Alfred F. Jones walked into the classroom, after catching up with his previous year acquaintances. He strode through the door with the clang of the late bell tailing after him. His fingers childishly ran through his metallicy blond locks, still unable to restrain that rebellious cowlick, and readjusted his thin spectacles.

"You got lucky this time, Jones," the instructor does not even give him a glance. Not like he wasn't used to it, or anything. "Sit down."

Alfred did as he was told, beside a spacey ash blond boy. At first, he paid no attention to the teen, but he quickly changed his mind when he captured a glimpse of his emerald eyes darting away. Jones blinked as he paused for a moment of recollection; had he caught that boy giving him the eyes?

It didn't matter to Alfred what the other guy's intentions with his eyes were. All he had to go off on was that they were huge and beautiful, if he knew any better. He did not get a good enough glance, but was determined to steal back the chance.

Alfred reached a hand over to the boy's shoulder. He flinched in a manner that rubbed off as scared, or intimidated. In all honesty, it was probably his staggering build which, in comparison to the lanky blond, was significant.

"Yo, what's up?" he struck up a conversation. The other adolescent just shoved his face deeper into his novel, almost completely obscuring his face in the abundance of pages. His reddened ears were still in view.

Curious, Alfred wrenched his neck to get a peek at the cover. He smiled, "Hey, I read Harry Potter, too. I like 'The Chamber of Secrets'. Which book is your favorite?"

The thin teenager raised his shoulders to his earlobes, almost in a way that said, "please stop talking to me". Again, almost. He leaned back in his seat and half chuckled, "Shy?"

This seemed to loosen up the other one, as he peered his eyes up at him from behind his book. At this moment, Alfred F. Jones felt his heart stutter like a socially awkward boy at his Bar Mitzvah speech.

Staring into this boy's eyes literally felt like frolicking through a field of daisies and sunshine for an eternity. Staring into his eyes was like getting a lifetime's shipment of happiness, wrapped in a little green bow. His eyes were, undoubtedly, the most beautiful thing Alfred had seen in a very long time.

He gaped at the teen longer than he'd ever admit, discomfort scrawled across the other's ivory powdered face as he lowered his novel to stare back. Alfred took the opportunity to notice as much of his attire as his peripheral vision would allow.

He was practically swimming in this black oversized sweater Alfred was half convinced was bought in the women's section. Although the fabric was sort of thinly knitted, it was definitely too hot outside to wear that. The hem of a white t-shirt peeked out from underneath that suffocating coverup. His gothic outfit really made Alfred feel like a prep in his varsity jacket and plain khakis.

When he refocused his attention completely to his face again, Alfred saw something in the boy's gaze that made him completely forget his existence, and slow the racing pace of time. Though he wasn't convinced of the illusion and was aware of his settings, he wanted to believe it. To stay like this forever, stare beauty in the eye for a million years. This scenario was enough to drain the confidence right out of the school's biggest jock in a matter of seconds.

"Alfred!" the teacher called. He lost their little staring contest, and he turned to raise his brows at her. "Are you here?"

"What?" he asked absent mindedly, blinking his eyes for clarity.

"Good God, Alfred," she exasperated. "Roll call. Are you present?"

"Well, ya see me here, dontcha?" he light heartedly retorted in attempts to impress the boy next to him. His teacher, however, did not seem pleased.

"Say, 'here'," she demanded.

Alfred gave in and suspired, "Here!"

"Alright," she went down the list, her resting bitch face seething with teacherly rage.

The golden blond turned to his side again, and asked, "So, you got a name? Mine's Alfred, obviously. But it's actually Alfred F. Jones. You can call me Alfred, F., or Jones."

The green eyed boy did not reply, but only took those gems away from Alfred to look at the book. He was starting to feel ignored; was it bad to feel jealous of a book? Or was he being rude, and that's how the beetle browed teen responded to things of that nature?

"Arthur?" the teacher declared, surveying the room. A surge of excitement shot through Alfred as his ocean blue eyes flashed at the boy beside him. If that was this guy's name, he would assuredly say something. "You can just raise your hand."

The boy raised his hand farthest from Alfred, and the athlete's jaw hit the desk. This middle aged bitch never once let anyone just raise their hand. Even if she was staring right at you, more like right through you, she still made you say you were present. Why was this kid's case different?

The old bat began class orientation, but Alfred had long checked out. He was too distracted by Arthur, if that was definitely his name. He mulled over the name, and pronounced it in his head. Arthur. Arrr… thur. It sounded captivating, something he wouldn't ever get sick of hearing.

"So, since it's the beginning of the year, we're going to do ice breakers," the teacher informed, the class groaned. Alfred looked at Arthur from the corner of his eye, and saw him heating up. "This can be done with a partner, and Arthur?"

He looked up at her, and she omitted, "If you don't want to do it, I suppose you don't have to."

Relief washed over the smaller blond, and he continued with his 'Harry Potter' novel. Alfred, however, was more pissed than ever. His strategy had been shot down faster than it came to him. Totally unfair.

"Alright, so everyone else can get in pairs."

People instantly came together like freaking magnets, and in a matter of a minute, everybody had someone. Everybody expect Alfred. What was he taken for? A Goddamn freak of nature?

The instructor noticed his loneliness after a short time, and came to his desk. "Arthur? I'm sorry, but could you work with Alfred? He doesn't have anyone else. You don't have to go along with it, necessarily, but just let him finish it. Would that be alright?"

He nodded, Alfred noticed Arthur's feminine jawline. He bet someone wouldn't even have to apply much pressure to it for the bone to snap, that's how gentle it looked. For some unclear reason, he wanted to drag his fingers down the hazel eyed boy's body part. Perhaps it was just curiosity.

"Okay, I'll leave you two to it," she began to depart, but halted to remind, "And don't be rude, Alfred."

He rolled his eyes and picked up his pencil to begin the worksheet handed out. "Alrighty, then. So, we gotta fill this bitch out, right?"

Arthur, of course, said nothing. So, Jones continued, "Okie dokie. What's the first question on here?"

He stalled for as long as he could to see if the other blond would fill in the blank, but was proved wrong. "When is your birthday?"

Arthur unexpectedly took Alfred's paper, and penned in a cursive sort of font: April 23.

Any remaining uncertainty to how the assignment was going to be finished due to his partner's lack of a sense were answered. Although, he couldn't help but to think about the student's birth month. It rained a lot in April; it made Alfred wonder if Arthur liked rain, or being in the rain. Or being in the rain with him.

Alfred noticed Arthur parted his lips enough to signify an upcoming monologue, which made the American cling to the edge of the seat. The blond appeared to struggle tremendously with the simple task, and failed in the long run. He slipped his even hands into his extra long sweater sleeves and turned slightly the other way.

"Um, well," Alfred caught on to the boy's struggles. "My birthday is July fourth. You know, just like our country!"

Arthur flinched, but proceeded to fill in the answer. With his newfound confidence, Alfred picked up his paper, and read, "What are some of your hobbies?"

He quirked a suggestive brow, and said playfully, "Well, I like sports and stuff as much as the next guy, but I'm afraid some of my hobbies can't be said out loud."

Arthur snorted air through his nostrils and cracked a smile at his joke. Alfred stopped, and so did his heart. His smile was… incredible. And he bet it would be even more incredible if he said something funnier. Maybe Arthur would show teeth, or even laugh. Leave it to Alfred F. Jones to make a joke funny enough to bring people to tears.

"Okay, next question," he sped up the process. "Where were you born?"

Arthur slid the paper towards him, and wrote: London, England.

So, Arthur was British? Yes, he quite liked the sound of that. He imagined how beautiful his voice would be, or how he would purr with that alluring accent. Now Alfred was more determined than ever to hear how he sounded.

"Okay, well," he shared the paper and drew a stick figure diagram of a woman giving birth. "Here, we have Mama Jones' vagina, and this little pimp that came out of her is me! And that's where I came from!"

Arthur clasped a hand over his mouth and spun the opposite way. Damn, he was hiding it. Alfred inclined onto the desk to get a look, and defended, "Well, it's true! Where do you think you came from?"

The blond faced him properly when he was done, but when they came within eye contact, Arthur accidentally flashed his upper band of pearly whites.

Alfred experienced his heart beat waver for the millionth time at the sight of his grin. It was absolutely perfect. His teeth were as white and straight as a Republican politician. His eyes wrinkled at the corners with glee; it was as if Alfred had did a great deed by making this one person in particular smile.

"So," he stammered. Alfred glanced at the paper and got an idea, regaining his confidence. With a high and mighty tone, he requested, "The next question here asks, 'Can I hear your accent?'"

Arthur gave an expression that portrayed half amusement and half reluctance. It was kind of cute, according to Alfred. The Englishman wrote down: That isn't the question.

Jones knew exactly how to win this, and to get what he wanted. In his illegible chicken scratch, he noted right beside Arthur's flowy handwriting: I know, I just wanted to hear it.

The boy appeared to be shocked at his method of response, but answered nonetheless. I don't talk.

I've figured that much out. Why not?

There was a long wait as Arthur got back to him, leaving him wondering if he would disclose important information.

I can't say.

Oh. If he wanted to play that game, Alfred was going to kick his ass. He scratched: You can tell me, right?

Arthur glanced up and shook his head, the American feeling defeated. When had he ever been turned down before? Alfred had the looks and the charm. Basically, he was virtually irresistible to anyone who met him. It was frustrating to know that he was turned down, and Alfred F. Jones always got what he wanted.

He scribbled on the worksheet: Is there anything you can tell me?

Arthur's gentle gaze studied the question before he answered: I can't talk to people.

There was the catch; Alfred had developed feelings over the past class period for someone who would never talk to him. He reasoned with himself, was it possible to fall in love with someone without them saying a word to him? It was highly unlikely.

How come?

Arthur's pencil danced on the paper, and provided: It's too hard.

The athletic teen was taken aback. This was a first for him to have a crush on a person like Arthur, if he could even call it that. He looked fine on the outside, the ideal image of beauty. Was he mentally ill? If so, why was he put in a regular class, seeing how the school always put students like him in Special Ed? It perplexed Alfred in an enthralling way.

But I still want to know more about you.

The Brit peeked at the paper with those oh-so-perfect orbs, and his snow skin turned pink.

I don't think you can.

Alfred had a final thought before making up his mind. He was becoming definitely infatuated with this kid, but he didn't know exactly why. Although Arthur was not talking to anybody, he still seemed like he needed a friend, and Alfred was set on retrieving that position, at least.

"Okay," the golden blond agreed out loud. He winked, "But I'm still gonna try."

Arthur's cheeks tinted carnation pink again, and their instructor made her rounds to their seats.

"Are you bothering him, Alfred?" she became suspicious. Surprisingly, the dusty blond shook his head for him. It brought the muscular one ease; at least the pupil didn't consider him annoying.

"Okay, then," she stalked off, still giving Alfred the stink eye. What a bitch.

"So, Arthur," he purposely repeated his name, just to see if he would get tired of hearing it. Arthur. Nope. "I still wanna talk about your quietness."

Arthur flashed his eyes, as if to say, 'are you out of your goddamn mind?', but Alfred just held his chin in his palm animatedly.

"Why're ya so shy?" the American began interrogation. How can you be so quiet? I think it's adorable. "It's really weird."

He looked slightly offended, his stark brows sewn together as he bit down on his bottom lip. Alfred couldn't get enough of Arthur's supposed angry expression. He looked kind of hot when he was mad, Alfred estimated.

A strangely attractive weird. "But, a cool kinda weird, ya know?" he covered up.

Arthur retrieved their forgotten assignment, and wrote a sentence or so on it. Alfred batted his Texas sky eyes as he read it.

I can only talk to people I'm comfortable with, alone. I have problems talking in groups.

The thick headed teen started to understand the other blond's situation. Maybe the English boy actually had a mental issue, but Alfred put it in the back of his mind. He would probably do some serious research on WebMD and Wikipedia when he got home.

"Wow, you're really throwin' me off, here," he ruffled his sandy hair. "But in a good way!"

Arthur gave a weak smile, but nothing comparable to the one he was wearing earlier. For some reason, Alfred had the strong desire to take a photograph of the student smiling. Still, he wanted to hear how his voice sounded, if it were a low grumble, or a soft tone. However the pitch was, that alluring accent would certainly make it sexier.

He almost hated to admit to the fact he was taking a liking to the teen, despite that he refused to say a single word. Most people would have given up on him by this point, but that only pulled Alfred in even deeper.

"What, so you literally can't talk?" he suggested a little too stern for his original initiative.

Arthur wrote down: Mentally speaking, no. Physically, yes.

"Then what?"

The quiet boy hesitated with his response, but eventually addressed, It's complicated.

Alfred examined the note, and decided to respect his privacy. Although, he could not shake off the feeling he was being pushed to the side. Then again, even their bitchy English teacher gave him special treatment, so he knew that something was up.

"Oh, okay then," he said solemnly. He rested his cheek in his hand, and noticed something written on the hazel eyed one's body.

Alfred raised a lazy finger, "What's that on your right hand?"

Arthur's darling pair of eyes laid upon his hand, resting on the desk, and snatched it back. The spectacled teen knitted his eyebrows as the foreigner hid his limb in his sweater sleeve. Okay, so it was probably something else he wasn't supposed to know about. He felt that he was being shut out, but he settled on being more persistent. Maybe all Arthur needed was a little push. Or a big one, in this case.

"Um, so do you want to know some stuff 'bout me?" Alfred suggested as content. Arthur shrugged, and a lightbulb flickered. He crossed his arms and flicked his head, "Well, damn! You think I'm gonna sell my ass out for a shrug?"

Arthur snorted again, and displayed those perfect teeth, as he shook his head. The accomplishment made Alfred want to jump for joy.

He folded his arms on the desk, and Arthur mimicked. "Did you know that I played a sport every season every year so far? And that I'm gonna get a scholarship for it?"

Arthur shook his head, and he added, "Well, it's true! And did you also know that I own a Chevy? Like, a real one?"

Arthur raised a brow, and he detailed, "Yeah, it's a red convertible, Chevy Impala, 1970. Got it from my old man."

Arthur was scribbling down something, and he presented the paper: How do you drive something that old?

He gasped, "How rude of you, sir!" Alfred was blinded once again by the British man's smile. "It's because I take care of her, obviously!"

He reached his left hand over to the worksheet again, and asked: Do you drive it like a regular car?

"Nah, not really. I drive ma's car for work and stuff," Al explained. "She's an antique, so I don't want to overwhelm her."

Arthur cocked his head and inquired, She?

"Yes!" he defended. "Her name's Eleanor, for your information!"

The lighter blond took his time, and penned: That's a nice name. Did you pick it out?

Al mulled it over, "I wish, but no. Like I said, my dad had her before I did. So he was the one who named her."

He bobbed his head in a 'oh, I see' sort of gesture, and Alfred continued.

"You know, maybe one day," he glinted the Atlantic Ocean down at the youngster, "we can take a ride in it together."

A feeling of self accomplishment washed over Alfred. Nailed it. Arthur brought the paper he had been writing all over all class under his fingertips to inscribe a new message.

You're very weird.

"Weird how?" He nearly able to rest his head on the other male when he swiveled his neck down at him. "A bad weird?"

He smiled, and covered his mouth with his right hand, his thumb hanging onto the end of his sleeve for dear life. There, Alfred saw the message again, and now it was undeniable; Arthur had a tattoo. The mere thought left the jock breathless. His eyes quickly assessed his skin for what the rest of the design consisted of, but he was only able to evaluate that it was a single word by what few letters he could catch.

An "S" and a "T". What words could be made out of those letters? He let his mind wander until their instructor came waddling back. "I'm checking in one last time," she warned. "What've you boys gotten done so far?"

Alfred proudly presented their paper, the one with his stick figure birth, to her. She furrowed her brows and he caught Arthur smirking out of the corner of his eye.

The middle aged woman put her hands on her hips and reprimanded, "What? Do you think this is funny, Mr. Kirkland?"

Jones stopped for a minute to consider his situation. That he was spending all this time trying to loosen Arthur up, to befriend him, but he didn't know as much as his last name.

Now possible contenders for his middle name flooded his thoughts, leaving him wondering if it was as British-y as his surname. Or just as sexy.

"And don't think you're off the hook, either, Jones!" she brought him back from outer space.

He glanced back at the inappropriate drawing the modest teacher was displaying to the pair. Alfred's eyes met Arthur's through his lashes, and they simultaneously snickered. The quiet one placed a hand to his mouth to prevent any vocal leakage, but the loud one burst out in disrespectful laughter.

"I don't understand what is so funny, you two!" she tried to scold. "If you're going to act like this all year, then should I move your seats now?"

They both instantly shook their heads and hands. Alfred pleaded, "No way! We'll follow directions! Don't move us!"

She wrinkled her preexisting aging face at them, and settled, "Fine. But not another word."

Alfred found the orders ironic for the shy boy next to him, but damn near impossible for himself. He leaned over and hushed, "Isn't she such a bitch?"

Arthur nodded and Goldilocks pursed his lips as he glared daggers at the Literature teacher.

Throughout the rest of the period, Alfred occasionally stole glances at the smaller adolescent. After a few times, he realized he was breathing heavily, catching his breath. Christ, this was going to be a longer ride than it needed to be. Though, he had a feeling that he wouldn't mind.

Alfred shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and strut down the hallway. He exchanged a few high fives and fist bumps until he arrived to his group of popular and athletic friends. In all honesty, he didn't like them very much. All they did was trash talk other teams and flex their muscles around girls.

Alfred never liked doing that, and it was absolutely embarrassing when they did, since he was the odd one out. They acted like total assholes, and then there was Alfred F. Jones.

"'Sup, Jones," Yao nodded his head.

Alfred returned the gesture, and another gigantic, fair haired teen spoke, "How's the first week back been treating you?"

"Eh," he shrugged. "I mean, it's just school, but it's senior year."

Ivan brushed his light pigmented hair out of his eyes, and laughed, "It's got to be good for something, right?"

Yao, a long haired Chinese boy, toyed with his brown pony tail, "So, you're on the team again this year?"

The mental, not to mention imaginary, scene of Arthur waiting in the bleachers on game days with his jacket draped over his shoulders popped into his head. Alfred smiled, "Yes, yes I am."

"What other sports are you going to do?" Ivan asked.

"Uh, I might do swimming again, that was kinda fun," he suggested. "Maybe wrestling, definitely baseball. I'll just see where this year takes me."

"Yeah, it would be cool if you participated in a sport every year in high school," Yao praised. "You're going to keep it up?"

"I guess, but lately, I've been considering about joining—"

"Oh, sorry, Alfred," Ivan with the thick Russian accent grabbed Yao's wrist, and took off. "I see Madeline!"

Enraged, the American pursued without a second thought, "Hey, back off, man!"

Ivan tossed the other boy's limb, and used his newly freed hand to run his fingers through his hair. "Hey there, Maddie."

She jerked her wheat blonde pigtails and scoffed, "I told you not to call me that, Ivan."

Alfred finally caught up with the duo, and forbade, "Dude, hands off my sister!"

"I think that if Maddie likes me, my hands should be allowed anywhere on her pretty little body, right?" he theorized.

"Tough cookies, 'cause I'm not interested," Madeline snapped and started walking again, the trio trying to keep up with her.

"I'm being serious," Alfred furrowed his brow. "Stay away from her." Ivan chuckled, and the blond affirmed, "I mean it, commie! Don't even spit in her direction!"

"I can talk for myself, Alfie," the petite girl said, repositioning her books in her fragile arms.

The Russian pointed to her stash of textbooks and offered, "Here, I can carry your books for you, my dear."

Madeline squinted her eyes up at the ten inch height difference between her and the boy. "My what?"

"My dear," Ivan said matter-of-factly. "It's no different from lovely, sweetheart, darling, baby—"

Alfred clamped a hand on his shoulder, his legs doing a terrible job of keeping up the group. "I meant what I said, Ivan. Whether we're friends or not, I will kick your ass."

The pale adolescent brushed aside, "Come on now, Alfie"

"Alfred," he growled to correct.

Madeline huffed and branched off into another hallway. Ivan disregarded, "Oh well. Yao and I have to get to get to math, anyway."

Alfred screwed up his face as they departed. The late bell rang, and he realized that he passed his next class twice.

Alfred once again caught himself thinking about the silent Englishman, in the middle of science class. He didn't even want to work, which was odd for him. Science was the best, and easiest, subject for him. It would take a lot to distract him from it.

Jones imagined a scenario where Arthur was his little plaything, where he could pick him up and did as he pleased with him. Now all he wanted to do was hold Arthur, not this boring science stuff.

"Jones!"

He jumped at his name, and the teacher asked, "You alright? It looked like you were in your own little world."

Al shook his head, and the instructor shrugged it off. He was left to his thoughts once again, and felt just as distracted as before. He tore out a piece of paper and wrote more lyrics, acting like he was working.

And I'd give up forever to touch you. You're the closest to Heaven that I'll ever be.

He completely gave up on at least listening to the lesson. There was no way in Hell his brain would allow him to think about anything else other than Arthur.

And I don't want the world to see me, 'cause I don't think that they'd understand.

Alfred felt like an over emotionally middle schooler as he thought of other songs that reminded him of the English student.

Now that he's back in the atmosphere with drops of in his hair.

He suspired and wished that he had enough talent to draw. It would be nice to draw a portrait of Arthur's angelic features, so he would have something to look at when he wasn't able to be in the British boy's presence.

Secrets I have held in my heart are harder to hide than I thought. Maybe I just wanna be yours.

Alfred's lips curled cautiously around the Hot Pocket sleeve as his hands struggled with his laptop and shooing his cat.

"Go away, Junior!" he muffled from behind the obstruction. The brown and white feline purred and nested itself in his Captain America bedsheets. Alfred respired, and settled for a spot on his bed next to the cat.

He adjusted the computer to his lap, and finally got the chance to eat his 'dinner'. Junior eyed the tanned teen for a bit, and he forbade, "No, get lost!"

He didn't listen. The cat went into a meowing frenzy and kept repositioning itself, just to annoy his owner. The golden haired boy whined, "Jones Junior, so help me God!"

The cat halted, and somehow managed to look sympathetic as Alfred met his gaze. "It's not my fault you're being so annoying!"

Junior laid back down, and Al was finally at peace from his nagging. He began surfing the web for answers, referring to his plans made earlier.

He typed in: what are some types of mutism? Links in blue flashed: mutism, various types of mutism, muteness, the list went on and on.

Naturally, Alfred clicked the first site on the list. He skimmed through the passage, bearing what few details Arthur had told him in mind. As his research went on, he was able to set in stone that the cause of most cases of mutism were from physical problems, being born with it, or from forms of anxiety.

Arthur had said that he couldn't talk, not that he wouldn't. So, Al determined his case to be caused by anxiety. He kept reading, and learned that muteness induced by anxiety was classified as 'selective mutism'.

He did not like how that term influenced the dark side of his imagination. He cleared the search engine and tried, "What is selective mutism?" He, again, selected the first thing offered to him, and dove into more research.

"Selective mutism is an abnormal type of anxiety disorder where a person cannot speak in specific situations or to specific people."

Alfred scrolled down the page and learned that Arthur was capable of talking, but not in public, persay. He could be able to talk at home, but would be too anxious to talk to strangers.

The incident earlier that day hit him like an ongoing bus. The tenacious way he trying to get to know the boy, Alfred feared, might have bombarded him.

He continued and read related anxieties and mental afflictions. Social anxiety, ADHD/ADD, autism. Arthur couldn't possibly have all those things wrong with him.

Alfred sat in self reflection as he made that assumption. Arthur had some form of an ailment, something that would undoubtedly keep them apart.

His super hero instincts kicked in, and he scanned the list of symptoms. Difficulty making eye contact, shyness, reluctance to smile. He paused, "But didn't I make him laugh earlier?"

Not particularly; although Alfred made him smile, maybe he caught him off guard. Then again, he didn't want to treat this "mutism" thing like it was incurable. He looked for causes, and examined a portion of the content.

"Severe trauma in early childhood, OCD, depression." There was no way he was going to pinpoint a single reason for it. He did not have enough information.

Alfred snorted, thinking about the possible ways he could romantically get to the Brit, and smirked, "Yet."

Although, the more he thought about it, how was he going to fill in the blanks? He didn't know if Arthur was moderately comfortable around him, much less willing to serve his background on a silver platter. Yet, his desperation was too grand.

With his lips parted and eyebrows raised, Alfred wondered, "How far can I get with him? Is Arthur even capable of loving me back?"

AN: So that's that. This has been the only thing I could work on for a straight week. Don't worry, though. I promise I'll haul ass on the other updates. Feel free to leave a review and tell me what you think ;)