll be rootin' for ye, I hope you know tha'."

"Oh sod off, you old sap," I snapped, albeit not maliciously. I didn't know how to react to Alistair being so kind to me. It was a cheap defensive mechanism of mine to lash out with anger when confronted with something I wasn't familiar with.

"But," I faltered. "I do appreciate everything you've done for me. Thank you, Alistair, truly. It's nice to know that at least one person is here to support me."

"O' course," Alistair smiled, a genuine one that very rarely graced his face. He wasn't a very serious person to begin with. "Yer my little brother. You may be a grumpy bastard, but I still love ye. And, Artie?"

"Yes?"

"You ken my door is always open. I may be livin' inna different country now, but that doesna change anythin' between us. Once you're finished with yer year, yer more than welcome to come stay with me. It's not right for a lad yer age to be livin' on his own. If yer willing to drop that insufferable pride of yours, I'd be more than happy to help ye out."

I felt my face flush a little, unused to such kindness. Alistair would be moving away for work in Scotland, his birth place, in a couple of weeks. Before coming here, I had lived with him in his apartment, him almost being thirty years old and all. This was the one time where he was actually acting like the adult he was.

"I'd greatly appreciate that," I looked Alistair in the eye, blinking harshly. "Thank you."

"Anytime."

Alistair waved his hand at me dismissively, contradicting the lump he swallowed down in his throat. "Ah, enough o' this sentimental crap. I'm not sober enough to deal with this. Just have fun, be careful, eat properly, call me every week, and ye'll be fine. Oh, and get a haircut, ye stubborn mutt. I canna even see yer eyes."

I rolled said eyes. "Goodbye, Alistair. I'll skype with you every week, if you like. Although, no promises on the having fun clause or the hair cut. Thanks again, for everything…"

For being a true brother to me…

"Cheeky little bastard," Alistair mumbled to himself.

We said our goodbyes again, which was no less awkward than the first few times.

With that done and said, I turned my back on him, and walked into the dorm, realizing for the first time that I was on my own. It wasn't a good feeling nor was it bad. I didn't know what to expect. I wasn't Arthur Kirkland, I was a nobody who had to start from scratch.

It was invigorating, that's for sure.

I didn't have to worry about what others thought about me, especially if everything went according to plan. No one was to know anything about me. That way, I couldn't be judged.

I found my shared dorm room on the tenth floor, room 1066. It would be an understatement to say I was appalled by the strong waft of roses that entered my nostrils upon entering the room.

The dorm room was small, consisting of a cozy living room with one leather couch, a rather small tele on a rickety wooden nightstand, a rug that looked like it had seen better days, and a small kitchen not meant for much more than heating up leftovers or doing dishes. There was a dining hall for a reason, after all.

I've also been told I wasn't the greatest of cooks; I have yet to figure out why – scones were supposed to be a bit hard to chew, weren't they? It was good for the teeth, or was it bad? I had no bloody idea.

The bedrooms and the one bathroom were located in a skinny hallway to the left of the front entrance of the room. Thankfully, Francis – my roommate - and I had agreed beforehand that I would be getting the room with the largest window. The French international allegedly liked his beauty sleep.

We had only kept in contact through text over the summer, but even then, Francis was still grating on the nerves. From what I could tell, he was arrogant and full of himself.

I couldn't have been anymore right about him as I set my two suitcases down in the front room, spotting Francis lounging on the couch with a glass of wine in his hand, wearing nothing but a blue bath robe. There was soft music playing in the background – something French and definitely not English. The living room window was left open, allowing a breeze to sweep through the room, rustling the residence papers he had lying on the coffee table. Next to the papers, there was a half-full ash-tray, which would explain the lingering scent of smoke in the air – oh did I have something to say about that.

Francis looked exactly the same as he did in the picture the residence coordinator had sent me. Same wavy blond hair, azure eyes, and permanent, obnoxious smug lilt of a smirk. He was tall and thin, his arms draped over the couch as if he owned it and the entire place, like a pompous, domesticated cat who had selfishly claimed their owner's territory as their own.

I stifled my irritation and did my best to give a proper introduction, looking anywhere but Francis's hairy legs, chest, and slipper-covered feet. It was two in the bloody afternoon. Who the hell had the spare time to act so casual? Was I rooming with a Frenchman or a 40-year-old suburban stay-at-home mother? Who knows.

I cleared my throat, standing awkwardly in the front door. "Hello. I'm guessing you must be Francis Bonnefoy?" I asked, reaching into my pocket to pull out the photo I had of him.

Francis gasped, setting down his nearly empty wine glass. He stood up from the couch so abruptly that I almost got whiplash just by looking at him. Before I knew it, the Frenchman was standing before me, unfortunately a few inches taller than I was, pale eyebrows rising in contemplation.

"Oui, I am! Mon dieu!" he exclaimed, his voice fairly accented, but still understandable nonetheless. "Arthur, Arthur Kirkland, oui? Bonjour, bonjour~! And here I thought pictures didn't do a person justice. Tell me, how is it that you grow out your eyebrows that thick? Do you use a cream? Ointment? Coconut oil? You must tell me! I've been growing out my hair for a few months now, and I'm looking for any tips I can get!"

My first impression of Francis was that he was flamboyant, seeing as how he moved his hands a lot when he spoke. My second impression was that he was an annoying git who had no sense of personal space, whatsoever. Both impressions were woefully accurate.

I reluctantly shook hands with Francis, having to wrench away my hand from him after he held it for an uncomfortable amount of time. Bloody pervert. "Yes, well, I'm afraid I don't do anything to my eyebrows. They're naturally thick like this. Although, I'm not sure if you're insulting or complimenting me about them…"

"Oh, that's too bad," Francis simpered.

I wrinkled my nose; Francis was wearing a very strong perfume. It was already giving me a headache. It looked like I had a long, long year ahead of me. Remind me again why our personalities were deemed compatible by the residence coordinators?

"Haven't you heard of personal space?" I grumbled, backing away from the ogling Frenchman, whose face was way too close to mine. "Good God, would it kill you to tone it down on the perfume? I can practically taste it. And what kind of nutjob wears a bathrobe mid-afternoon?"

"What's that?" Francis asked, grinning from ear to ear. "If we are to live together, then we must get used to being in each other's faces, non? And excuse you, I'll have you know that my perfume attracts all ze ladies and men. As for my robe? Casse toi. Anyone who wears a sweater vest has no right to criticize my sense of fashion. I am merely being comfy. I've seen Mormons with a better sense of fashion than you."

I turned around, shutting the front door. I then grabbed my two suitcases, intending to go to my room and unpack, alone. "Right, well, as nice as it is to get to know you by insulting each other's tastes, I really ought to settle in. I need to acquaint myself with where all my classes are."

"Allow me!" Francis purred, grabbing a suitcase from me, despite my protests. "When we're done helping you settle in, I can give you a tour. I've already been here for a week. It was so lonely, mon cher. Hardly anyone came until two days ago. I thought I was going to die from the boredom."

"You talk too much," I sighed, wrenching my suitcase back from him. "And I don't need your help or your company."

"Is that really such a bad thing?" Francis pouted, motioning for me to hand him the suitcase again. The mongrel didn't know when to give up. "Stubbornness is not an attractive trait, you know," he lectured. "All people need the occasional company. It's simply not healthy to be by yourself for long periods of time. Voila! I'm doing you a favour by being your first friend here!"

"I said no!" I snapped. "I don't need your help. And you are most certainly not my friend."

"Not yet, I'm not~"

"Look," I inhaled sharply. "Let me get something straight. I am not here to make friends with anyone, let alone you. I don't play well with others, so it's best if we just stay out of each other's way. I'm sure you're a great person under all that flamboyance and effeminate charm of yours, but I'll repeat myself again, since you seem to be hard of hearing and English is likely not your first language: I am not here to get cozy. I am here for my education, and that's it."

Francis whistled, speechless for once.

Taking advantage of this, I pulled out a folded sheet of paper from my jeans with my free hand. "Here," I scowled, handing him the paper.

"This is a set of rules I've come up with. You're not to go in my room or touch my things. There will be agreed times on when and who gets to use the bathroom. I don't tolerate uncleanliness, so we will also have to come up with a chore schedule. There will be no more smoking in this room; I will report you to residence if you continue to do so, roommates or not, I owe you no loyalty or favors. Drink as much as you want, just don't expect me to bail you out if you do something stupid and get arrested. And absolutely no parties are to be thrown here; I'd rather not be kicked out this early in the year, or at all, in fact. I ask that you please respect my boundaries. Living together entails respect. Respect me, and I'll respect you. If you do all this, then I'm sure we will get along with each other just fine."

The residual smirk on Francis's face wavered. "Arthur, you are one strange man. But, I'm not unkind enough to not respect your wishes. I am a clean person myself, and I will smoke outside from now on, no probleme. I will also fill out these…uh…forms and come up with an appropriate schedule. It's a shame we can't become friends, though. I have a feeling it'll take a while for you to warm up to me, but there's nothing I can do about that, I suppose. I'll leave you to unpack then."

Francis patted my shoulder before turning and heading back into the living room.

I grit my teeth. "We're not becoming friends. I thought I already established that."

Francis looked up at me from the couch, evidently getting used to my anger. He seemed completely unfazed by it now. "We French have a way of getting what we want. Do not underestimate us. You're not misleading me, Mr. Kirkland, far from it. Behind every angry person, there is someone hurting inside. You care more than you let off. I've always liked myself a good mystery, it inspires my creativity as a writer. Somewhere deep inside that hedgehog exterior of yours, there is a nice person. I'll dedicate the rest of my year towards finding it if I have to."

I scoffed. "Wise words coming from a man in a bathrobe."

Bloody Frenchman and his big mouth. His croaking voice reminded me of a frog. Hmmm. Not bad. Not a bad insult at all…

"Non, it is coming from someone with experience."

I had no good retort to that. "Fine, think what you want. Just know you'll regret saying that. I always disappoint…"

Francis gave me a pitiful look.

I left him feeling disappointed with myself, go figure. If only he knew who I truly was as a person; he'd be asking for a new roommate in no time.

That, I was sure of.

…

After my snapping at him, I didn't hear from Francis again. I must have really perturbed him, seeing as how he had slipped the sheet with the bathroom and chore schedule under my bedroom door. Oh well, despite saying otherwise, it appeared that Francis had realized it was better to keep his distance from me. Kudos to him…

My dorm room was nothing special, harbouring a single twin bed, a meagre dresser, a window that overlooked a courtyard, and a foldable desk embedded in the wall. It was small, but cozy; I didn't have a need for that much of a space anyway. I felt in control in this room, nothing about it was overwhelming or all-encompassing.

BANG!

I was busy unpacking my clothes on my bed, when a large bang resonated across the building, sounding as if it were coming from the hallway outside.

"Francis?" I called out hesitantly. Blast. I didn't like the guy, but that didn't mean I hated him.

"Francis are you all right? What was that noise?"

I walked into the living room, finding that Francis wasn't there. He wasn't in his bedroom – the door was open – or the bathroom either – I didn't really want to look too extensively in there, for obvious reasons. He must have gone elsewhere.

BANG!

I jumped when another bang, this one much louder in volume, shook the walls.

Cussing under my breath, I left my dorm, standing in the hallway outside with my mouth held agape.

Two desperate, fearful voices down the hall bickered back and forth.

"Toni, I'm telling you! We need to get the fuck out of here! That's it, I'm calling room service."

"But, Gil! Getting assigned to a new room is going to cost us!" a second voice pouted with a whine. "Other than… 'this'…there's nothing wrong with the flat. They're not going to believe us that it's… it's…"

BANG!

"HAUNTED! Ay, Dios mio!"

I walked across the hallway, knocking on the front door of where the frantic voices were coming from. It had been left wide open, but I still considered myself to have manners.

I cleared my throat. "Gentlemen, what seems to be the problem?"

The two other boys in the room – my floormates – latched their fearful gazes on me. One was tanned, lanky, with messy brown hair and light green eyes. The other, was buff, extremely pale, and had the most peculiar red eyes I had ever seen. Both were dressed in beach wear, despite the University's campus being in the middle of nowhere. My guess was that they were taking part in Fresher's week.

BANG!

I looked to my right, spotting a wooden wardrobe at the edge of their small living room. The doors were clasped shut with a red bandanna, but by the way it was shaking, it looked like someone was trying to get out of it from the inside.

The pale one was the first to answer me. "We moved here last week, and every night, the wardrobe opens and shakes on its own. We've heard stories about the ghosts here, so we figured if we could stop the creaking, the spirit would eventually give up and move on. Now it just seems mad, so not awesome," he muttered, his voice thick with a German accent. "And just who are you exactly?"

"Arthur Kirkland, a pleasure," I lied, about the latter part, that is. I hated getting involved in other people's business, but I already knew what was going on here.

I stepped into the room, shaking hands with the pale one.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," the pale one firmly clasped my hand. "And that guy over there is Antonio. Are you Fran's roommate? I think he mentioned something about having an English roommate."

Antonio was preoccupied with kissing the pendant of his cross necklace, murmuring prayers in what sounded to be Spanish.

"That I am," I admitted. "Unfortunately. And what is this nonsense about ghosts? They don't exist."

Gilbert scoffed in disbelief. "Are you not seeing that wardrobe move on its own right now?"

"I'm sure there's another explanation for that. A wild animal? Or perhaps the bolts are becoming loose and it's about to give way?" I proposed.

"Yo, what are you doing?!" Gilbert blurted, pale brows rising when I walked towards the wardrobe. "You're going to get yourself killed by that thing!"

Antonio shook his head back and forth, eyes wide like a small child. "Uh-oh, Franny isn't going to like us killing his roommate. I'll pray for you, amigo." And the Spaniard did just that, mentioning something about how my eyebrows were enough of a punishment to live with, unbeknownst to me.

"Quite the contrary," I smirked, untying the bandanna from the wardrobe. "I'll prove to you that nothing's in there. There's always a rational explanation for things like this."

I opened the wardrobe, glaring unamusedly into the empty space. "See? Nothing."

The bandanna dropped to the ground.

I stepped aside to let Gilbert and Antonio have a look inside. The shaking had stopped entirely.

"Vhat?" Gilbert spluttered in confusion.

"Yay! We're not going to die young now!" Antonio merrily exclaimed. "He must have scared it off!"

I ignored Antonio's latter comment.

"Best bet is to just get rid of the thing. I was right about the bolting, it looks like it'll cave any day now," I told them, dusting off my hands on my pants. "Well, now that that's out of the way, I best be off then. I still have much to unpack. See you around…" I hummed, waving over my shoulder.

Stunned, Gilbert and Antonio muttered their goodbyes.

"…Never," I mumbled to myself, walking back into the hallway outside.

I furrowed my brows angrily, knowing that a certain something was following me. I refused to turn around and face it until I was in my own flat, out of the eavesdropping range of other, potentially nosy floormates.

I closed the door after me. That didn't stop the something from floating right through it as if it were child's play. Quite literally, the ghost was a child.

I spun around, narrowing my eyes at the ghost I had found vacating Gilbert and Antonio's wardrobe. She looked to be about ten years old; scrawny, sharp-elbowed, missing several teeth, and had several scrapes up and down her arms. She had piercing green eyes, almost like mine oddly enough, blonde hair, which was tied in two high pigtails, and was dressed in a long-outdated green sundress. From the looks of it, she looked to be born in either the 1920s or 30s.

"You can see me," the girl accused, her voice shrill and angry. "How come you pretended that you couldn't?! Are you trying to make fun of me? Is that it?"

I sighed, walking over to sit on the couch. I had dealt with enough today, thank you very much. "No love," I murmured softly. "I can't let other people know because then they'd think I'm crazy. What's your name? Or, what do you prefer to go by?"

The girl floated to hover above the coffee table, crossly sticking up her chin at me. "You may call me Alice," she huffed.

"Well, Alice, you can call me Arthur. Pleased to meet you."

"I know that, you dummy! I heard you speaking to those other two twits."

"Come now," I tutted. "Is that the way your mother taught you how to address strangers?"

"N-no! Mummy always told me to be polite. B-But, I d-don't know where Mummy is anymore..." the ghost trailed off, a downcast expression on her face.

"I can help you find your Mummy, but have to promise to be completely honest with me."

The ghost looked up, eyes wide, revealing the vulnerability of a child who had been lost for who knows how many decades. "How do I know I can trust you?" she wavered, flicking in and out of sight.

"I've helped many spirits pass on to the other side. There's something keeping you here on Earth, Alice. Is there something bothering you? Something you never got to do when you were alive?"

"Well…there was one thing…"

"Take your time, love. I know this must be hard for you to recall."

There was something about children that made them invisible to my usual irritation. I had a lot of patience with them. I treated them in a manner in which I had never been treated as a child; I was kind and I listened to what they had to say. At the very least they deserved that.

My patience must have given Alice the confidence she needed to open up to me. She was finally breaking her silence, conversing with someone who could listen and respond to her unfortunate predicament.

"My friend Davie and I were having a picnic. Daddy used to be the Dean here. He didn't like Davie because he was an orphan. But I really liked Davie, so I always snuck food from the dining hall to take to him. We had to meet in secret because Daddy didn't approve of me meeting with him, unchaperoned.

"I never really cared for dresses. But Mummy did. She knew about my friendship with Davie, but she never told anyone. One day, we were having a picnic, and Davie wanted me to swim in the creek with him…he never told me he couldn't swim. The water was too deep for us, and I drowned trying to save him…"

Alice paused. I inhaled sharply, not daring to say a word.

"Mummy died because Daddy hit her too hard. He blamed her for my death. But, I never got to see Mummy when she died. She didn't become a ghost like me…and neither did little Davie. I'm the only one left of them. I'm sorry if I made you mad earlier. I just don't k-know what to do. Scaring people is the only thing that makes me feel…real."

"You don't have to justify yourself, Alice," I said warmly, my throat constricting. "I understand everything now."

The mother and Davie must have passed on, but Alice's spirit was still bound by past regrets.

"I guess I'm just angry about what happened to little Davie," Alice whispered. "He never got a proper funeral, whereas I did. It's not fair."

"Tell you what," I shuddered with a sigh. Dealing with ghosts never got any less emotional after the first few times. Alice's story was a grim reminder of how unfair and tragic life could be sometimes. "I'll throw a proper funeral for Davie for you. Was it James creek that you two…passed in? That's only a five-minute walk from here."

Alice's expression became hopeful again. "Yes. That's the place. Would you really do that for me?"

"Of course. If it gives you peace, I'd be more than happy to. You've been here for long enough, love. It's about time you reunited with your Mummy and Davie again. Wouldn't you like for that to happen?"

"Yes, but how do I do that?" Alice sniffled. "I've tried f-for so long…"

"You just have to trust me, Alice. If you can trust that I'll carry through with your wish to give Davie a proper funeral, then your spirit will be able to move on."

Alice's form began to fade, a good sign indeed. "Promise?"

I lifted a pinkie finger to the air, albeit the gesture only being symbolic. "Promise."

"Thank you, Arthur," Alice's eyes watered. "I'll never forget you. You were so kind to me. I don't know what I did to deserve such kindness. You're everything Mummy wanted me to be."

I chuckled. "I'm not all that I appear to be, but thank you for such a sweet sentiment. Now move along, dear. You can sense your soul being pulled elsewhere, can't you? Don't fight it. And don't worry, I'm sure your Mummy would be proud of you too. It takes someone with a big heart to wait this long for someone else. I admire that, truly."

"Goodbye, Arthur. Thank you again."

"Goodbye, Alice. God speed, and may your soul rest in peace."

I heard the faint murmur of final thank-you's before Alice disappeared for good.

I slumped down in my seat.

It was some time before I removed my hands from my face. Oh bloody, hell, I had been crying, hadn't I? How embarrassing.

Irritated, I grabbed a Kleenex from the coffee table and dabbed at my eyes and cheeks.

Francis leaned against the kitchen table, the creak of which caused me to look up. "Alas, you're not as bitter and mean as I had initially thought, mon petit hedgehog," he mused.

I furiously rubbed at my eyes. "Since when did you get here…wait? What the bollocks?! You can see ghosts too?!"

Francis sadly nodded his head. "Oui, it runs in my family. It must run in yours too, non? My family is very perceptive at picking up on les emotions aussi. Some of us are born matchmakers, like myself. We see the good in people, and match them to fill the void in our own lonely hearts. But, enough about that. Are you all right, Arthur? I only heard about half of that conversation, and that was more than enough to break my heart in two."

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," I snapped before lowering my voice. "Just. Fine."

"If you say so."

"Stop bloody patronizing me!"

"Fine, fine," Francis raised his hands in surrender.

"Don't get cheeky with me either," I growled to no one in particular, hardly audible.

"Call me crazy," Francis purred, walking to sit on the couch next to me. "as I am one to believe in fate, but we must have been brought together for a reason, non? I believe our similarities call for a truce."

I didn't like the suggestive look on Francis's face. Anything he did inevitably became sexual, the perv. "I know I said this already, but do you ever stop flapping your tongue, frog? There's nothing redemptive about you. Not even that 'glorious' hair of yours can salvage how obnoxious you are."

Francis laughed. "Ohonhonhon, that's a new insult I've never heard before. Arthur Kirkland, you are an absolute menace to be around."

I glared at him through eyes that were not puffy.

"A good menace," Francis corrected himself, not that it really helped with anything. I still couldn't stand him.

"Arthur?"

"Wot?" I growled, my gaze latched on the ground.

"Do you think we could start over? Perhaps become friends? I haven't even known you for that long, and yet, I've never seen someone look so troubled…so lonely. Don't get me wrong, I'm not pitying you. It's just…if you ever need someone to talk to or even just to keep you company, I can be there for you. We'll be spending most of our year together, after all."

"One, I'm not lonely or troubled, I'm just naturally bitter like this," I snorted. "But, if you're so intent on getting to know me, I'll say this. I like my privacy. I anger easily, and can be selfish at times. I've made a horrible first impression on you, and I have no idea why you're bothering speaking to me now. But, if you're willing to look past all that, then maybe we can become friends, maybe."

I don't know what I was thinking, saying all of this. Maybe I was still vulnerable emotionally. Or maybe it was because I had found someone similar to me, no matter how grating. Perhaps Alistair was right. One 'friend' couldn't hurt.

I held out my hand for Francis to shake, daring to look him in the eyes again. The genuine affection in them made me blush due to the unfamiliarity of receiving such generous treatment, especially because of how awfully I had spoken to him earlier.

"Arthur Kirkland."

"Francis Bonnefoy, pleased to make your acquaintance."

That cheeky little bugger.

…

I wasn't having your typical post-secondary Friday afternoon. Unlike most, I was spending it in the comforting silence of the school's grandiose library. It was held in an old castle, smelling of old books, wood and dust; a stale scent that inevitably made you think the place was old. It was five stories tall, harbouring enough books to satisfy hundreds of lifetimes of reading. There were several stainless glass windows, reflecting the light of the meek, cloudy weather outside. The building was dim, just like how I preferred it to be – sunlight wasn't exactly my thing.

Yes, yes, we've already agreed that I'm a miserable, depressing person. Ahem, moving on.

This was my sanctum, a safe place if you will. I could already see myself spending most of my time here, outside of my front desk/ clerk position. As of now, I was being trained for such a position by a polite, young lad from Canada.

What was his name again?

Oh yes, right, Matthew. Matthew. Matthew.

I couldn't forget that.

Matthew was showing me the different parts of the library, rolling around a cart full of books as he did so. Normally, I would protest to using technology in a place of standard print, as there was an iPad embedded in the cart, but with five floors of space to deal with, the gadget did come in handy for locating books and their respective sections. There was also the computer at the front desk, but I was willing to overlook that too. It was more out of necessity than excess to possess it.

Matthew spoke very softly, so I had to crane my neck just to hear him properly. "Not many people come here to borrow books, since most of our archives and subscriptions have already been made available online. I reckon the most work you'll be doing here is reorganizing the sections if the main librarian decides to become spontaneous," he chuckled softly.

"All the more easier of a job for us then," I smirked.

Matthew smiled softly at this, his strange violet eyes crinkling at the corners. He was a few inches taller than me in stature, lanky, and had pale, curly blond hair that fell to his shoulders. Despite wearing a bright red shirt, he seemed to blend in the shadows, nearly invisible to the naked eye. I blame his timid nature for not making him more noticeable.

"Say," I began, surprising myself by opting to start another conversation. Although, Matthew was a pleasant enough fellow to converse with. We were on our way back to the main floor, huddled in a rickety elevator that felt like it would collapse at any given moment.

"You look quite young to be a first year," I remarked. I was nineteen myself, having just finished my junior college studies a year later than planned. Let's just say there were a lot of family disruptions and personal problems that had caused such a setback.

"That's because I am," Matthew replied simply. "I just turned sixteen in July. I'm two years ahead in my studies. In Canada, we go up to grade twelve before being sent off to College or University. Maman, ah, ahem, my Mom and Grandma are alumina at this school. They didn't expect any less from me. I wanted to take a year off, but I'm a horrible pushover and try to please everyone. And, well, here I am now. I used to spend my summers working here anyway when we visited family, so it's not like I'm unfamiliar with the campus. Things could be worse," he shrugged, sighing.

"That's still not fair," I replied. Matthew was just a boy then. I felt a strange, paternal instinct kick around in the pit of my stomach just by looking at him. "You should have a say in how you go about your education. It's your life, Matthew. Are you not scared being the youngest one here, all on your own? I apologize if I'm being blunt, but I know how brutal people can be sometimes."

More like all the time.

"No worries," Matthew placed a hand on my shoulder. Damn him for being so tall. "I appreciate your concern, Arthur. But, I don't think I have to worry about any of that. I don't mind finishing my degree early, and it's not like I'm relevant enough for people to pick on. There's actually a rumour going around campus that there's a violet-eyed ghost haunting the library. Want to know who that ghost is? Yours truly," he mused, looking proud of himself as he pointed a backwards thumb at his chest.

We both chuckled a little at his expense.

The elevator dinged, and I helped Matthew roll the cart onto the main floor. "Although I haven't heard that specific rumour, I have heard that the library is the most haunted part of campus. Is that true?" I asked.

I already knew it was true, as I could feel the ghosts' presence, but I wanted to get more information on the subject.

I stopped the cart before the front desk, while Matthew skirted around to open the gate. After placing the cart in its respective place, Matthew leaned over the front counter, allowing his elbows to support most of his weight. He grimly nodded his head in response to my question.

"Unfortunately, that rumour is true," Matthew said sadly, eyes downcast. "Several students over the years have taken their lives by jumping off the roof," he paused to point up at the fifth and final floor of the library. "We don't have any accurate estimates, but some say it's close to between 15-30 students. And that's not even counting the first two centuries that this school was up and running."

My expression became grim as I continued to listen to him.

"The stress becomes too much for these people. The elite atmosphere here doesn't help either. So many people push themselves until they become mad and can't think properly anymore. They don't see any options of escape. No one wants to feel like they're a failure," Matthew said morosely, perking up slightly as he finished his tangent.

"Luckily, we haven't had any incidents like that for decades. It's a shame, because nothing is done until something horrible happens. At least now, we have programs to help with that. I know this is random and perhaps a bit invasive of me to suggest, but if you ever feel stressed and need to talk about it, there are plenty of resources available here to help with that."

Matthew handed me a red print card with a list of services scrawled on it. The first one that popped out to me was puppy stress therapy, how odd.

I accepted the card from Matthew, smiling faintly in gratitude as I slipped it into my wallet. "Thanks, lad. It sounds like you're speaking from experience?"

Matthew pursed his lips. "Yes, I volunteer in student services. Someone has to start the conversation. The curriculum expects so much of the students here. This issue is also something very important to my family. A distant relative of mine committed suicide, and my Grandma has been adamant on speaking about it ever since. There's just such a heavy stigma surrounding it."

"I'm so sorry," I stammered, realizing I had pried too deep. "I think it's wonderful that you're dedicating your free time to such a noble cause. You're a sweet kid, Matthew. If only everyone else was as selfless as you, the world would be a much better place."

"Thank you," Matthew said earnestly. "Well, I still have some new books to enter into stock. It was nice talking to you, Arthur. I highly recommend walking around and familiarizing yourself with the place again. It took me at least a month not to get lost every five minutes."

"Anytime. Yes, I already planned on doing that. If I don't come down in forty minutes, feel free to send up a search squad for me," I joked lightly, knowing it wouldn't alleviate the heavy mood that had fallen between us.

"Will do," Matthew laughed, winking at me from behind his spectacles. "See you around."

I said my goodbyes, realizing I had just made another friend. Alistair would probably be throwing a party right now if he found out. The people here were just so kind and understanding. It threw me off, but in a good way. Perhaps there was hope for me, after all.

(This school was turning me into a bloody sap, that's what. First the frog, and now Matthew? What's next, befriending a buffoon with a poor sense of grammar?...I'll shut up now.)

After familiarizing myself with the library's floor spaces, I then went back to the fourth floor, where the school's archives were kept. Up until about three decades ago, the campus used to host an orphanage as part of its charity work.

I was flipping through the pages of an old catalogue, finding Davie's name after some time searching. He didn't have a last name. A young boy with slicked back hair and sad eyes looked into the camera, his face dusty and smudged, still visible under the grey monochrome of colours. I only knew it was him because there was an additional photo of him and Alice having a picnic with an adult woman, presumably Alice's mother. At least in the second photo, Davie was smiling. He had died in 1927, at the unfortunate age of seven.

I looked over my shoulder, and once affirming that no one was there to see me do this, I carefully ripped out the latter photo and pocketed it. I would be needing it once I had found the time to give Davie his funeral.

"Easy does it, old chap," I whispered. "Alice never forgot about you."

I was about to head downstairs when for some inexplicable reason, I felt the urge to explore the fifth floor, where the roof was.

I soon found myself standing before the entrance of the roof, dumbly looking at the suicide posters that were plastered against the stone wall. Matthew really hadn't been kidding about the scope of these deaths. Ahem, not that he had any reason to kid about such a dark and unfortunate topic.

My feet moved of their own accord as I opened the steel door, revealing a see-through glass tunnel with various shrubbery growing on the sides. The roof top was grand in space, the air cloudy and misty from the previous rainfall.

I stepped out of the tunnel, breathing in the clean air.

Regardless, something didn't feel right.

I walked towards the edge of the roof, palming the rough stone with both hands and looking below at the students scuttling below, like ants with a sense of purpose. I became nauseous suddenly, feeling my eyes cloud over. The spirits and emotions lurking here were beginning to overwhelm me. The ground appeared closer than what it actually was.

An invisible force was pushing me.

Do it. Do it. Do it.

NO. DON'T DO IT!

I shook my head, closing my eyes. These weren't my thoughts. These were the thoughts of past doubts and regrets.

It took me a while before I finally gained control. The heavy atmosphere of the roof was suffocating, but it was manageable to deal with now that I knew what to expect. There weren't just 15-30 spirits here. There was plenty more, so much so that I was unable to count them all.

Even so, there was something fairly recent about this area that had the hair on the back of my neck standing up. If there was a spirit in need of passing on, then I was determined to find them, no matter how difficult it was to discern them from the rest of the memories residing here. It wasn't right to let them suffer in perpetual confusion; they belonged elsewhere.

I let go of the edge of the roof, turning around, only to jump back like a cat who had been spooked when I spotted a student sitting on one of the metal benches lying about.

"Jesus, Roosevelt Christ!" I swore, clutching at my chest. "Where in the bloody hell did you come from?!"

The other student on the roof appeared to be just as frightened as I was. He was in mid-bite of eating his PB & J sandwich, hunched over with his elbows resting on his thighs. A note pad with several pens on top was resting next to his lap.

For a brief moment, I thought the student was Matthew. An additional two seconds of looking at him, however, changed that opinion. He had wheat-blond hair that was slicked back, save for one stray cowlick sticking up from the rest of his head, blue eyes hidden by wired spectacles, and was much bigger and muscular in build than Matthew was, albeit being just as tall.

Most strange about him was the clothes he wore – an old brown leather bomber jacket, denim jeans that were folded at the bottom and black pointed loafers. He was a hipster if I ever saw one.

I stared at the boy on the bench, waiting for him to answer me. He didn't but rather just stared at me like a deer in the headlights, holding up his sandwich in disbelief and briefly looking over his shoulders to affirm that there was no one behind him.

"Hello?!" I snapped. "Usually people speak when they're spoken to."

The boy coughed out his sandwich, hacking for air as he placed it back into a food container. When he regained his breath, red-faced, he waved his hands back forth in exasperation. There were still several crumbs on his mouth. "Dude! I've been here the whole time! Holy crap, you really know how to scare a guy, don't ya? So not cool, yo!"

A brief moment of silence enveloped between us. The boy couldn't stop staring at me incredulously, testing me, analyzing me. Actually, now that I think of it, he was likely just ogling at my eyebrows, the little twat. Or should I say yank? He had a very strong American accent.

I rolled my eyes. "What in God's name are you doing up here alone?"

The boy crossed his arms, pouting childishly. "I could ask you the same question, dude," he said through puckered lips. "But, if you must know. I use this place for writing inspiration. Usually, no one comes up here, and I go uninterrupted, ahem."

The boy's expression became flat. I could take a hint, but his implied rudeness would have to take a rain check for now. There was still some things I wanted to know.

I furrowed my brows. Did the yank not see the suicide posters lying around? This was perhaps the worst, most depressing place to draw inspiration from. At least I didn't have to be concerned about him, regardless of how strange and poor his grammar was.

"I work at the library," I defended, taking a step closer to him.

The boy abruptly stood up from the bench, scrambling backwards and nearly tripping over his feet as he moronically waved his hands at me to stop. "Woah there, dude!" he shouted, causing my ears to ring from how loud his voice was.

"This is a no-people zone. I can't have you coming close and messing up my mojo, ya hear? Stay back! I'm not kidding! I need to be in the mood to write. I can't have you ruining it! Haven't you ever h-heard of personal space?!"

I held up my hands in surrender. "All right, all right, I won't come any closer, no matter how ridiculous the reason."

There were those pouted lips again. "Hey! You're being rude, dude."

"And another thing," I furrowed my brows in confusion. "What are you wearing?"

"Huh?" the boy spluttered bluntly, following my gaze to look down at his bomber jacket. "Oh this? This was my Pop's and, uh, my Gramps before that."

"Yes, but why are you wearing it?" I asked him patiently.

"Dude, I hardly know you. What's with all the questions? Are you sure you don't secretly work for the CIA? I'm innocent, I s-swear!"

"What? No, I'm just curious. It isn't every day I come across such an odd figure," I mused. It was unbelievable how easy it was to make this boy flustered. I'll admit, I was having some mild fun with this interrogation.

"I'm writing a story about WW2," the boy huffed. "I need to feel the part if I'm to write it. And you're the one to talk. I've seen bathroom rugs more attractive than that sweater vest of yours."

"Oi!" I snapped. "You don't see me making fun of your outfit."

"No, but you did give me a strange look."

"How could I not?! It's not everyday you find someone who takes their writing to this extreme. I'm intrigued, that's all."

"Well, Mr. Intrigued, the name's Alfred. Alfred Jones."

I was beginning to like this boy less and less by the minute.

"Arthur, Arthur Kirkland."

Alfred trudged back to the bench, opening his journal to a page with messily scrawled jot-notes on it. "Great! Now that we're introduced, I'll ask you kindly to stop speaking. I've got a lot of ideas running through my head, dude of Arthur, sir sass-a-lot. I can't let them slip away."

"Honestly, you are such a bizarre person. I don't under-"

"Shhh! Can't you see that a dude's trying to write?"

"Is dude the only word you know?" I spluttered.

"Just trying to keep up with the times, dude. Maybe you should try it," Alfred muttered, not even bothering to look up at me. "Now, scram. Or at least stop talking for like five minutes. No wonder America wanted its independence. You Brits never stop talking with your overcomplicated laws, and fancy 'posh' language."

Alfred said 'posh' in a horrible impression of a British accent. I was not amused.

"Fine," I growled. "I'll leave you be. I was beginning to lose a few brain cells anyway. It boggles my mind how you can call yourself a writer when you speak with such poor grammar. You're a living oxymoron."

Alfred must have been in his so-called mojo, because he didn't look up to usher his retort.

Instead, I busied myself with looking around the rooftop, trying to sense anything that seemed at odds. What a futile task that was. Everything was wrong with this place. There was so much going on that it was hard to pinpoint the one thing that was setting me off.

After looking at the asphalt below, unable to come up with a viable reason for the weird aura of this place, I turned on my heels and left the edge of the roof.

Alfred had his tongue poking out of his mouth as he scribbled away in his notebook. When he saw that I was leaving, he cocked up his head to look at me. "Hey, are you all right?" he asked, setting down his notebook on the bench. "You look like something's bothering you."

"I thought we weren't speaking," I responded dryly, snorting.

"Erm, I'm done writing, if it's any consolation," Alfred admitted, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Are you sad about something, Arthur? Worried? If so, I completely understand what you're feeling. I'm starting my first year too, just turned 18. Mom enrolled me a year early in school. Um, ah, sorry, hahaha, I have a bad habit of rambling when I'm nervous. I guess it's just nice to have someone to speak to, now that I think of it. I don't have no friends here."

"And you're assuming I don't either?" I asked him crossly.

"N-no!" Alfred blurted out, causing me to smirk. "It's just, everyone should have a friend. You look like you could use one. That grumpy expression on your face makes you look ten years older than you actually are. I almost mistook you for an accountant. You might want to fix that about yourself, it's real scary."

"Do I seriously look that lonely and miserable?"

Alfred's expression became sheepish again.

"Oh, bollocks," I sighed. "Besides, how can we become 'friends' if I can't even go near you?"

I don't know why, but I felt like I could trust Alfred. There was something that was just so��pure about him. I couldn't describe it. He just seemed relatable. This roof top was his safe space, and he was trusting me with it.

Alfred bowed his head. "Sorry, dude. I like my personal space. But that doesn't mean we can't chat. I'm always open to talk to people, that is when I'm not writing of course."

"Hmmph," I breathed. "Well then, Mr. Jones, let's chat. Why is it do you come up here to write?"

I sat on the bench across from him, respecting his wishes not to get too close. I crossed my legs and turned my torso to face him. He truly did have the most brilliant, cerulean blue eyes I had ever seen. They carried so much light and hope in them, despite how shy and flustered Alfred was acting. I could tell he was uncomfortable with speaking to strangers. Kudos to him for putting himself out there. If he hadn't initiated this second conversation, I would have likely retreated back into the library without another word.

"Um…" Alfred stalled, awkwardly swallowing. "It's nice and quiet up here. It helps me think clearer."

"Fair enough," I nodded my head. "I myself prefer a quiet place too. Although, my first choice most certainly wouldn't be a supposedly haunted library roof top. I'll repeat myself again, Alfred. You're a bizarre character. I don't think I've met anyone like you."

"D-dude," Alfred's face paled. "Don't speak about the spirits so loudly," he whispered, wide-eyed as he gestured around the roof. "They don't like it when you talk about them. It makes them angry. If you leave them be, they won't bother ya."

"You're not scared of ghosts, are you?" I mused.

"N-no!"

Translation: the yank was indeed scared of ghosts.

"Don't be silly, Alfred," I chuckled.

"I'm not! I'm being serious!" Alfred fumed, pouting those childish lips again, cheeks puffing out comically. "Why are you up here anyway?"

"Curiosity, I suppose," I answered him. "I wanted to test the rumours about these alleged spirits." I dropped my voice to a whisper, sarcastically making air-quotes with my fingers. "But thus far, all I've found is a yank with poor grammar, a half-eaten PB & J sandwich that has seen better years, and the stale smell of hamburgers. Seriously, why is that?"

Alfred avoided looking at me. Apparently, the lacquer of his shoes was more interesting. "Who knows," he grumbled, clearly guilty. "Hey, Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"You're a funny guy. I think I like you."

"That better not be a crack at my eyebrows," I warned.

"What? No! But oh man, how did I not notice those before?!"

Alfred smiled for the first time, revealing a straight row of perfect white teeth. His entire face changed. It suited him. It was hard not to smile when he looked this happy and sunny, reminding me of a large, clumsy puppy as he slapped a hand against his thigh.

If the joke hadn't been at my expense, I would have likely laughed too. His joy was nearly contagious. So much so, that I felt a weird lump at the back of my throat. Someone actually liked me. Me. Who would have thought?

"God, you're such a child," I scoffed, stubbornly refusing to laugh.

Alfred held up his hands in surrender. "Okay…ahahhaha. I'm done. Pft! I'm done. Really though, they're not that bad. Besides, you have pretty eyes to make up for them."

I felt my face heat. "Bloody bastard. Trying to compliment me as if it'll fix anything."

"No! I mean it, seriously!" Alfred protested. "You're a cool dude. It's funny talking to you, even if you did get in the way of my writing."

"Oh, let it go will you?"

"Why do you always have to be so grumpy?" Alfred whined. "Can't we get along with each other?"

"Easier said than done when you're constantly insulting me," I huffed, standing up from the bench.

"Hey! Where are you going?!"

"I told you I work at the library, didn't I? I'm still familiarizing myself with the place. Not everyone can lounge around all day, doing nothing."

"Writing ain't doing nothing."

"Whatever," I groaned. "I have to go now. It was er, nice 'chatting' with you." I would have held out my hands to shake with Alfred, but he didn't seem to be very keen on the idea. He was even weirder than I was.

"Perhaps, I'll see you in class?" I asked. "I'm a first year too."

"Nah, I'm in a special program with about five other students or so. You're not in it, are ya?"

"No." – I didn't even know the school had a specialized program, seeing as how few the students were in number. I'd have to look into it; the less people to deal with the better.

"In that case, perhaps I'll see you here again?" I raised a brow at Alfred in question. As usual, he was switching from looking me in the eye to not looking at me at all. He was fidgety and shy, but had a lot of energy to blow off. He was just full of contradictions – a complete and utter mess if you ask me.

"Dude, no! I already called dibs on this place! It's where I've been writing, for uh, the past week! You're not going to hog it, are ya?"

"No, but this does seem like a good place to have lunch," I lied, revelling in the disgruntled expression on Alfred's face.

I languidly waved at Alfred over my shoulder. "Bye now."

"Bye," Alfred grumbled through, yes, you guessed it, pouted lips.

Now, back to that previous lie of mine.

There was something wrong going on in this roof top. Whether it was a spirit in trouble, a haunting, or anything of the like, I was determined to find out what exactly was causing me to feel so eerie and dreadfully hopeless.

And no grammarless yank was about to stop me from doing that.

To be continued...

Word Count: 11, 407

19 Pages

#hetalia #aph #USUK #aph USUK #aph America #aph England #aph France #Alfred f jones #Arthur Kirkland #Francis Bonnefoy #fanfiction #romance #angst

21 notes · View notes