A.N, so saying as I'm so obsessed and only write APH fanfics, well so far, it's fun O-O THIS IS MY FIRST FIC WITH MY OC. C: ENJOOOOOOY.

Arthur awoke that morning to the shrill ringing of his alarm. He burrowed his head under the blankets as the piercing tone rang through the silent, cool early air of his bedroom. The frail British teen let off a frustrated groan as he emerged from under the warm covers, exhaling sharply as the cool atmosphere hit him, contrasting to the comfortable heat of his bed.

"Bloody hell," he grumbled, swatting his hand to the top of the noise pollution offender. As the pitchy ringing halted, Arthur allowed himself to collapse back into the sheets which welcomed him with soothing warmth.

But then he realised he had a school to get to; much to his… delight. He heaved his heavy bones out of bed, dragging himself out of his room to the bathroom, making sure to grab a shirt from the floor. He noted with disgust the dried paint collecting around the rim of his bedroom from where it was peeling and falling from his wall, and the aged blood splatters littering the saturated white paint of the door; just like it was artistic graffiti. The Brit's movements became rigid as he passed by their room; the scent was still fresh with an undertone of Embassy Red cigarettes, curtsey of her. The room had remained untouched since she left, and was the only room that remained presentable and clean. Arthur absentmindedly wondered how his father could still manage to sleep in there, but then that's probably why he usually passed out at a local bar or on the front doorstep when he comes back from the bar. He shrugged, willing himself to push past the room with a sigh.

He stepped into the bathroom, neatly folding the shirt as he laid it down on the broken washing basket, treating it with the same tenderness you should with your most valued possessions. He let out another sigh, catching sight of himself in the mirror. A pair of emerald eyes stared back at him quizzically when he inspected himself, at first to prove that actually was himself he was inspecting. His blonde hair was tousled and greasy from the night, and it fell in thick strands over his garish pale face. His eyes were outlined with tired black bags, and from the neck down, his chest was covered with dark bruises that were the same shade.

He could only think to sigh and furrow his thick eyebrows as he tore his eyes from the unrecognisable boy that was looking back to him through the mirror, concentrating on discarding his pyjamas to shower. He winced, brushing a hand over the back of his neck and hit another fresh mark from the night before. Trying to ignore the grimy tiles that were spewing a black mould around the shower, he flicked the switch and steamy water began to fall. The hot water soothed his beaten skin, the steam making the air more humid and comfortingly sticky.

Arthur mumbled to himself, grabbing a cream towel from the icy metal radiator. Well, previously cream but now a dingy yellow colour flecked with dirty black specks. Once he finished drying himself and rubbing his hair with the towel, he pulled on the shirt he'd collected, and then made his way back along the hall to his room. He feebly kicked an empty beer can that was carelessly dropped by his door. He froze, glancing around frantically as soon as the metallic clank from the can echoed throughout the house. Arthur didn't want to wake his father. When no reaction came, Arthur was vaguely satisfied that his father wasn't in. He was probably out getting dangerously intoxicated, even if it was just after 8 in the morning. Again, Arthur sighed, and switched his attention towards getting dressed.

Finishing his tie, he forced himself to look in the mirror again. This time, he looked slightly better. He still looked weary and tired, but he was wearing the cleanest clothes he could find; which he hoped would exclude how sickly his skin was. He was wearing a faded blue shirt, top button formally fastened to hide a bruise lurking at the base of his neck and his black tie. It wasn't as if anyone would question him about it anyway, because nobody even bothered to acknowledge him at all. He wore his black school sweater, previously of perfect fit but now uncomfortably baggy around his slim frame. Running a hand through his hair, he attempted to give himself a reassuring smile. The grin only slightly twitched the corners of his mouth, quirking them up gently.

Maybe there was someone who was actually looking forward to seeing him at school.

Maybe. Unlikely.

Impossible.