So. Hello. :)

I'm not sure if it's a little early or what, but I've decided to start my first multi-chapter fic. I had this idea even before I wrote my one-shot, but because I'm lazy and an awful procrastinator, I didn't get it written until recently. And due to my love of all things spooky, this is of the supernatural genre, just because I've been reading way too many ghost stories lately, so apologies if it sounds cliché in parts. There will be references to mythology later on, too, since I'm a complete nerd for that sort of stuff. XD

Main pairing: USUK, though there will be others. Quite a few others, actually.

Warnings: None, really. Some swearing, I suppose, because Iggy is involved.

So, without further ado...

Onto the story!

Arthur Kirkland wasn't having the best of days, even before the Grim Reaper came into play.

He'd never been the luckiest person in the world. Fate hadn't dealt him the best of hands. A friendless childhood, constant arguments with his siblings, and three moves so far in his seventeen years of life. He was unsettled, to say the least. His parents paid barely a tidbit of attention to any of their children, preferring instead to go gallivanting across the country, leaving their offspring to fend for themselves. Though two of the four Kirkland kids had moved out, they continued to fight via telephone and email, and he was left alone to take care of his little brother. His life was a constant struggle of trying to juggle home life and the piles upon piles of schoolwork that were stacking up because of the upcoming exams. On top of that, there were the beady eyes of his teachers glued to his back, always at worry for his mental health. Fearing for the weird, friendless boy who occasionally saw strange things out of the corner of his eye, and even more commonly, right in front of his nose. His therapist did nothing to sooth their paranoia, and so the insistent fussing continued. Nobody stopped to ask whether Arthur himself wanted this. Nobody stopped to asked what Arthur wanted point blank.

No, Arthur didn't consider himself very lucky at all.

He was mulling over why such bad luck seemed to befall him when a magazine was dropped on his desk. His head snapped up to glare at whoever would dare to drop this filth onto his work space. It was bad enough having to write for the school's tabloid — he didn't want to be reminded of what his talents were being used for. His gaze bore into the perpetrator.

Francis Bonnefoy smiled back, face as soft and innocent as a grizzlybear's. He flipped the magazine open and turned the pages until he found his desired section. Jabbing it with his forefinger, smile widening enough to crack his face, he said, "For reference."

Arthur looked from him to the page, and back again. He blinked. "Reference to what?"

Francis chuckled. He was the living French stereotype, from his wavy blond locks and flamboyant attire to his flippancy and general unpleasantness, proven by the mocking sound escaping his lips now. He sounded like he should be stretched across a futon, sipping wine and surrounded by women, not running a school magazine. But unfortunately that was the extracurricular activity he had chosen, and what was even more unfortunate was that Arthur had decided to take a swing at being a columnist. It wasn't that he wanted to have anything to do with the media in his future career, it was that this had been his only option. After he was kicked out of the Future Historians club due to a fist fight between him and a boy named Antonio — on account of that Spanish bastard suggesting England would willingly send pirates to attack Spain even now. The nerve! — no other club would accept him, and he needed the credit. At that time, it had been an actual newspaper, and was run by a highly organised and intelligent Monacan girl who had actually known what was worth printing. She'd been in her final year and had graduated the following term, leaving Francis — who, out of all the remaining members, had been there the longest — to take her place. And just like that, the entire paper had been turned from a newsletter into a girly gossip mag, with Francis' Agony Aunt section hogging the spotlight, front-page, whilst Arthur's modest little column had been shoved to the back and promptly ignored. The two hadn't been on the best of terms to begin with, but after that, Arthur had hated Francis' guts with a passion so strong it was almost a physical force.

"Reference to my previous writings, of course," the Frenchman informed him, as if he were merely a child on their first day of primary school, barely comprehensive of the alphabet. "How do you expect to replicate the work of votre serviteur without doing some background research?"

He pushed the magazine towards Arthur, the light overhead spilling onto the pages and giving them a strange sheen. Printed on them was an overload of paragraphs containing useless drivel on romance and true love and the secrets to finding one's supposed 'soulmate', as if such a sorry excuse for a myth could ever amount to any truth. Here and there, notes were added in Francis' sprawling cursive, tips for Arthur on how to give out flawless advice. Some of them were simple, such as Remember to reassure the client or Draw comparisons between their problem and another's. Pretend you deal with it all the time, and know how to solve it. Then there was the pieces of text that were long and detailed, going through things step-by-step and making sure the instructions were so clear that they could accuse crystal of hiding something. And finally, at the end, one simple message, written in block capitals and underlined three times: DO NOT REFER TO PERSONAL EXPERIENCE!

Arthur just stared at the page for a minute, gathering scattered brain cells into some sort of coherent thought. "You—you want me to take your job?" he asked, hardly believing the words that were falling from his lips. In his opinion, the Agony Aunt was possibly the most distasteful job on a magazine that was so distasteful in itself that it might as well have been a meal from one of those chain fast-food restaurants Americans seemed to practically worship. Any other circumstance and he would rather off himself then even consider taking up the position, but maybe, just maybe, if it held the possibility of Francis' resignation—

"No," Francis said, and there went his hopes, shattering like glass and falling in a heap at his feet. "Not permanently, anyway. You see, I shall be leaving on a little trip for a while, mon completent débile, and I need someone to keep my part of the magazine running."

"And I don't suppose you'll be handing me the job of editor, too?"

At this, Francis laughed. It echoed around the empty classroom, reserved for them and the rest of the magazine staff if they ever bothered to show up. It sounded to Arthur a little like he was choking on his own saliva. "Mon Dieu, no! I'd never trust you with something as important as that. Tu es bêtes comme tes pieds." He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, still smiling. "No, you'll be left with the simplest of tasks. I've made a list of practically all the answers you could give—" he pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and set it on the desk, "—and, quite obviously, given you an abundance of tips. You may thank me for managing to turn one of the most vital parts of our magazine into something even a tiny mind like yours could understand." He swooped down in a dramatic bow, chin pointed at the ceiling, frozen in that position as if waiting for applause. When none came, he straightened, scowled and added, "Oh, and you'll also be conducting interviews."

At this, Arthur spluttered. "I'm sorry," he said, "but what even gave you the faintest idea that I would be willing to accept these tasks? And what the hell is
this?" He pointed to the last piece of writing on the magazine page.

Francis glanced at it, and shrugged. "Well, let us just say that you are a bit of a romantic failure, no? Your record can hardly compare to that of a love god like moi."

"One of these days your head will disappear entirely up your arse," Arthur informed him. "People won't be finding you so bloody attractive then."

"Jealousy is not a beautiful trait, mon ami, and you need all the beauty you can get."

"I'm not going along with this." He crossed his arms in defiance.

"Oh Arthur, Arthur," the Frenchman chided. "What other option do you have?"

"I have plenty!" Arthur cried, indignant. "Vlad said he might be setting up a Magic club. I'd take that over this torture zone in a minute."

"Really?" Francis scoffed. "And how long would it be until you smashed your fist into another innocent's face, hm?"

Arthur opened his mouth to retort, but then thought better of it. That would get him nowhere. And perhaps just the smallest part of him was pondering on what Francis had said— pondering on whether he could be right. He could simply dismiss it as the Frenchman being peeved over Arthur attacking one of his friends, but really, what was the point in denial? He'd never truly got along with anybody. Friendship had never been a priority in his life, and he wasn't about to turn it into something major at this point. No, it was much too late to change himself now, and anyway, he felt no real need to. Holding back the venom that seemed to coat his tongue, he said, "Fine. I'll write the bloody Agony Aunt. Happy?"

Francis looked like he wanted to clap his hands in glee, but refrained from doing so. "Very. And the interviews?"

"Who will I be interviewing?"

Francis waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, no one too big and scary. Just a boy who arrived last week — an American. Alfred, I believe his name was."

Arthur felt himself blanch. "Al—Alfred?"

"Oui." Francis' eyes became suspiciously innocent. "Are you two acquainted?"

Arthur winced. 'Acquainted' was a nice way of putting it. He hadn't even known the other boy's name, but that hadn't mattered once he'd learnt that the school was refusing to buy new books for the library, choosing instead to squander the money on useless sports equipment, all in aid of the supposed 'football star' who would be honouring them with his presence in their humble house of learning. Arthur had been so miffed that the moment the boy had set foot inside the school, he'd marched right up to him and given him a long and bountiful lecture on the importance of literature at this key stage of a young person's life, followed by a strict telling off and a stamp on the toe for good measure. The boy had stared at him blankly for most of this, barely reacting even as his own foot was trod upon. Then, once the Brit's temper tantrum was finished, he'd grinned like a loon, stuck out a hand and said, "Hey there! I'm Alfred F. Jones!"

Needless to say, Arthur hadn't got such a positive reaction from the teachers. Their appalled looks had been the forewarning of the many detentions to come. After he'd been sent home early that day, threats of phone calls to parents and offences on his yearly report trailing behind him, he'd decided that he hated this Alfred boy. No questions asked, no other words needed, just an overwhelming hatred that knew no bounds. After a quick rant to the wall about the tragic comedy that his life had become, he'd calmed down a little, but his newfound grudge hadn't shifted. He was determined to spite the American, no matter how clueless Alfred had seemed about the damage he was doing to the education of so many. They hadn't bumped into each other since, but Arthur knew that the moment they did, he would give the boy a full piece of his mind, and this time fists would assist in getting his point across.

At least, that had been the plan. Now, however, it seemed he'd be forced to take a different approach.

Francis was watching him with a quirked eyebrow, showing no signs of whether or not he spotted the anger that Arthur was trying so desperately to conceal. After a prolonged silence, he said, "Well, anyway, I've arranged the interview between you and him this lunchtime. Just ask him a few questions on his past experience with sport, and try not tear out his eyeballs, hm?"

"Did you choose him on purpose?" Arthur asked, deciding to abandon pretence.

"Well, I'd hardly pick an interviewee by accident, now would I, silly little English pig dog?"

"I didn't mean — you know what, never mind. And I'm practically clueless on sports."

"Just make it up as you go along. Although—" Francis eyed Arthur's attire skeptically, "I'm not sure I trust you putting things together, considering that ensemble you've chosen to wear."

"Just because you choose to neglect the given uniform—"

"It is your country's fault for keeping such an atrocious dress code in schools. Back in my illustrious homeland, we were allowed to wear whatever we pleased." He sighed. "Ah, perhaps it's for the best, though. I've seen your casual wear — even that term is questionable."

"Sod off, tête de noeud."

"So you are familiar with the language of l'amour." Francis sounded almost impressed. He walked to his own desk, gathering up his things as the clock on the wall indicated to five minutes to nine. School started on the hour. "There may be hope for you yet. Your accent could use some work, though. You speak French like a Spanish cow."

Arthur merely scoffed and chucked his Biro at him.

"Alright, question number one — uh, what do you like most about football?"

Sitting across the table from Arthur, Alfred looked delighted to be asked. He practically bounced in his seat as he gushed, "Well, there's so much! Over in the States, we call it soccer, and football is the game where—"

"I know what it is!" Arthur snapped, only two minutes into the conversation and already weary. He massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers. "Please, can we just stick to the point?"

Arthur was starting to regret ever thinking about journalism, extra credit or not. As if the prospect of spending his lunch with this prat wasn't bad enough, Francis had also arranged for the interview to take place in the part of the school grounds Arthur dreaded the most — the canteen. On an ordinary schoolday, he would've eaten a packed lunch inside the school building, then hidden near the lockers or under the stairs and waited break out. He certainly would never have come to this animal shed, a place choked full of the delinquents he despised, laughing and joking and shooting spit balls with their friends. Although he and Alfred had managed to secure an empty table on the opposite side of the room to them, Arthur could still feel their incompetence, almost as if it were a noxious gas, lowering his IQ the longer he was exposed to it.

The next time he saw Francis, he vowed to wring the frog's skinny neck.

Alfred stopped bouncing, looking momentarily deflated, before grinning widely and regaining his gusto once more. Honestly, Arthur had no idea where the other boy acquired all his energy from. From the moment he'd gotten here, the American had been blabbering non-stop, starting with his joyous exclamation of, "Hey, you're that midget who attacked me on Monday!"

He'd then proceeded to smother Arthur in an overly friendly hug, which Arthur had attempted to squirm out of whilst grumbling that he was only one or two inches shorter than the American. Alfred had just laughed and ruffled his hair, then apologised profusely for being the fault of the school not purchasing more of 'those dusty paperback things' and going on to say how 'psyched' he was that Arthur had still agreed to interview him, and how 'freakin' awesome' it was going to be.

It had taken Arthur a few minutes to calm the boy down, and a few more to convince him that Arthur would be asking the questions and that Alfred couldn't just go off on a ramble of his own. He looked down at the few he had composed, and chewed his lip. They didn't seem very professional, but then what was Francis expecting? He knew as much about sports as a sailor did about mountain biking.

Meanwhile, Alfred had begun talking again. His voice, although deep, reminded Arthur of that of an excitable dolphin. "And then there was this one match," Alfred was saying, face alive with excitement, "where me and this guy were neck-in-neck running for the ball, and he pushed me down, and I swear I nearly broke my face—" Arthur didn't even point out how physical impossible it was to actually break one's face, no matter how many times over the course of his life he'd wished that wasn't true, "—but in the end I only bumped my head and chipped a tooth. Oh, and I sprained my ankle too. Man, that was so awesome, because—"

"Mr. Jones," Arthur interjected, "Are you by any chance a masochist?"

Alfred looked startled. "A—a what? You use a lot of fancy words, you know. Are you one of those—" His face scrunched up in thought, eyebrows knitting together comically. He flapped his hands vaguely. "—those...damn, what's the word? Cattle prods?"

"Do you mean prodigies?" Arthur sighed. Alfred nodded. "No, I just have the quintessential brain cells for competent thought."

Alfred took a moment to contemplate whether this was an insult or not. Apparently deciding on the latter, he whooped with laughter, the burst of sound making the seemingly permanent scowl gracing Arthur's facial features deepen to a point of improbability. "Man, you are a funny little guy, aren't you? But I don't know what a maso—whatsit is, so I can't answer your question." Arthur sunk lower into his chair, plastic cool against his back. It was all he could do to keep from smacking his head against the table. Alfred had thought that was part of the interview. Of course. "And don't call me Mr. Jones. It makes you sound like some old guy, or worse, a teacher. Call me Alfred, or Al if you really like." His face stretched into a friendly grin, which Arthur did not return. Alfred didn't seem fazed. "So what do I call you? You're writing an article on me and I don't even know your name!"

Arthur really didn't want to disclose any more personal information than was absolutely necessary, and he saw no reason to just hand his name over, but despite what most people thought, he'd been raised a gentleman. And as his father had once said, a gentleman must always display some manners, especially in times when he feels least like doing so.

"Arthur," he offered, then followed it with a "Kirkland," because social etiquette seemed to demand a surname also be given.

Alfred looked pleased with himself for having managed to elicit even that small morsel of information out of Arthur. Arthur had a inkling he would've slapped him on the shoulder had the Brit not leaned as far away from him as humanely possible. "Nice name, dude. It's real British, isn't it?"

"Well, considering I'm from England, then yes."

"Huh," Alfred said, as if this had never even crossed him mind. "Well, it's great to meet ya, Artie."

Arthur flinched at the positively vulgar sentence the other boy had just spouted. "Is it really necessary to give me a nickname, a) After we've only just met, and b) That's nearly as long as my given name?"

" 'Course there is! Nicknames are awesome." The constant glint of his teeth was starting to get on Arthur's nerves, although it really shouldn't. Alfred had quite a nice smile, to be honest— bright and genuine, a rare combination in today's world. Add in his warm blond hair, crystal blue eyes, the way his wire-rimmed glasses balanced adorably on the edge of his nose, and not to mention his toned body — muscles prominent even under the school's atrociously baggy uniform — and he was the dictionary definition of gorgeous. Too bad the pile of mushy peas he called a brain ruined it.

"Arthur?" Alfred snapped his fingers under Arthur's nose. He blinked, yanked out of his reverie, and shook his head to clear it. That was odd. Spacing out wasn't like him.

Alfred shot him a lopsided grin. "Like what you see, huh?"

His tone was teasing, yet Arthur felt his face heat up anyway. He prayed it wasn't visible, but Alfred's amused look told him otherwise. "It's okay, dude," the American reassured him. "No one here's judging. I just didn't take you for the type."

"I'm not—" Arthur began, then stopped himself, realising that arguing with this knobhead was fruitless."Can we please just continue with the interview?"

"Sure." Alfred leant back, placing both feet up on the table. Arthur frowned, but didn't comment. "Ask away."

"So why exactly—"

"Excuse me, Arthur-san, is this seat free?"

"Oh for God's sake!" Arthur whirled round, eyes blazing, prepared to bite the head off the sorry git who had the nerve to interrupt him when he was obviously in the middle of something important. "Can't you see that I'm—" He froze. "Kiku?"

In front of him stood a short Asian boy, clutching a tray and staring at him with wide, terrified brown eyes. He stepped back hastily and stuttered, "O-of course, Arthur-san, please accept my apologies. I see you're in the middle of something. I will just—"

"No, no, it's fine." Arthur felt guilt bubble up instead his chest. He gestured to the seat beside him. "Sit, if you want."

"Arigato, Arthur-san."

Arthur watched as Kiku deposited his tray and took a seat. The two of them got along fairly well, though he wouldn't call them close friends. Kiku was one of the few who, like Arthur, had absolutely nothing in common with their so-called 'peers.' Up until Year 11, he'd spent his days joined at the hip with some Grecian boy, engaging in conversation with only him and mostly getting him to talk in his stead. A large percentage of the student body hadn't even known that Kiku spoke English. It had come as quite a shock when, the September after the Grecian had graduated, Arthur had been sitting alone — having been shooed into canteen by a grumpy teacher who had stumbled upon his hidey-hole — and Kiku had appeared, politely asking if they may sit together, just like he had a moment ago. They hadn't said much, but it had been nice. After that, whenever Arthur was forced out of the school, they would sit side-by-side in contented silence, occasionally offering up a comment on classes or the weather. It was peaceful, and Arthur, though he was far from a social butterfly, appreciated the company. He felt horrible for letting his annoyance at the task he was set push Kiku from his mind.

"Uh, Alfred, this is Kiku Honda" Arthur said, feeling introductions were in order since an awkward silence had settled. "Kiku, this is Alfred F. Jones. I'm interviewing him for the school—" he air quoted, "—'paper'."

Kiku offered Alfred a wan smile. "Konnichiwa, Alfred-san. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Woah." Alfred's eyes widened to the size of plates, making him resemble a startled fish. He laughed uproariously."Dude, your accent! What's with the way you pronounce your L's?"

Arthur flushed, scandalised by what his interviewee had ever-so-casually said. Really, what ever happened to the simple concept known as manners? He was about to scold Alfred for his terrible rudeness when Kiku cut in smoothly, "I am originally from Japan. In the language of my country, we use R in place of L, since there is no L in our alphabet. It makes getting used to English rather difficult, and according to some native speakers, I can be hard to understand. I am sorry if this is an inconvenience."

"No, of course not," Arthur assured him before Alfred could get a word in edgewise. "We understand you perfectly. Right, Alfred?" Arthur glared.

Alfred swallowed. "Right."

"But I hope you don't mind, Kiku, if we continue with the interview? Lunch is almost over."

"Go on ahead, Arthur-san."

"Okay." Arthur skimmed through the remaining questions, searching for one that seemed even remotely interesting. Finally he settled on, "So why did you move to Great Britain?"

"Well. Um. Ah." Alfred's brow dipped in thought, the only indication Arthur had seen so far that told him the cogs in the American's brain were capable of turning. He rubbed his hands together and chewed absently on his lip, a habit the Brit found rather irritating. "There's tons of reasons, I guess," he said at length. "I mean, it wasn't exactly my choice. My mom decided she wanted a break from New York — she'd spent her life there, ever since she was a kid, and she said she was feeling claustrophobic or whatever. I didn't really mind, I was happy to live the rest of my life out in the same place, but Mom was adamant and then my little bro — my bro wasn't too fond of it, either." He finished the last bit in a rush, then hurriedly stuffed food into his mouth, nearly choking in his haste. Arthur and Kiku stared as the boy attempted to vanquish his sudden bought of coughing with Arthur's drink, only to spit the liquid back out the moment it passed his lips. "Oh man, that's disgusting! What is that?"

"Tea," Arthur told him. "The nearest thing to the godly Nectar we have on this Earth."

"It tastes like an old dude's bath water." Alfred wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, before using the same piece of material to wipe up the spill he'd made. Arthur bit down on the urge to give out to him, knowing he should be thankful the idiot was at least cleaning up after himself. "Now where was I? Oh yeah, the move. Actually, that's kinda it. No devious ulterior motive or anything like in a Hollywood blockbuster."

"And how did you find it — England, I mean?"

"Way different. It was kinda hard to adjust — I mean, you guys speak all weird and your food sucks ass and your players can't even hope to compete with my soccer skills. And your attitudes! I said good morning to a guy and he flipped me off. I was all sincere and everything! Yeah, those parts were pretty bad...but it was more than just that. Our first house was in Cornwall, since my mom needed to get away from big cities for a while. A breath of fresh air, ya know? And I just remember standing there, taking it all in — the rural atmosphere, the unfamiliar neighbours, the trees — God, there were so many of them — and just realising that there was no more America for me. That no matter how hard I tried, I'd probably never fit in anywhere. And I just thought, 'This is it. This is my new home. This is me having to start all over again.' "

A silence settled over the small group. Arthur raked his mind for ways to break it, something he could say to that, but came up empty. It was beginning to seem like they'd sit in an unending quiet until the bell rang to signal lunch's end, when Kiku surprised the other two by suddenly murmuring, "I know how you feel, Alfred-san."

Alfred looked taken aback. "Y—you do?"

"Yes," Kiku said, nodding to back-up this statement. "I can still recall the shock I received when I first moved from Tokyo to England. It was a long time ago, but— in comparison to the place where I was raised, this was almost another planet. The cultural differences were astounding. I have adapted now, of course, but I can see where you are coming from."

"Huh." Alfred still looked a little flabbergasted. "Well...thanks, Kiki."

"Kiku."

"Thanks, Kiku." Despite the name error, he sounded genuine. Arthur cleared his throat, which had all of a sudden gone inexplicably dry.

"Alrighty, then. So you moved to Cornwall first. What persuaded you to come to Nottingham later on?"

Alfred shrugged. "I dunno. Guess we'd been away from city life long enough." He grinned. "It's cool here, though, 'spite everything. And at least you guys have some wicked movies, like the one with the blue box and the aliens and fezzes and stuff. "

Arthur found himself in a mental struggle with that devious facial feature known as a smile. He decide to hide it by moving on to the next question, and bent his head over his list. Suddenly, a rhythmic tolling echoed through the room.

"Bell," Arthur said, as he stood and gathered his things, Kiku lending a hand. Alfred just looked dazed, as if he had completely forgotten they were in school.

Arthur nudged him and Alfred jolted up, knocking back his chair as he did so. He clumsily hauled it back up again, muttering apologies to the inanimate object. Arthur did nothing but raise an eyebrow at him, a rather awkward task considering how heavy they were. The other boy shot him a grin. "So, I guess you got a load of stuff down from that, right?"

Arthur let his eyes wander to his notebook, which was blank save for the questions he'd jotted down earlier. He forced out a laugh, hoping it sounded convincing. "Certainly. Although I don't think it's quite enough for a full article. We might have to go again tomorrow."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Oh please, you just want to spend some more time with my handsome self. Don't make excuses", he chuckled when Arthur began to reply, "We both know it's true."

"You wish." Arthur turned around to thank Kiku for his help, only to find that the Japanese boy had vanished. The guilt returned with the force of a tsunami, and he made a silent promise to spend more time with Kiku once Francis returned to his position. He turned his attention back to Alfred. "Do you need me to show you to your next class?"

"Dude, I've been going here for a week now. I think I know my way around."

"Oh." Arthur flushed. "Oh. Of course. Silly me."

Despite Arthur putting on his most convincing act (which, in all honesty, wasn't that convincing at all), Alfred must have seen through it, quick to add, "There's something else you could help me with, though."

"Why would you think I'd want to help you?" Arthur snapped out the reply before he could stop himself. He waited for Alfred to flinch as most did when subjected to his poison tongue, but the American didn't even acknowledge his outburst.

"I was wondering if you could introduce me to the blonde babe over there." He jerked his thumb towards one of the other tables, and Arthur craned his neck, trying catch sight of who he was talking about. When his gaze fell on the 'blonde babe' in question, he silently swore.

Natalia Braginski sat on her own, chin in her palms and eyes trained on him. The term Alfred had used certainly applied to her — platinum blonde, skinny, pretty as a petal and cold as the land from which she hailed. Arthur disliked quite a lot of people — it was nearly second nature by now — but she was on his top ten list, and marching a steady pace towards number one. Much to his chagrin, she caught his looking at her and smiled, a slow, almost sadistic movement of her lips. Crooking a finger, she beckoned him over, eyes alight with dark glee.

"Um — I'll just be a minute. I need to talk to someone." He strode towards Natalia, paying no heed to Alfred's protests. Her expression didn't change, but she stood up, and once he reached her table, quickly closed the distance between them. She was much too close for comfort, the scent of her perfume hitting him like a hyperbolic cannonball, her breasts practically squashed against his chest. He fought down the urge to squirm. Her blue eyes scrutinised him, crinkling like she sensed how uncomfortable he was and enjoyed it.

"My sister sends a message." Her voice was husky and heavily accented. "She says your session will begin earlier tonight. Six o'clock. She wants to squeeze in some extra time before she leaves."

"Leaves?" Arthur frowned. "Where's she going?"

"She didn't ask me to tell you that."

Arthur inwardly groaned. He hated questioning Natalia; she would never give a straight answer. She'd either dodge his question, bluntly refuse to respond, or go on a long winded philosophical rant that usually ended with her rambling about the greatness of her big brother. Arthur was starting to doubt this 'Ivan' person even existed, just an imaginary man brought to life inside a deranged girl's mind. It was a completely logical explanation; she was even more barmy than he was believed to be.

He turned to go, not wanting to waste anymore time, but froze when he felt sometime akin to an iron clamp latch onto his wrist. Natalia's fingernails dug deep into his skin, no doubt creating crescent-shaped grooves there. She pulled him back until her chin rested on his shoulder, her chest against his spine, her lips next to his ear. A shudder passed through him and he tried to pull away, but her grip held fast. He could feel the stretch of her skin as she smiled, feel the heat of her breath as she whispered, "You bring death with you, Arthur. It follows in your wake."

"Let me go," he growled.

Natalia laughed. It sounded like the tinkling of a bell, if said said bell had resided in the seventh level of hell and been used to signal feeding time for the demons. She held him tighter to her, so close that it seemed as if she meant to merge them, push them together until they passed some unthinkable point and became one. "Stop struggling," she told him as he gave another attempt at tugging his hand back, to no avail."You'll just hurt yourself."

Her nails dug deeper, and Arthur decided that if she didn't let go soon, she'd draw blood. He forced himself to relax. If she wanted to talk philosophy, he'd talk philosophy.

"Death follows everyone," he said, making his voice sound smooth and indifferent. "It's a natural thing. We always have the Grim Reaper looking over our shoulder, and if you haven't noticed that by now, you're more delusional than I thought."

To his surprise, he felt her chuckle, and then it struck him; her position; his analogy. "What you say is true," she purred, "However — the cloaked being that pursues you is far from natural. I've never seen it this clearly before. Nor have I witnessed such blood on its scythe." She spun him around to face her, grip on his right hand never wavering. "There's a murder coming."

It sounded so cliché, the single line on the lips of a woman so terrifying, seeming so out of place in such a mundane little building, that Arthur almost laughed. It brought to mind the question of who exactly noticed their display, but when he cast his eyes about, he saw everyone else was much too preoccupied with their own insignificant problems to pay them much attention. He felt like yelling at them to pull their heads out of their arses, but feared the louder he shouted, the more he'd go unheard. As seemed to have been the case all his life.

Natalia fixed her eyes on him, dissecting. It felt as if every thought he'd ever had was being plucked from his mind and slowly prised apart. In a manner that was almost gentle, her hold on him slackened, until she finally released his wrist and let her hands fall to her side. "But you don't care about that, do you?" she whispered.

"There's killings everyday."

"Not your own."

Those words echoed inside Arthur's head like it was an empty cave. His own death — such a complex, faraway concept. It brought to mind the stage production that was his life, the way things had always seemed to catch him at unawares, to come earlier than expected. The young blond boy with the funny eyebrows, once acclaimed for his stories of monsters and magic, had suddenly been shunned as weird and delusional. This same boy, who had gotten along so well with his siblings, who had tumbled with his older brothers on the grass and swore he'd protect the youngest with his life, had blinked and found cracks between them, widening into a cavernous distance that no mere mortal could jump. This same boy who had swelled with pride at his British heritage, had been shipped off to a completely different country, away from everything he'd ever known, just because his parents 'needed a break.'

This same boy, this blond boy, who had truly believed he'd found his true love, had one day discovered him on top of a woman, his fair, silky locks falling on her face the way they had fallen on the boy's countless times before, his lips pressed to her's so hard it seemed as if both of them might break.

Unlucky, people had said. So, so very unlucky. The poor boy with all the fortune of a beggar.

"No," he told Natalia, detached and deadpan, as if all of this was just another extract from the books he valued so dearly. It was so easy to perceive it that way. "No, my killing doesn't happen everyday." Pause, and then, " But everyday, I expect it to."

Arthur turned on his heel and walked away then, not patient enough to wait for her response. He half expected her to come after him, but his act must have been highly convincing, since he could hear no sound of her dancer's footsteps following in his wake. The dramatics of his performance surprised even him. He'd been a little careless, though, playing the part a little too well. Letting a little of himself seep into his character.

He returned to his table and collected his bag, some small, negligible part of his mind panicking over his punctuality. So wrapped up in his thoughts was Arthur that he didn't notice the blond standing over him until he tapped him on the shoulder and asked, "Dude, what was that? You were practically at second base!"

Arthur jumped about a foot in the air. He shouldered his bag and reddened, ashamed at being caught at such unawares. He honestly hadn't expected the American to wait for him. People didn't often do that.

He would have been grateful, had it not been Alfred.

"It was nothing," he growled, suddenly feeling as sour as freshly squeezed lemon juice. He began to stride towards the exit — a stride, not a strut, he did not strut — Alfred, as typical of his puppy-like nature, following him. Compared to Natalia's cold, dark presence, a grey stormcloud threatening to pour, he was like a miniature sun, warm and reliable. It still didn't make Arthur feel any less horrid.

The American raised an eyebrow, falling into step with him. "It sure didn't seem like nothing. I've seen a hell of a lot of PDA in my time, and man, what happened there was just off the scale." His eyes darted to the left, where Natalia presumably still stood, and where Arthur blatantly refused to look. "Where you, like, grinding, or—"

"No!" The monosyllable burst forth from Arthur's mouth. Revulsion swamped him at that mere thought. "No, no, no, a definite no!"

"Uh-huh." Alfred didn't sound convinced. In fact, there was a small flash of hurt across his face as he said, "You told me you weren't into girls."

"I never said that." When Alfred's face fell even more, Arthur let his tone soften just a smidge. "But I'm certainly not 'into' Natalia. She was just having one of her loony moments. I think the poor girl needs committing."

Alfred studied him for a moment, nibbling at his lip, uncertainty plastered across his face. He wasn't very good at concealing emotions, Arthur observed. He pondered a little longer than Arthur was comfortable with, looking distant in a way he really shouldn't. But there must have been something to his voice, or to the way he phrased those words, because Alfred broke out his now-familiar grin, apparently satisfied with his answer. "Yeah, it's always the hot chicks who end up cracked. Still, I can't say I won't seek out her company if it carries on like this. 'Cause no offence or anything, Artie, but your curves just aren't deadly enough for me."

Arthur placed a hand on his heart, feigning shock. "Why, I'll have you know that these curves have started wars! Driven men to their knees! My body is as untameable as the mighty dragon Smaug from J.R.R. Tolkien's masterpiece!"

Alfred winked. "Well, looks like it's my heroic duty to break it in, then, doesn't it?" he said, and broke into raucous laughter, chest heaving with each burst of unadulterated joy. Arthur struggled to withhold his smile, then thought, just that once, Oh, to hell with it, and grinned, and chuckled, and finally laughed alongside Alfred, the sound of their pure happiness resounding throughout the empty canteen — empty, save for one Belarusian girl whose cold stare on Arthur's back went unnoticed while they chortled, unnoticed while Arthur savoured this feeling of softness blossoming in his chest, unnoticed right up until Alfred stepped out the door. That was when Arthur felt the strange prickle on the back of his neck, heard the lilting voice calling him back, and almost against his will, turned his head just a fraction of an inch, spotting Natalia in his peripheral vision. She hadn't moved at all. But she was no longer looking at him. Instead, her eyes were fixed on the space Alfred had occupied not a moment ago, a malignant smile playing on her lips. In a movement so slow it seemed almost deliberate, her eyes drifted over to his, deep as the ocean, a never-ending blue surrounding him and dragging him down, down, filling his lungs with her spite and drowning him in her malice. Her round, perfect lips formed words, unclear to him at first, his brain only registering them after she repeated the motion more than thrice. It was a simple sentence, words no different from any other, yet arranged in a way that came down on him like a bucket of cold water. He shivered, and he was shivering still as he left, as Alfred chattered on about nothing at all, as he sat in class and listened to teachers spout meaningless drivel. The words tumbled through his head, and he arranged them, rearranged them, took them apart and pieced them back together like Lego bricks. But still the sentence remained the same, and there was no way to change it. It was fixed, a fixed message, a simple message that could mean life, that could mean death. That was now imprinted on each individual brain cell. Natalia's message:

It might not be you.

First chapter, done!

I know it was a little slow, but it's really just setting the scene. Believe me, it will pick up soon. :3 Updates will be sporadic, because like Arthur, I've got exams. Such a pain. But I'm getting closer to the Junior Cert, which is...actually...worse... 0-0

Ahem. Nudge nudge. Feel free to review. You know, if you want to. Or don't. I'm not picky. I like to hear feedback, though!

P.S. Anyone spot the Monty Python reference?