To Be a Hero

Chapter 12

All Sunday Alfred SnapChatted Ivan. He just couldn't stop. He got to see his boyfriend's face like he was actually there, which made him stupidly happy. The only times he stopped were when he ate dinner and when he had to use the bathroom, and that was merely out of decency (and Arthur's glaring at the table).

He drove to school that Monday--not using his phone, because safety--though him driving was out of the norm. His parents picked up on it, and when they asked, he claimed he felt he didn't practice enough and had no desire to get rusty. A big fat lie, in other words, because he intended to use his car for... other purposes.

He was jittery all through his first class, and was straight up staring at Ivan from his biology classroom window. When the bell rang, he sprinted out of the door, not stopping until he got to his locker. Shoving his bag away, he closed his locker, turning away.

But a hand gripped him harshly by the shoulder, smashing his back against the locker. The rattles pounded down the noisy hallway, causing everyone to go quiet and stare. Alfred felt pain shoot down his spine--no doubt he got a lock to the spine.

He looked up to see who shoved him, only to be met with a fist to the face. "What the fuck?" he spat, stumbling.

"Saw you drive off with Braginski yesterday, the hell was that about?" a voice barked loudly.

"I can't tell what's more concerning; the fact that you care so much, or that you even noticed I left," Alfred laughed, making direct eye contact with his assailant and adjusting his glasses. He vaguely recognized him as a member of the rugby team, though he couldn't remember his name.

"As far as I knew, you hated each other. So spit it out--the hell is going on?!" The pure anger rattling off of this stranger astounded Alfred. He barely knew the guy--couldn't even remember his name--yet he'd had the audacity to punch Alfred in the face! And hard to, which made sense since he was in rugby.

"Again, don't see why you're so concerned," Alfred smirked, doing his best to look unprovoked even though his mind was racing. How could he get out of this? Despite what most people believed, he didn't actually like to fight. Not physically, anyway, not unless he had a really good reason. So, any reason but himself.

Before the original attacker could press any further, one of his coonies, who Alfred had barely noticed was there on the sidelines, called out, "fucking shirtlifter!"

Alfred stopped dead in his tracks, appalled. Shirtlifter. Chills ran over him, he felt saliva flood into his mouth while his stomach flipped, telltale signs he was going to puke. Shirtlifter. His heart lodged into his throat, preventing him from breathing more than shallow, pathetic breaths. Shirtlifter. Shame covered him, making his smiling facade falter and drop completely. Shirtlifter --

There was commotion he almost missed before he snapped out of his shocked daze. Looking up, he saw a tall, big, blonde yelling at the croony, telling him to back off, or something. Alfred could barely hear past the blood roaring in his ears. Then the newcomer glared so intensely at the cronies that they turned and fled down the hall, running as fast as they could. The usual commotion of the hallways started up again like nothing had happened, show over.

There were gentle hands touching Alfred's shoulder. He turned his head so fast his glasses nearly flew off, and he almost clonked heads with a boy a few inches shorter than himself. "Are you alright?" the boy asked, brows furrowing in concern. The kindness took Alfred off guard.

"Y-yeah," Alfred said, letting out a shaky breath. He looked into the boy's eyes, trying to calm himself with the familiarity of them. "Do you think my back will be okay?" he joked, although his back was still aching slightly.