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All Good Things

THREE

WARNING and SPOILERS: this chapter contains a non-con scene between Francis and Arthur. However, there is no actual intercourse, and yes, Alfred does come to the rescue in time.

X

Somehow, Arthur manages to drag himself to school.

It isn't easy and more often than not he's tempted to just rip his school clothes back off and curl up into bed again to feel sorry for himself. He manages, though, and trudges his way to school with a heavy heart and a positively foul mood.

All of his classes that morning are terrible. Even English, his favourite, is barely tolerable. He can hardly force himself to concentrate. It seems that that's becoming something frequent lately.

Now, it's time for PE again, and as he pulls on his sports kit, he feels his nerves rise. He feels excited, miserable, confused and guilty all at once. He wants to see his teacher again, wants him to smile and grin and send him tender looks like nothing has changed, but he knows that won't be happening today. In fact, it might never happen again.

Unbeknownst to Arthur, the teacher of his fantasies and anxieties is actually worse off than he is. For the first time in years, Alfred feels like he's pulling a burden worth several times his own weight in metal — and it saps nonstop at his energy, his supposedly endless good humor, his conscience like a metaphysical leech.

And it completely wrecks his focus. All morning, he's looked into the faces of students he's taught for two or three years and found himself at a loss because he can't even remember their names. His sickeningly heavy gut, his guilt, yanks at his attention at the most unexpected moments. He'd be walking through the hallways during his breaks, and he'd see a head of sunny blond, and he'd flinch. Or he'd see eyes that are a shade of green uncannily similar to Arthur's, and he'd have to look away and fight down the tightening lump in his throat before it gets the better of him.

Alfred's a mess. His restless hands — ever so in tune with his emotions — won't stop shaking. He's lost count of the number of times he's dropped a pencil, a clipboard, a ball that day. He feels like he'll be dropping his mind or something soon.

When it's time to teach the class that Arthur's a part of, he leads them out onto the field without looking at Arthur twice, his throat working nervously, his knuckles strained and white.

The worst thing is that he still wants Arthur so badly. It's so wrong. So damn wrong. But he just can't do anything about it except pretend that the desire isn't there.

His aloofness doesn't go unnoticed. Arthur doesn't know that it's possible to feel any sourer that afternoon . . . until his teacher doesn't even spare him a glance when class begins.

It's not as if it matters anyway. I don't . . . I don't . . . care or anything, he thinks bitterly as he attempts to dribble the football against one of his classmates during a game — which is an irritating task in and of itself. He's not good at performing in front of most people, and trying to compete in a large group at a sport he's not even good at is nerve-wracking. His frustration rises and his face heats up with embarrassment; his heartbeat accelerates and his moves become jittery and clumsy, causing him to eventually trip over his own feet and scramble to regain his balance.

His classmate manages to swipe the ball and score a winning goal for the rival team, earning Arthur a slew of loud groans and tuts from his own teammates.

Arthur twists his fingers into his shirt and seethes in his humiliation for a moment before giving up and retreating to the benches on the edges of the field. He slumps down on the hard wood and rakes his hands through his hair with a heavy sigh. Glancing up again, he manages to catch his teacher's eye for the briefest of moments — then Alfred tears his eyes away again just as quickly. Arthur's chest tightens painfully.

He sighs again, this time more softly, and lets his shoulders slump before leaning back against the fence and crossing his arms together. He can't bring himself to stay angry at his teacher for long. As easy as it is to feel selfish and betrayed, he knows that it's more complex than that. He knows that Alfred's torn between his desires and his morals.

And naturally, Alfred himself knows it, too. All too well. The entire time that he's not watching Arthur (which is actually about ninety-five percent of the period, a record amount of self-restraint for him where Arthur's concerned), he's furiously replaying the previous afternoon in his head.

His memories don't exactly shine a positive light on himself. First seducing Arthur into allowing him to go over his house, practically molesting him in the living room in front of the fireplace (never mind that Arthur was willing — he's a teenager, driven more by his nether regions than his brain, Alfred assesses unhappily), then pushing him into oral sex at the last moment when Arthur's defenses were down . . .

God, Alfred hates himself.

The best thing — the courteous thing, the respectable thing — to do would be to pull Arthur aside after class to apologize, then stay completely clear of him. The safe thing to do would be to skip right to ignoring him until Arthur graduates and leaves the school, signaling a permanent end to their interactions. Alfred hesitates, torn . . . and chooses the former. He's not a monster. He's not going to . . . unintentionally take advantage of a teenage boy and then just blow it off like it's nothing. Mind made up, he sends the rest of the students ahead to the locker rooms once class ends and watches them head back into the school building.

Then it's just the two of them left. He turns to Arthur, who looks up at him from the bench with an unfathomable expression.

"Arthur." Alfred pauses to swallow. Best start with the apology and end it there, he reasons. "I'm . . . I know that nothing will ever make up for my mistake yesterday, but . . . I want to say that I'm really sorry. I don't expect you to forgive me at all, but . . ." He trails off, watching Arthur's face anxiously for his reaction.

Arthur feels his heart threaten to leap from his throat. He stares, wide-eyed and breath caught as his stomach does a somersault.

After Alfred's words register in his mind, however, he does his best to pull himself together. "I . . . ," he begins, and feels a hot blush creep up to his face when his voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries to look as nonchalant as possible. "That's, I mean, why are you apologizing?" he asks, forcing himself to meet his teacher's eyes. So blue and captivating and genuine. He opens his mouth to speak again, but his lips quiver slightly and the words don't come out on the first try. "I don't regret it, Jones," he finally says. "I don't."

For a second, Alfred is a bit speechless. Where's the "how dare you still speak to me" that he'd been expecting to hear? The threats of legal action? The possible tears — the one thing that would really break his resolve?

But no. Arthur's not like that, he knows, and it shames him that in the midst of his own distress, he would think he is. He scrabbles for words. "But — I regret it, Arthur. I just . . . I'm so sorry. You're so young . . . and you're my student, and . . . we should stop." Looking down at his feet, he realizes he's beginning to feel vaguely sick. "We never should've done those things in the first place, and I think we both know that."

"But Alfred —" Arthur blurts out, opening and closing his mouth uselessly for a few moments, becoming increasingly frustrated and embarrassed and . . . scared? Worried? Anxious? He frowns up at Alfred and furrows his brows, straightening himself up a bit in his seat and trying to regain his composure.

"I . . . I know it's not right, Alfred. Not by most people's standards, anyway," he says, standing up so that he's slightly more level with Alfred. "We've both crossed a line that we never should have crossed. You can choose to ignore me now and pretend it never happened but I know you're never going to forget about it, Alfred. Not completely. I . . . I wanted it, Alfred, and I still do. I know you do, too. I can see it in the way you're looking at me even now."

Alfred takes half a step back. The desire — and intent — radiating off his student is crystal-clear, and God if it doesn't affect his body, too. "A-Arthur . . . we can't. School's not even over yet. Not here, not now, not after yesterday — Arthur!"

He hadn't realized that despite the distance he was trying to put between them, Arthur was still inching closer. And now Arthur has a hand fisted not-so-subtly in the front of Alfred's T-shirt, eyes alight.

He moves closer and cups the back of Alfred's neck, bringing their lips mere millimetres apart and then brushing them together so softly and fleetingly and, oh, how he sees the conflict in Alfred's eyes and feels the tremble of lips against his own. Arthur can't control the raging mix of hormones within himself — wanting nothing more than to have Alfred hold him, kiss him, love him, fuck him —

Arthur crushes their lips together roughly and moans, wrapping both his arms around Alfred's neck and tangling his fingers in the smooth golden locks.

Captivated, Alfred responds, mouth slipping open for Arthur's tongue, scalp tingling under Arthur's fingertips. Guilt strikes him — stop, stop, what are you doing? — but his reactions are beyond his control. His hands are already sliding down the back of Arthur's damp shirt and grasping handfuls of the fabric. Arthur's heat is thrumming against his fingers, his lips salty with sweat, tangy with a wild sort of want — Alfred has to pull back before he plunges in too deep.

"We're in full view of the school. W-we can't . . . do this here. There's . . . a storage shed off the field over that way. It's unlocked. Let's go there . . ."

He despises himself a little more with every word that comes out of his mouth, but Arthur obviously won't be taking "no" for an answer, and neither will his own body.

Arthur growls in annoyance and has to actually put effort into stopping himself from rutting against his teacher like a rabbit in heat. As much as he wants to simply push Alfred to the ground and ride him to completion, he pulls himself away and instead drags Alfred in the direction of the shed. If either of them were to get caught doing something like this, it'd ruin them both. He's coherent enough to know that much.

They stumble into the shed amid lots of dust and rusty equipment. Alfred barely has time to close the door behind him before Arthur pushes him up against it. They're pressed together down the lengths of their bodies, and Alfred can feel the leftover adrenaline still buzzing through Arthur, the warmth of his muscles heightened by the activity during class.

His reservations, lulled into complacency by their new, private surroundings, float away to hover in the air, still present but detached as if they belong to someone else. Then he has Arthur by the hips, mouth recaptured, beginning the familiar descent into feverish lust as they rub up against each other, nerves sharp and desperate.

"Alfred, touch me," Arthur gasps out breathlessly, both hands clenched tightly in the material of Alfred's shirt as they exchange passionate and clumsy kisses. Arthur can still feel the tension and reluctance in the way Alfred holds himself and it frustrates him. He wants nothing more than for Alfred to let go of his guilt and sense of duty. "No one will find us here, Alfred. No one's ever going to know . . ."

His words are convincing enough. Alfred's hand slides around to the front, independent of Alfred's mind, and tugs Arthur's gym shorts down his thighs. His student's cock rises to meet his palm; Arthur himself is already flushed and panting, eyes fluttering with their shared arousal. Watching Arthur's face, memorizing it, Alfred begins to work him over with hard, fast strokes. He's all too aware of the time constraint that's pressing down on them. . . . They have to hurry.

Face flushed red and breathing hard, Arthur's too far gone to comment on the rush. The feeling of having someone else touch him like this is still unbelievable to him, no matter how many times he experiences it, and he quickly loses himself to the pleasure, letting out shameful little moans, his body flushing hot at the knowledge that Alfred's looking at him, that he can see him so undone.

He reaches his hand out to cup Alfred through his sweatpants and shivers at the hard, pulsing heat he feels there, wasting no time before he's slipping his fingers past the elastic waistband and gripping around Alfred's erection.

Instinct leads Alfred to slide their shafts together. Without lube, their skin chafes; despite that, however, having both of them hot and firm in his grip still feels phenomenal. The temperature climbs — not just between them, but all around them as well. He breathes raggedly into Arthur's hair, "Tell me when you're . . ."

Arthur groans out, "Alfred —" and wraps his arms around Alfred's shoulders again; he clenches his eyes tightly shut and lets himself indulge in the feeling of their arousals pressed together and the sound of Alfred's soft, bit-back groans and hitches of breath. He feels the all-too-familiar approach of climax come on quickly and he has to bite back a frustrated sob because oh how he wants this to last forever. "I'm going to — oh — Alfred, I'm —"

The guilt is back in an instant, stabbing Alfred in the gut like a blunted knife with each stroke of his hand between them. Arthur's words pound in his ears, and it's astounding how they manage to both uplift him and torment him at the same time. Pedophile, his conscience spits at him. Predator. Sick. Immoral. Disgusting.

He chokes on his breath and leans down to kiss Arthur one last time, so full of desperation and longing that for a moment, the two emotions gather in the hollowness inside his chest and make him feel whole. He tries to imprint the curves and softness of Arthur's lips into his memory, along with the electricity of his body, the dampness of his hot skin. Because they can't do this anymore . . . not after this, not ever again. The time for self-indulgence is over; Arthur and his safety are what matter the most.

"In my hand," he whispers against Arthur's mouth, a final request.

Arthur doesn't need any further convincing; he lets the pleasure overtake him completely and, threading his thin fingers into his teacher's hair, he lets out a strangled, breathless sort of whine as his back arches and his body goes taut with the force of his orgasm.

"Alfred —" he gasps, body flushing with ecstasy as his climax ripples through him. His cum spurts out over Alfred's hand and coats them both. "Ah . . ."

Alfred slows his movements, gently letting Arthur down from his high, waiting until Arthur is warm and lax in his arms before switching their positions and carefully propping Arthur up against the door. When he's sure Arthur isn't going to keel over, he bites his lip and does one of the hardest things he's ever done in his life — he turns his back on him. To finish himself off with fingers that are still wet and sticky with Arthur's cum.

Not going to cry, he thinks. I'm a grown man. I'm not going to cry. Still, the tears come, and he tries to convince himself that they're for Arthur and everything that Alfred has ever roped him into doing. There's definitely some truth in that — he does feel awful for being sexually active with a fifteen-year-old. His own student, no less. But at least a tiny bit of his sadness is, as much as he hates to admit it, also for himself. He feels like he's losing the love of his life, which doesn't even make sense . . . being in love with someone is more than just lust, and yet, he's so confused about what he feels for Arthur versus what they've actually done together . . .

With those thoughts heavy in his mind, he gives in to his own release. A moment of sweetness, and it's over, overwhelmed by frustration and bitter self-loathing. Without turning back to look at Arthur, Alfred begins to fix his own clothes as best as he can without spotting them with semen. He doesn't say anything. His tongue is stiff in his mouth.

"Jones?" Arthur asks, slightly breathless and dazed. "I could have finished you off, you know. Idiot." he says fondly, but when Alfred doesn't reply he feels a pang of fear in his chest. Oh God, this is going to end up just like last time, isn't it?

"Jones? Alfred," he says again, a little louder and more firmly. When Alfred's shoulders stiffen for a brief moment but the rest of him doesn't react, Arthur frowns and tugs on Alfred's sleeve. "Damn it, Alfred. What's wrong?"

"We can't do this anymore." Alfred reaches up to run his hand over his eyes, remembers it's still covered with semen, and wipes it off on the nearest surface. He can hear that his own voice is slightly strangled, but it's impossible to make it otherwise. He feels like he's being strangled — by his own poor decisions, by his own actions, by the fact that all he wants is to be with Arthur, who's thirteen years his junior and three years short of being legal.

He swallows past the lump in his throat. "We really have to stop. I mean it. I can't be like this with you. I believe you when you say you want to, and that you don't care what other people's standards are, but you're a teenager, Arthur. I can't . . . I just can't. It might be like you said — I'll never be able to forget about this, about you, about us, but I'll never be able to forgive myself, either. It'll always be there, haunting me. So . . . because I care about you, I'm letting you go. Okay? Otherwise, I won't ever be able to live with myself for ruining your life."

Arthur's breath catches in his windpipe, and his hands clench into fists by his side. He should have seen this coming. He should have known that Alfred would have reacted this way. He finds it difficult to reason with Alfred, though, and instead he feels hurt and rage and frustration bubble up in the pit of his stomach. It was just so damn hard to accept that they had to keep their distance from each other.

"Damn it, Jones. If you're just going to dwell on your own insecurities, then stop leading me on!" he shouts. He knows his words are insensitive and hurtful, but he can't stop them. They're coming out on their own, unbidden. "Stop building up my hopes with your touches and your tender smiles and your longing glances if you're just going to retreat back into yourself when things get intense! You're the only person who pays me even the slightest bit of attention and when you do this to me, it hurts. Ugh. I just — ugh. Fuck you!"

Alfred flinches. He doesn't blame Arthur for the crude outburst. Because Arthur's right . . . Alfred really has been leading him on like a blind, selfish jerk. All the reason to make amends by ending things now before they can get even further out of control.

"I'm . . . I'm sure I'm not the only one who pays attention to you. You're the student council president. I'm willing to bet all of your teachers love you." Just not in the way I do. "You don't need me, Arthur. We have to get going now; I have to get ready for my next class, and you have to get to yours. If your teacher wants to know why you're late, have him or her shoot me an email. I'll come up with something. I'll — I'll see you tomorrow." He spins around, opens the door, and quickly steps out, ending the discussion and leaving Arthur behind. His heart sinks, but his mind is made up; even though it nearly kills him, he resolves not to look back, and he doesn't.

Arthur's unable to say anything as he watches Alfred leave. His mind races in panic and his gut churns with disappointment, fingers beginning to tremble with his nerves and the adrenaline.

When Alfred closes the door of the shed shut behind him, Arthur lets out a desperate sort of sound as his body twitches forward in want to run after him. He knows it's useless, though. And any kind of persuasion he'd try would only harden Alfred's resolve and hurt his own pride. So instead he only chokes on his own frustrated sobs and crouches down onto the ground,. Fingers tangling and tugging at his own hair until he's exhausted himself enough to go let out a defeated sigh and slump against the old equipment. What is he going to do now? What can he do now?

X

It's been a week. The last class of the day has just ended.

Francis watches Arthur slowly pack up his things, and matches his pace, taking care to tuck his notebooks and binders neatly inside his backpack and color-coordinate his pens and pencils in their case. The rest of the students and their teacher have already gone; it's just the two of them left. No one wants to stick around after school with the tempting prospect of the weekend on the horizon.

Which suits Francis's cause just fine.

Arthur seems distracted at the moment, if the way his eyes are unfocused and his brow is furrowed is any indication, and Francis takes the opportunity to casually make his way across the room to the door. He reaches it, puts his hand on the handle like he intends to walk out . . . then clicks the lock in place.

Then he flicks the lights off, and doesn't bother to hide his pleased expression when Arthur's head finally whips up.

"Wh — Francis?" he asks, almost hesitantly. The classroom is dark but the very slight light sneaking through the slits of the blinds is enough to make out Francis' form and knowing smirk. Arthur's used to Francis's general antics, having spent many years in school putting up with him, but something about the way Francis stares at him this time makes him nervous, and he finds himself fidgeting uncomfortably.

Usually, plenty of beating around the bush with a liberal dose of flirtation mixed in is Francis's favorite method of approach with Arthur Kirkland; he knows that it irritates him to no end, and irritating Arthur certainly makes for an amusing pastime. However, the matter at hand is of a particular importance . . . and so for once, Francis wastes no time in getting to the heart of things.

He strides leisurely across the room and comes to a stop before Arthur's desk, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "What is this, mon cher? Has our asexual student council president finally been seduced . . . by a certain charming young man?"

A bone chilling wave of panic flushes through Arthur's body from top to bottom and time seems to grind to a shuddering halt as his body stiffens.

"Wh — what . . . ," he chokes out, hands tightening and twisting in the straps of his school bag. "What on earth are you on about, Francis? Unlike you, I don't have the time to dabble in such — such lewd things. Y-you know that."

"Is that so?" Francis muses, leaning in. "Your secret lover is rather attractive, I must admit . . . late twenties, early thirties, no? A man with a handsome face, a perfect body, an amiable personality — overall, a man hard to resist. Still, it is rather strange for someone of your caliber to go after someone so much older. And a teacher, no less. It is the sex that draws you, is it not? Oh, no, settling with someone of your age would not have been enough for you. You wanted more, you wanted someone with experience and a big cock; you wanted something forbidden, which is why you turned to him." He laughs unpleasantly.

"Who would have known? Our prissy little student council president, having a sordid affair with one of his male teachers because he believes that no one else can satisfy him. You naughty, naughty thing. Tell me, mon amour, how has he had you? Out in the field in the open, we know . . . perhaps in a closet somewhere as well? Over a desk in a classroom?"

"F-fuck off, Francis!" Arthur snaps, shoving Francis back before backing away a few steps. He can feel the intense heat rise in his face and the shame settle in his gut, the nerves, adrenaline and fear making his hands tremble and knees weak and oh, God, he feels like he's going to be sick.

"I didn't — I wouldn't, I . . . I have no idea what you're talking about!"

Unfazed, Francis steps around the desk, entering Arthur's personal space again. "Oh, really?" He pulls his phone out of his pocket, presses a couple of buttons, and turns the screen in Arthur's direction. "Who is this, then, may I ask?"

It's a blurry snapshot, clearly taken in the late afternoon from a window. A school window, because despite the poor quality of the photo, it's unmistakable that the setting is the playing field, and that on the playing field are two people lying on the grass.

Arthur, on his back, with Alfred between his legs giving him head. Their first less-than-platonic encounter that fateful afternoon.

Everything stops then and Arthur swears he can feel his heart trying to jump out his throat. The nauseous swaying in his gut tightens into a painful, sickening knot and he starts to feel cold sweat form on his skin. He can't do anything but turn to Francis, his eyes wide and pleading for mercy.

Francis pockets the phone again, smile wider — almost wolfish. "Now, I do not intend to report you or Mr. Jones right away. That would not be very . . . discreet of me, would it? I am curious, however, as to why you had to go to all the trouble with him when you could have simply turned to me. Is that not all you wanted? A wet mouth at your disposal and a hard cock in your willing ass? I could have given you that. I can give you that."

He edges closer, eying Arthur's button-up shirt.

"N-no . . . ," Arthur breathes out, pushing weakly against the taller boy. I don't want that, he thinks to himself, the voice in his head screaming at him. I don't want him!

His hands ball into fists against Francis's shirt and he looks up at him again pleadingly. "No, Francis, you can't tell anyone about this. If anyone was to find out then Alfred would lose his job — worse than that. Francis, please . . . please, no . . ."

"Oh, so is it 'Alfred' now?" In a flash, Francis's arm is hooked around Arthur's waist, and his other hand slips under his shirt like a snake. He finds a nipple and pinches at it until it begins to harden under his fingers, and smiles at Arthur's whimper. "Well, if seeing Alfred go to prison is not something you want . . . perhaps you should give him up for me? I can satisfy you any way you wish. At the very least, having sex with me would be far more legal than whatever dirty activities you have been engaging in with Mr. Jones, no?"

Arthur gasps. "Stop — Francis!" His hands flies outward to wrap tightly around Francis's arms. He grits his teeth and clenches his eyes shut as Francis twists and toys with his nipple. It takes every ounce of self-control he has not to snap and punch Francis across the face. If he does something like that, the filthy frog would tell the whole school in no time, no questions asked.

So, with a great deal of shame and an almost overwhelming feeling of self-loathing, he tightens his grip on Francis's forearms and continues to let him abuse his body, tears welling up behind tightly closed eyes and throat constricting painfully.

Francis senses the change, of course. He remarks casually, "Giving in so soon? How unusually meek of you . . . then again, I suppose it is because you want to protect your dear Alfred, hmm?" He lets go of Arthur's nipple, and without warning, shoves his hand roughly down the front of Arthur's trousers. After some probing, he gets a good hold on Arthur's soft cock inside his underwear and begins playing with it, pulling at the foreskin and pressing his thumbnail into the slit.

"A-ahh . . . ," Arthur lets out weakly, body jerking in surprise and, to his shame, pleasure.

He tries to get himself back under control and remember the reality of the situation. However, even though his mind is yelling warnings at him, his body reacts on its own and his cock grows harder with every tug and pinch and swipe of Francis' hand.

"Oh God, s-stop it —" he chokes out from between clenched teeth, staring down at Francis's hand in horror. He tries to keep his composure — tries to look threatening and angry — but his flushed red cheeks and wet eyes betray him.

Francis smirks. "Protests aside, you certainly seem to be enjoying it, hmm?" He gives Arthur's dick a sharper tug, and moves in even closer to graze his lips up Arthur's jaw.

"I wonder if you can come like this . . . just from the light teasing of my hand, and nothing else," he whispers in Arthur's ear. "I do not think it is beyond your abilities. Mr. Jones has trained you well, has he not? Tell me, mon cher. What has he done to you? Through what methods has he given you pleasure, and you him?"

Arthur grits his teeth. He does well to keep in his moans, but his hitching, laboured breathes and consistent spasms take away from the tough and indifferent approach he's trying desperately to pull off. "F-fuck you . . ."

What is wrong with me? he thinks to himself through all the mess. This is disgusting — vile — and yet my body is reacting on its own. My God, I'm pathetic.

He starts to pine for Alfred as the fear and unfamiliarity of the situation overwhelms him, much like a child would pine for its mother when it's ill — wanting Alfred to take the fear and unease away and make everything better again. Suddenly, his involuntary arousal, terror, self-loathing and childish yearning morph into a dizzying cluster of emotions and he's torn between passing out, sobbing, and throwing up.

With a sigh, Francis withdraws his hand — only to grab Arthur by the shoulders and whirl him around. There's no time for Arthur to react; with a swift movement, Francis shoves him down across a desk, chest-first, and keeps him pinned there with a hand between his shoulder blades. Arthur flails weakly under his palm, but to no avail. Francis's strength is superior to his.

"Be good now," Francis warns with deceptive gentleness. His free hand glides over Arthur's hip, then moves around to the front and unbuttons Arthur's trousers, easing down the zipper right after. He manages to get a good grip on the waistband, and with a yank, pulls everything — trousers and underwear — down to Arthur's knees to expose his ass. Francis takes a moment to just drink in the sight before giving one round cheek an approving slap.

"Beautiful, as I had expected . . . though certainly far from untouched, if you understand my meaning. How do you like it, Arthur? Hard? Soft? Perhaps with some ample foreplay?" He uses two dainty fingertips to bring Arthur's opening into view. "Yes, very beautiful indeed."

Arthur inhales sharply and arches out as a sharp bolt of pleasure from the slap jolts through him. He lets out a groan of shame and rests his head against the table's surface, eyes still closed firmly. For Alfred, he thinks through the haze of panic. I can do this. For Alfred's sake, and for my own.

He tries to reassure himself over and over again, but no amount of self-comfort can ease the foreboding knowledge that he's about to lose his virginity to the last person he would ever want to find himself in this kind of situation with. He originally planned to give it to Alfred, on a proper bed with the proper feelings between them, but now . . .

Francis dampens a finger in his mouth and, with a few expert turns of his wrist, worms it inside Arthur's hole. He comments with an unconcerned, almost bored air, "Fairly tight, despite what you have been doing. But please, accept that as a compliment; I find your hot, silky texture quite lovely. To think that Mr. Jones has been having this all to himself — it makes me a bit jealous, mon amour. . . . Unless there is someone else that neither he nor I know about? Someone who has, ah, also had a taste of you?"

Biting his bottom lip, Arthur lets out a shuddering breath through his nose. It's awful, uncomfortable and so very wrong, but Arthur's body responds regardless to Francis's finger and his taunts.

"I — ah! — I am not some slut, you bastard. D-don't . . . don't you dare group me with the likes of you . . . !"

With a chuckle, Francis adds another finger. "Why ever not? It matters nothing to me. I would love to have you whether you are promiscuous as a whore or as chaste as the Virgin Mary."

"God, no . . ." Arthur buries his head in his arms and tugs at his own hair painfully, to distract himself from the reality of the situation. "Oh my God, just . . . just get it over with," he says shakily. "I can't bear this humiliation any longer . . ."

The metallic sound of keys jangling in the lock makes them both jump. Francis quickly steps away from Arthur. In less than five seconds, the door swings open, and in storms Alfred Jones with the quiet wrath of the heavens hanging over his head.

Alfred's eyes swing from Arthur's compromising position to Francis's face, then back again. A slight tint of pink reaches his cheeks, but his expression doesn't change.

"What the hell is going on here, boys? Either of you care to explain?"

Arthur's heart is in his throat when the light from the hallway illuminates the darkened room. Whipping his head up, he's stunned into silence upon seeing his PE teacher's stern, assessing face.

He takes advantage of Francis' surprise and uses the moment to quickly compose himself. He feels like he should be relieved, but instead a crippling feeling of dread and embarrassment washes through him and settles in his gut.

The Alfred standing in front of them is very different from the Alfred who had spent a handful of snatched minutes in a storage shed with Arthur a week before. The Alfred then had been unsure, unsteady, hampered by his feelings — almost cottony from his personal dilemma. The Alfred now is all steel and hard edges and barely controlled anger.

"Well?" Alfred snaps when neither student speaks. "What possessed you two to do something like this at school? I'd expected better from you, Francis — and you, Arthur. Vice president and president of the student council, the two biggest role models of the Academy — what in the world were you thinking?"

Francis shrugs lightly, appearing unperturbed. "We were just having a little fun, Mr. Jones. No harm done." His gaze slides in Arthur's direction, and he gives him a suggestive wink. "Right, Arthur?"

Arthur gives Francis a look of utter disgust and anger wells up inside of him. How dare he humiliate him so and act so nonchalant about it? But then his attention goes back to Alfred again and he can't help but recoil under his teacher's intense, furious gaze.

"I . . ." His throat suddenly goes dry and and he has to look away from Alfred to be able to speak. "I was extremely careless, Mr Jones. I'm sorry. I should have...should have known better. It won't happen again."

The room fills with a strained, eerie silence and, in that moment Arthur's heart tears painfully.

Alfred runs his hand through his hair, frustrated. Finally, as if reaching the end of a long, excruciating internal debate, he says, "Well, you know the rules, and you decided to break them, so I'm gonna have to write the two of you up. Come with me to my office." He turns to leave the room with the clear expectation that they will follow him.

"No." Francis crosses his arms with a smug expression.

Alfred stops, turns his head. His face contorts in disbelief. "What did you say?"

"I said no, Mr. Jones." Francis's words come out smooth and self-satisfied. "Reporting me is out of the question. You may do whatever you wish with Arthur – is that not what you are after in the first place? — but you will leave me out of it. I will have no slur against my name. I do, after all, intend to run for student council president next year."

They locked stares, blue pitted against blue. "Don't you dare back-talk me, Francis. I'm your teacher. If you think I'm gonna let you off if you throw Arthur under the bus, then you're wrong," Alfred says stiffly. "Unfortunately, after this is done, neither of you will be running for student council next year. Now come along. Both of you." His resolve is still steady. But somewhere in his tone, there's an undercurrent of doubt. Francis seems to pick up on it like a hound on the scent; his leer widens, and he tilts his head in triumph.

"Oh, really, Mr. Jones? Let me put it in these terms, then: if you report me, then the next school year will see me out of office and you out of a job."

That catches Alfred's attention. Nothing in his face gives away his thoughts, but his hands clench almost subtly into fists as Francis's words sink in. His stance becomes wary. "Are you threatening me, Francis?" he says, voice perfectly calm. Testing the waters. "You tell me, then — on what grounds, what lie of yours, am I going to lose my job?"

Arthur's eyes dart frantically between the two. He wants badly to intervene in the exchange but he knows his input would only make the situation worse.

Stop it, Alfred — just let it go. He knows about us, he thinks inwardly as he clutches the edge of one of the desks and worries his own lips to the point where they start to smart and sting. He's willing to sacrifice himself if it means the both of them will be safe. Anything to keep Alfred out of this.

"It is no lie, Mr. Jones." Francis laughs. "What grounds, you ask? Let me enlighten you." He takes his phone out and steps closer to Alfred, raising it to show him the screen the same way he'd shown Arthur. The blood leaves Alfred's face rapidly, his skin paling as recognition sets in.

"Is that — that's not —"

"So, as you can see, Mr. Jones, I have quite the one up over you," Francis says sweetly. "I recommend that you overlook Arthur's and my mischief today, or a copy of this revealing little picture might, oh, wind up on the principal's desk? Make it through the superintendent's fax machine? Or . . . even better . . ." His voice drops to a stage whisper. "End up in the mailbox at the police station, with your name, address, and license plate number written conveniently on the back, perhaps?"

Alfred is shaking, small tremors running up and down his body from the cocktail of fear, shame, and resentment brewing in his blood. Francis, poised and gracile in contrast, lets the silence in the room thicken until Alfred can stand it no longer.

"What do you want?" the gym teacher asks at last. "Why would you . . . go to all this trouble to . . ." His eyes start to move in Arthur's direction, but he checks himself quickly. "What exactly are you hoping to get out of this?"

As nonchalant as Alfred is worked up, Francis examines his nails. "Well, Mr. Jones, this is what I am 'hoping to get,' as you expressed it: one, you allow this encounter between Arthur and me to pass by without incident. Two, you stay far, far away from Arthur. Not for his benefit, obviously, but because he is — to put it quite simply — mine to begin with. I have had my eye on him since before you knew of his existence, so no point in contending with me on that matter. Besides, it is what Arthur wants as well, is it not, mon cher?" He steps closer to Arthur and slips a hand under his chin, his smile victorious.

Alfred's expression crumbles. He tries to hide it by shifting his head to the side, but his rapidly working throat and blinks betray him. "Oh. So . . . you and Arthur . . . oh. So . . . that's it? That's what you . . . want me to do? In return for . . ."

"No," Arthur says, and the word echoes around them.

For some reason, Arthur's stomach had dropped upon hearing Alfred's defeated words. He knows it's better for the both of them to just have Alfred let this go, but he can't bear to look at his teacher's shattered expression and have him fall for such a lie. He just can't.

"N-no," he forces out again as he tears his gaze from Alfred and glares right into Francis's eyes. He slaps the Frenchman's hand away and shoves him back roughly, causing Francis to stumble back into a desk with a surprised huff. "Keep your bloody hands off me, you damned frog. Don't you dare try to blackmail me as a way to rape me and expect me to keep my mouth shut about it. There's no way I'd do this willingly — not in a million fucking years!"

"What are you talking about?" Francis scoffs, straightening again with economic elegance. He is, to his credit, a fine actor. Perhaps too fine. "Do not pretend as if you are the victim here, Arthur. Well . . . naturally, you are the victim where Mr. Jones is concerned — it would not do to have a teacher's paws on you, yes? But you and I, we are in love. Genuine love. Do not let your sense of chivalry make you sympathetic toward this criminal; do not let it push you away from me."

His eyes sparkle passionately, as if he means every last word. Anyone looking on would be convinced of his apparent sincerity.

"Wh —" Arthur stares at Francis in both shock and utter confusion. His mouth moves uselessly as he tries to wrap his mind around exactly what the hell is going on. Francis is a good actor, because he even manages to fool Arthur for the briefest of moments before Arthur sees through the false emotion in his eyes.

"What? N-no, what? You're lying! Alfred —" He casts a desperate look towards his teacher.

Alfred looks back and forth between them, bewildered and doubtful, at a loss for words.

Francis continues with the same vigor and confidence, "He was only a substitute for you, Arthur. We both know that. We could not be together properly this year due to our individual duties, so you settled for him because you needed another man's attention. For that I forgive you, mon amour. I understand your reasons. Now we can be a couple again without having to bother ourselves with him." He gives Alfred a sly sideways glance. "And I am sure he is not too keen on sending himself to jail by reporting us."

"No, I . . . you're lying —" Arthur insists. Francis's words couldn't be further from the truth, but as Arthur throws Alfred one last pleading glance he has to wonder if it's really worth fighting against. He can't stand the thought of Alfred walking away from all of this without knowing the truth, but in the end it would probably be the safest outcome for the both of them.

And really, he can't expect Alfred to put himself in the line of fire for his own sake. . . .

His shoulders slump almost stiffly as he lets out a strained, defeated huff of air, feeling his throat clench and eyes moisten in frustration. God damn it all . . .

Alfred is watching him closely, brow knitted together. He'd been spun in by Francis's tale, it seems, but it also seems that he's actually beginning to think about it carefully, picking apart the words to get at the message underneath, and trying to compare that message to what he understands about Arthur.

And somehow, thank God, something in his head doesn't match up.

"Arthur," says Alfred, tone still wavering precariously, "do you . . . really love him? Am I really just a fling to you?" Francis opens his mouth, but Alfred stops him with a hand. "No. I want to hear it from him, in his own words. I . . . I want to know for sure."

"I . . ." The syllable catches in Arthur's throat. He swallows thickly, shuffles on his feet and averts his eyes once again. His next words are hesitant, but loud and clear enough for them all to hear. "I don't love him. What he did — what you just saw — was forced." He glares again at Francis.

Francis lets out another easy laugh. "Of course he says that. He wants to avoid hurting your feelings, Mr. Jones."

Alfred ignores him. His gaze comes to rest on Arthur once more. He takes a deep breath. "I believe you. Tell me, though . . . why did you apologize then when I walked in? If he forced you, why didn't you say so right off the bat?"

"Because I . . . don't want you to get yourself mixed up in all of this," Arthur says quietly, eyes falling to the side where he fixes them on one of his own hands, clenched and white-knuckled on the edge of the desk.

"But, Arthur, I'm an adult. I can look after myself. Why would . . ." Alfred raised his arms in a helpless gesture. "Why risk your own health and safety for me? I mean, on some level, he's right. I deserve whatever I'll get, but you don't have to be involved in any of this at all. You don't have to be involved with me. Why put yourself on the line like this when you can just, I don't know, turn your back and pretend it never happened? For your own sake?"

Arthur clicks his tongue and fixes his teacher with a light frown. Some of his trademark stubbornness rises to the surface. "Because this is my fault, too. We're both at fault and I'm not going to very well let you suffer the consequences for something I'm partly to blame for. I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt by this because I . . . that is, you — to me — you're . . ."

His words trail off at the end he feels a wave of heat rise up to his cheeks. Embarrassed, he raises the back of his hand to his mouth as if that last sentence is something he can just wipe from his lips. What the hell is he saying? All of his feelings, coming out at such an inopportune moment . . .

Alfred's face softens. "Arthur . . . I told you before that it'd be better if we —"

"How very touching," Francis interrupts in his usual blasé manner. "But I tire of this. So what will it be, Mr. Jones? Will you let me and my rightful lover go in exchange for the privilege of walking away a free man, or will you persist in your senseless pursuit and secure yourself a place behind bars? It is, naturally, your choice." He twirls his phone around in his hand — a not-so-subtle reminder to both Alfred and Arthur of his trump card.

Silence falls between the three of them once more. Alfred looks back and forth between the two students. Not in confusion or distrust, but in serious contemplation. At last, he speaks, his words directed at Francis. "You're right. I should never have tried to be with Arthur in the first place. For that, I'm responsible, and I won't put him in that kind of position again."

Arthur's heart sinks.

"However," Alfred says with equal firmness, "I'm not going to stand by and watch you take advantage of Arthur, either. If interfering with your plans sends me to jail, so be it. Like you said before . . . if I report you, then you'll hand in the evidence that'll convict me. But it goes both ways, Francis. If you send in that picture, I'll let them know about what you tried to do to Arthur, and the Academy will expel you for attempting to molest a classmate."

"And what makes you think they would take your word for it?" Francis counters. He glances at Arthur. "You will be known as a sex offender who targets minors, Mr. Jones. What reason would they have to believe you?"

"Arthur can testify." Alfred closes his eyes for a moment. "He can testify against us both — that I was in an inappropriate relationship with him, and that you forced him to do things against his will. It'll take away from my credibility as well as yours, but it'll add to his. He's the only one who has the whole story. He can do with it what he wants."

Francis takes a minute to digest all of this, smugness replaced by thoughtfulness. The seconds tick by with agonizing slowness. Finally, he nods in acknowledgment. "Indeed. It appears that we are at an impasse."

They both look at Arthur, Alfred with honesty and acceptance of his own fate and Francis with mild discontentment. "Well? Do you have anything to say, mon cher?" Francis asks.

Arthur turns to look directly into Francis' eyes. "If . . . if you do anything to hurt Alfred I will tell everyone what you tried to do to me today. I don't think a molestation report will look good on your permanent record."

"I believe that settles it, then." Francis pockets his phone. His gaze goes from Arthur to Alfred, and his eyelids lower with snobbish indifference, as if his reputation isn't in danger of being utterly ruined. "There is no point in having the both of us turned in," he says, addressing Alfred. "I will not expose you as a felon, and you will not report me. And Arthur, for his part, will not file charges against either of us. It seems that that way, there is no winner."

"So is that it? You're going to drop the whole thing, just like that? Like it's just a risky game of chance to you to begin with?" Alfred asks, suspicion edging his tone. "You expect me to trust you to not go ahead and have me arrested when my back's turned?"

"You can rest assured that I will do anything to keep myself safe, which — in this case — will bode well for all of us," Francis says carelessly, jerking his head in Arthur's direction to include him in the generalization. "I will leave the two of you to your own devices. But . . ." He steps closer to Arthur and leans in until his lips are almost touching Arthur's cheek. "One day, Arthur, you will realize that you have made a mistake in choosing him, and you will come to me. I will relish my victory then," he whispers with certainty.

Then, in a louder voice, he adds, "Good day to you, Mr. Jones." With a sort of fluent dignity, he turns, picks up his backpack from a nearby desk, and leaves the room without a backwards glance.

The sound of Francis's footsteps echo down the hallway and fade into nothingness, leaving behind a heavy silence and a strained atmosphere in the room. Arthur's torn between relief and intense nervousness and he's unable to do anything but glance back and forth between Alfred and the floor skittishly.

Alfred deflates somewhat. His strong sense of purpose is gone, and when he faces his student, he seems years older than twenty-eight. Or perhaps it's just his real maturity making itself known on a rare occasion.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "Do you need any first aid? I can take you down to my office and get you some medical supplies if you do."

Arthur shakes his head. "No, I'm fine. I'm not hurt or anything," he says quietly, picking at a bit of old tape on the table's surface. "Are . . . are you? Okay, I mean." He raises his eyes to meet Alfred's almost shyly.

Alfred presses his lips together. After a moment, he lets out a sigh. "Do you want to know the truth? I'm shaken, but I'm glad that I was able to stop him from abusing you, and I'm glad that I won't be going to jail. And I know that I should stay away from you like I said I would. But part of me still wants to be with you. Part of me still cares too much, and it hurts almost as much as it did when I walked in and saw you bending over a desk for him."

A heartbeat of silence. "I-I didn't do it willingly!" Arthur stammers, feeling a surge of panic course through him again at Alfred's words. "It all happened so suddenly, and I panicked and he was threatening you and coming on to me so aggressively and — ah, damn it all," he curses, covering his face in shame and frustration.

"Oh, God, no, Arthur, I'm not blaming you — it's not your fault — please don't misunderstand me," Alfred says pleadingly. He steps forward, closer, holding out his hands as if to bring Arthur to his chest, but he stops himself just in time and his arms drop back down to his sides. "God, I'm so sorry . . . I wish I'd gotten here earlier to stop him from going that far, or doing it at all, even. When I said that it hurt, I meant that, well, that it kills me to see you with someone else. Even if it wasn't consensual, even if you didn't want it or ask for it . . ." He brings his hand up to the bridge of his nose, a thumb on one temple and an index finger on the other.

After a second, he shakes his head. "Look at me. I'm still so damn selfish even after you just went through something like that. I'm sorry, Arthur. If . . . if there's anything you need — a ride home, first aid, anything, let me know and I'll do it for you. But I still think it'll be best for us to stay away from each other, however I feel about you. However you feel about me."

Arthur's face feels hot at Alfred's words and he drops his hand from his face. "Y-you, I —" He sighs, hands clenching into fists as he tries to find some way to turn his feelings into words. Giving up, he takes a few steps closer to Alfred until there is only a small distance separating them. He looks up and locks eyes with his teacher, his cheeks red and flushed and his frame still trembling with emotion.

Without further hesitation, he throws himself forward and wraps his arms tightly around Alfred, fists tightening in the fabric of his shirt and face burying into his chest. His shoulders tremble faintly as he tries to will back the tears. Frustration, relief, confusion, desire, fear and heartbreak finally taking their toll on him. "Fuck . . . ," he chokes out, holding onto Alfred even harder.

The rational part of Alfred yells at him to pull away, to never touch Arthur again unless it's absolutely necessary, but it's overridden by the part of him that wants to feel Arthur pressed up against him, safe in his arms. Vulnerable and raw, he hugs him back, tightly enough to feel their hearts beating in tandem.

And he knows for certain in that moment, like a flash across his vision, that he will never be able to let Arthur go. He can't imagine a future without Arthur in his embrace, without the delicate texture of his body against his or his scent surrounding him like the feeling of coming home.

God help him. Teacher and student or not, he wants Arthur to be safe by his side, forever. He needs Arthur as much as he needs to breathe.

It's evident that Arthur feels the same way about him. "I can't stay away from you. I can't, Alfred. How can you expect me to just pretend that nothing ever happened? I can't stop thinking about you, and it's so stupid and ridiculous of me but . . ." Arthur forces back the tears. "I want you so much that it hurts me." He wraps his hand around the back of Alfred's neck and pulls him down to kiss him. A hot, desperate kiss that he has to quickly pull away from because he's too short of breath. He buries his face into Alfred's chest again, the hand that was previously around his neck now tugging at Alfred's shirt collar. "Don't make me say it . . ."

Unable to resist, Alfred leans down again. "It's okay. You don't have to. However you feel about me — I get it, 'cause I feel the same way about you." He brings Arthur's mouth to his again for a second kiss, a slower, heavier, more proper one, all of his feelings tumbling out at once. Times stops moving in their little bubble, and doesn't start again even after they finally pull away from each other.

Arthur's eyes are brilliant, his lips shiny and slightly parted as if asking for more. And Alfred stops trying to discourage himself in favor of kissing him again, and again, and again — and before he knows it, his lips are on Arthur's forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his jaw, the side of his neck. He feels Arthur's hands stroking through his hair; Arthur's head is tipped back, his eyes closed in bliss.

Arthur lets out the quietest of moans, eyelashes fluttering at the feel of Alfred's lips against his skin and strong arms holding him close. He trails his hands from Alfred hair down to the back of his neck and caresses behind his ears, thumb tracing Alfred's tanned cheek gently. He wants nothing more than to lose himself in the feel of the moment.

"I'm sorry," he whispers quietly, voice but a breath at this point. "I didn't mean to drag you into this."

"No, I'm sorry for not being there for you, for pushing you away, and for allowing us do something so private in plain sight where people like Francis could see us." Alfred presses a kiss to his cheekbone. "It's not your fault; it never was, so please don't blame yourself."

He gently takes Arthur by the waist and hugs him close again.

Arthur exhales heavily and relaxes against Alfred's chest, lulling his eyes closed and trying to will himself to calm down. He body is still tense from what had occurred with Francis, but his emotions are fried and he is quite frankly exhausted. He wants nothing more than to lean against Alfred forever, but something suddenly crosses his mind.

"Wait," he says, furrowing his brows in puzzlement. He looks up at Alfred. "How on earth did you know where to find me?"

Alfred clears his throat, and a subtle blush settles in his cheeks. "Um, actually, I . . ." He looks away from Arthur's questioning green gaze, embarrassed. "I-I kind of have your schedule, you know, memorized. And I . . . sort of watch for you every day after the bell because you, uh, you always leave school by the same door and you didn't show up today, so I came to find you because even though I had no reason to be, I was worried about you. But I'm relieved I came despite my doubts. God, I'm so relieved. If I hadn't . . ."

He presses Arthur to his chest even more tightly. "I would never have forgiven myself if I'd only found out afterward, after it was too late for me to do anything," he breathes into his hair.

"O-oh," Arthur murmurs, his cheeks heating up. He leans in a little closer to Alfred. "When did you memorize my timetable?" he asks, genuinely puzzled.

"I sort of . . . looked it up in the school filing system on a computer during one of my breaks earlier in the year," Alfred admits sheepishly. "Because I was, you know, curious. About you. Uh . . . yeah, you probably think I'm a complete stalker now."

Blushing, Arthur hides his face in the front of Alfred's shirt and fiddles with Alfred's sleeve nervously. "W-well, I can't say I really mind or anything..."

Alfred smiles softly, insecurities lifted, and moves his lips down to kiss along the shell of Arthur's ear. ". . . Okay. That's good."

Goosebumps run up and down Arthur's arms in response. It's difficult, but Arthur forces himself to pull away from Alfred's sweet embrace and casts a look at the slowly darkening sky outside. He's not sure how much time has passed since the bell rang but he's sure he's missed his bus by this point.

Alfred seems to come to the same realization. "I can drive you," he offers.

Arthur looks up at him and smiles. "That would be much appreciated."

"All right then. Come on, let's get you back home." And after one last kiss, they leave the darkness of the room behind, together.

A/N: Bet you guys thought we'd abandoned this fic, huh? Well, here's an update after nearly a year. Part of the delay was actually due to the fact that we also wrote an indulgent, smutty side story for AGT that doesn't take place until much later in the timeline. It won't be posted until we actually get to the proper place, though.

Now, some of you are probably saying to yourselves, "What the FrUK were you two thinking, putting in that traumatizing scene between Francis and Arthur?!" And our answer is: it helped rebuild the trust between Alfred and Arthur, which is essential to the plot (what little of it there is, haha). And that is that.

Thank you for waiting on us for so long, and do leave us a review below!