So I decided to stop being such a serious grump and write a more crack-ish drama-type thingy that would just be a nice break from writing about prison camps and whatnot.

So here it is… I based the title off one of my favourite songs because I guess the lyrics kind of relate to what will happen and what has happened already to Alfred and Arthur blah blah blah

Please don't take this fanfiction seriously I am honestly just playing around with trying to be funny.

Review this if you liked it and want me to continue, if there aren't any reviews then I shall go back to writing about prison camps and that'll be the end of that.

Take everything I write with a generous pinch of salt I try not to be cruel but it's hard .n.

Also I am not making assumptions about people in different situations I am writing from the point of view of a character and creating characters of my own that fit this kind of story okay?

Ok sorry this chapter is sentimental but I promise it won't stay like this.

- Tzitzimime

The story had hit the papers just a year ago.

There had been the controversy, the 'how can this ever have happened' that the public tends to do when the word 'controversy' is put into a headline. There was immediate response, and on every news channel in the country there had been experts and politicians and nobodies off the street talking about how dreadful the whole thing had been. There had been documentaries, on-going stories and even charities set up to help, but of course, not one of them contained the tiniest shred of truth. Even the pictures and interviews showed an actor, and the stories that were issued every once in a while to rile the public up again were purely the product of the writer's minds. This was mainly due to the fact that the subject of controversy had been less than willing to talk to the papers.

He had sat in his designated room in the orphanage for most of the time the press had been barking at the door, claiming he didn't care what they had to say and that they should just get out of his face and leave him well enough alone. He didn't want this, he hadn't wanted this, and he already stuck out like a sore English thumb in the orphanage because he was the only kid there who actually had parents.

Yeah, but parents that didn't want him.

The stories about the bruises on his face, his arms, his legs, had been blown up a considerable amount by the papers, but they still contains shreds of truth. Talking or even thinking about it made his arms flare up in pain again, and his therapist often sat stunned after a session of asking him questions until he had exploded and fled the room in a fit of anger. It didn't make him upset, he knew how little crying solved things, but it just made him so furious. Why should he have to sit there and listen to a personification of the newspaper articles tell him about how tough his ordeal had been? Yes, it had been tough. Yes, he had hated every moment of it with his entire being. But it had happened. It no longer happened, his parents were unable to hit him from behind a prison sentence, he would no longer be covered in so many awful bruises. He wanted to be brisk with this. The past had passed, and there was nothing he could do to change it, even if he wished as he once had.

To be fair, the Arthur Kirkland Abuse Case had not been that controversial.

It was simply just another lower class family struggling to keep finances and tempers in check. His mother had been the weak but hot-headed housewife, and his father the long-time alcoholic, prone to fits of often predictable rage and violence. Arthur had often wondered with cruel curiosity why his mother hadn't seen it coming just from the way he walked through the door in the evening, but he had never been in a position to object or make a point on their behalf. It had been made very clear since the time Arthur had been able to string words together; he was the child, and they were the adults. They knew best about everything, and he was the scrawny, stupid rat who just had to stay out of the way.

It was funny that they weren't even his parents.

Arthur, nearly straight after his appearance into the world as a newspaper sensation, had been thrust into the arms of a different orphanage and left to scream for a few months, until he was selected like a cola bottle into a pick n mix bag into a new, welcoming family three years later. It had been obvious, even at that age, that they had only wanted him out of a primal sort of urge, and neither parent really had much of a clue about rearing their own young. It was just as well they left him alone the majority of the time, otherwise Arthur was certain he'd probably have ended up in jail instead of them.

As his adoptive parents had utterly no idea how to deal with a relatively quiet seven year old, Arthur was mostly left to his own devices. From what they saw of him when they collected him from the school he'd been immediately enrolled in to keep him out of the house, he had been a near-silent, observant type, and had mainly spent his day reading and staring into space. He had been curious about the world, as all children were, but in the less conventional sense. Instead of seeing, say, a small caterpillar, and putting it straight in his mouth as the common or garden three year old takes pleasure in doing, he would stare at it intently until he lost interest or the article in question moved from his range of sight. His parents found it odd, his lack of kinetic interest with the world around him, but they prioritised many more things than the habits of their new son.

This particular habit hadn't changed for thirteen years.

There he sat, in the dingy little office plastered with smiling faces that were screaming at him to 'feel better', barely covering up the egg-yolk-yellow walls that were so badly painted he didn't think the slackers in his art class could do any worse, staring fixedly at his current subject of interest. Well, not interest, per se, as he had no mild urge to feel intrigued about the person sat opposite him, but there was enough of a feeling akin to that which made the ordeal a little less tedious. Unlike other poor souls who had sat in the same chair as he, Arthur's legs were crossed, his back was straight, and he was looking at the woman on the other side of the table as if he was the one asking the questions. If anything could be assumed about Arthur Kirkland, it was that he composed himself like a gentleman.

"So, did you have a nice weekend?" Blatantly read from the clipboard balanced on her knees, the question didn't take him by surprise. It was a routine now, and he would repeat his lines in monotony when it was his turn to speak. Taking turns to speak was very important; one interruption, one slight interjection, and the jar of pills would suddenly increase in number. Arthur knew how it worked, after all this time, how couldn't he?

"Did you have a nice weekend?" Asking an interrogator their own questions was amusing; he'd like to see her jump that hurdle. She'd managed to make him talk, which had been a challenge considering he rarely talked to anyone, so now she was going to have to work for an answer she could jot down on that clipboard of hers.

The normal woman he had was off having her own vile children, so Arthur had been unceremoniously dumped on the new girl. Despite his celebrity status, he was still stuck with the clean-faced-matching-shoes-and-blouse trainee like a temperamental thirteen year old with mild anger problems. Arthur was so flattered they cared about him so much, but he could tell something was different about this little chat. What was different? He didn't know, but he'd bide his time as he did with everyone, and would wait patiently until she delivered the answer to his doorstep.

"Now now, Arthur, you're not the one holding the clipboard." A 'now, now' was as effective on Arthur as 'don't eat that off the floor' is to a toddler.

"I asked you a question, it's only polite to provide an answer." If his normal questioner was here instead of this amateur, Arthur would have received a firm scolding. Instead, he was graced with a nervous smile and a flick of that all-too-obviously bleached hair. Arthur had never understood why some women bleached their hair even though it was already blonde, but what did he know about what happened in other people's heads? Nothing, that's what, nothing at all.

"Well, I suppose so, if you put it like that." Arthur almost let himself smile. Suppose was a fatal word for any psychiatrist. Psychiatrists don't suppose, they just know. They exist to tell people what is going on in their heads, not to suppose ideas and petty questions about the opinion on one's weekend.

"So did you have a nice weekend?"

"Yes, Arthur, I did," She almost seemed to lose her train of thought. "Thank you."

"That's good," He replied, all the while keeping those eyes fixed on her. She was a curious one, he had to admit, all smiles and B's and C's from college, but bright-eyed nonetheless. "I suppose my weekend was also nice, thank you for asking."

"Do you always beat around the bush like this?"

"I thought these sessions were meant to make me feel better about myself."

The comment hit home, and papers were shuffled and re-ordered as if her script had somehow been altered by what he had said. He supposed he had caught her off guard. Apparently, abuse-ridden orphans were meant to be sad little sods that needed all the love and support that counselling and child benefits could offer in order to be brave enough to face the world again. Not Arthur. Although his staring habits had been strange and silent, he was bloody good at putting up a fight, if he did say so himself. Every slap, every kick, had been met with flushes of anger, not sadness. How dare they push him around like a dog, how dare they select him like a discounted soup can and then leave him to gather dust and bruises in the cupboard. Arthur Kirkland wasn't scared of anyone.

"Sorry, we'll just get started, shall we?" The older woman who normally coached him through these sessions would have laughed and put his remark down as nothing of relevance or reason, but the trainee's heart had not accustomed to the hardships of talking to kids about their problems. No sixteen year old ever poured his heart out about his deepest, darkest thoughts just like that, they would play games until the ball was in their court, so to speak. And for Arthur, the ball had been in the goal from the start. This woman wasn't getting anything out of him; nothing at all.

"That's a good idea, eight minutes have already gone." He loved counting down the half-hour until all the time had been spent faffing over nonsense, then he would get up and leave, not saying another word.

"Yes, I see, so, do you," She stopped, and Arthur's eyes watched her makeup-caked ones flicked down to her clipboard. Amateur. "You've not been approached by anyone in the children's home yet?"

"Certainly not, child safety regulations call for a-"

"I meant as in potential parents, Arthur." She obviously had more resilience than he had first assumed. This was going to be fun.

"I'll have to say no to that as well, it's rather unfortunate."

She laughed. A titter, you could call it, a forced chime of a laugh that was clinical and so obviously wrong that Arthur could never take it seriously. "That's not true, I'm sure there's lots of mothers and fathers looking for a charming fifteen year old such as yourself."

Arthur bristled, but didn't show his irritation at the age mistake. It was because he was short, he knew, but apparently, according to the ADHD-suffering boy who always had appointments after his, stress could stunt growth by up to 40%. Clearly the counselling wasn't working then; he hadn't grown since he was thirteen.

"I agree. I honestly couldn't see why someone wouldn't want an arsy teenager with a record of abuse and delightful social motives."

"Someone does." She replied, and Arthur was gearing himself up for the 'there's a mummy and daddy out there for everyone' talk, getting ready to melt into his subconscious and remain dormant until she stopped talking. Of course there wasn't someone bloody out there for him, his opportunity to present himself as a cute individual had petered out by the time he was five, and even then his nose was already buried in a book and he referred to his less literate peers as 'bloody pooheads'. No-one wanted Arthur Kirkland, and he was pretty much okay with that. The orphanage wasn't bad; he could still go to school and get into a decent college, and then he'd be out and in his own house where he could languish for thirty years and develop homicidal needs. His life was going to turn out just fine without any governing figures getting in his way, and didn't need anyone.

"I think even if you wrapped me in gift wrap and tied a ribbon to my-"

"What I meant was that someone wants to take you in." That was the second interruption in the past five minutes, and Arthur hadn't even used a 'naughty word.'

Arthur took a moment to compose himself, then answered with the ghost of a smile. "And who may this be? Another suffering alcoholic and his mouse of a wife? Can't wait to visit them, it'll be a whole new experience."

"Actually," The papers were ruffled again, and so were Arthur's feathers. Not much interest was ever paid to him and his tragic story save those ruddy papers, so this was proving difficult to play around. The game was becoming more difficult to endure; especially now he knew that round, sympathetic face now held behind it a devious player itself. But, as they always said, it takes two to tango. "It's just a mother, and her son I think."

"She has a son already, why would she want another one?"

"He's nineteen, he just left high school," Arthur groaned. Post-graduates were insufferable pricks. "And his mother wants him to have a brother to look after."

"Surely she knows what she has to do in order to create a brand new child of her own," Arthur said sourly. "Rather than picking from the 'reduced' aisle of children."

The counsellor fixed him with a look that he could only describe as failed sympathy and just sickly patronisation. "It doesn't always work like that Arthur."

"She has to have ulterior motives, no sane mother's going to turn up on the doorstep of this pile of junk and put in an order for Mr Fuck-Up of the Year."

An eyebrow was raised at his somewhat unsavoury language, but he didn't care. He was confused, as well as angry, and he was bored of playing this game. He didn't want a new mummy to cook his dinners with a new brother to play hide and seek with; he wanted to be by himself in his little room and live his life like that.

"She seems really nice…"

"Trust me, they all do."

"No, trust me, this'll be really good for you, it'll help you make friends."

"I don't want to make friends with some stuck up brat who's just graduated from big boy school." Arthur knew he sounded three years old, but some things just don't change.

"He sounds like a very well-mannered young man, and he has his own flat so you'll be staying with him there."

"So mummy comes to see her babies every weekend or something?"

She smiled, and Arthur was contemplating vomiting onto that clipboard of hers, just to see if that would get rid of her smile. "Something like that."

His eyebrow twitched. "Quaint."

"The ladies at the orphanage, as well as myself, would like you to give this a try. You can still come and see us every week as usual, and maybe you can bring your new brother along with you."

"What, and snivel to him and expect him to hand me tissues and journalist's microphones like you all do?"

"Arthur," Her voice grew slightly sterner, but Arthur's contempt just grew. "You have to try and get yourself out there, otherwise you'll be stuck in that little room of yours your whole life. You're sixteen; you should be going out every night with your friends,"

Arthur snorted. "Hah, not likely."

"You could be going to a baseball game with your new brother,"

"Cricket is better."

"You could get a nice little girlfriend to-"

"Okay," Arthur sighed. "We're done with the 'could' and 'should'; I may as well meet them for a little chat."

The clipboard was forsaken, and she looked at him curiously. "Really? You would be able to do that?"

Arthur could do anything. It was whether he wanted to or not that dictated whether he ended up in prison or not. "Easy is the descent into Hell." He muttered, crossing his arms and finally looking away from the woman.

"You've been reading those books again." Her voice had a teasing tone, but he didn't care. There were more fascinations in those books than there had been F's in her exams, so he didn't mind too much about what she had to say.

"Indeed, I like comparing the descriptions of the Inferno to this real life business."

"You're the devil, Arthur."

He blinked, and looked away from her for the first time, his lips quirking up a little around the edges. "I try."

"Well," The counsellor looked up at the clock, suddenly realising they were ten minutes over time. She fussed about with her papers, arranging them over and over again before she heaved herself out of the uncomfortable plastic seat and stood up to usher Arthur out. "You'd better get going; don't want to waste any more of your afternoon."

Arthur, on the other hand, took his time with standing up and composing himself. "Yes, thank you for your time; I'll see you next week."

She smiled that knowing smile adults did too often for his liking. "I'll be giving Mrs Jones a call as well, and tell her you're in."

He jerked his lips up in a grimace akin to a smile, and left the small office where, every Tuesday, he poured out his life story to overly sympathetic women. "Of course, if she'll still have me."

Oddly enough, it was the son who wanted him most.

Well, eventually.

Sorry it's quite a slow first chapter, but I promise there'll be a new chapter soon!
Please review this chapter, I really want to hear your opinions.