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Parent-teacher night was supposed to be a professional affair. It was supposed to be about discussing the kids’ standings in class and how well they were getting along with others. It was supposed to be boring chit chat about grades and, oh yes, your little sweetheart [read: terror] is such a joy, and, oh, they’re very bright, but accelerated programs might not be for them and, what, no, of course I think they’re intelligent, of course, you’re right, what do I know, you’re the parent.
To be honest, Alfred preferred even the brattiest of children over the parents any day.
So then why was it that sitting across from him was an Englishman with a firm scowl and a rigid posture and why, oh why, was that making his heart jump in his chest like a little, baby rabbit? Because that wasn’t supposed to happen.
That wasn’t supposed to happen at all.
"So, um…" Alfred looked down at his packet, frowning lightly at the name there. "Peter does fairly well in reading, but he’s lagging behind a little in math and—,"
“Maths.” The man said, correcting him.
Alfred blinked. Normally when a parent did that he wanted to put their picture up on a dartboard, but something about the little accented lilt and his firm but thinner frame made the teacher want to do something else entirely.
He wasn’t sure why he found it endearing, but it made him think of when his brother had brought home a kitten in a box, the creature a puffing, hissing ball of fur. It seemed intimidating, but mostly it was just cute.
"Yes, well… anyway he’s a bit behind and so I was thinking it could help him if he filled out some supplementary packets or maybe saw a tutor every other week or—,"
"Mr. Jones." The man said—Mr. Kirkland, as far as Alfred was aware. Something about the nature of their meeting had neglected the introduction of first names.
"Uh— yes?"
The man looked at him, eyes a deep, glimmering green. “I don’t mind the packet work or the tutoring or whatever else it is you have in mind.” He said, honestly surprising Alfred because, for once, someone was actually listening to his advice. “But,” The Englishman continued, snapping the teacher’s attention back to him.
For a moment there was silence and Alfred had almost thought he wasn’t going to say any more when,
"Would you happen to know if he has made any friends here…?"
That wasn’t an unusual question, although admittedly it wasn’t a super common one either. Parents usually either assumed their child was doing fine or they were overly doting, but Mr. Kirkland didn’t strike him as being that sort of person. “Oh, um. Yeah, actually. He’s pretty popular amongst his peers.”
Mr. Kirkland’s brow furrowed. “No, I mean…” He hesitated for a moment and then, “Has he made a real friend? Even just one?”
There was something very delicate about the way that question was asked that gave Alfred a strange, sinking feeling. He bit his lip and thought for a moment. “There is one kid who I see him with quite a bit.”
"Oh?" The man’s eyes brightened with interest.
"Yeah. He’s a quiet child. Doesn’t speak English terribly well… but I still see them together a lot." Which was cute, really. He wondered what the other child’s fathers thought about that. He hadn’t spoken to them yet tonight.
Looking up, Alfred nearly faltered.
The scowl was gone, replaced with a fleeting, sincere smile, eyes glowing with a warmth that looked so fragile that it might just shatter at even the smallest provocation.
The teacher’s throat felt tight, the image burned into his mind.
And that was the beginning of his very silly little crush on the single father of one of his students.
His name was Arthur.
Alfred was slightly ashamed of the fact that he had dug that up at all, but, once he had, he found himself fondly thinking just how perfect that name was for him. It was regal, but to the point, just like the man himself.
By extension, he was suddenly paying a lot more attention to Peter. He sort of looked like his father, although far more outgoing, even for a six-year-old. He was sweet in some ways, wild and impulsive in others, and Alfred spent a bit too much time daydreaming about the two of them.
It was a fun, giddy thing to think about—the British man—but he knew nothing would ever come of it. Parents weren’t exactly comfortable with a male kindergarten teacher, but he usually had enough charisma to calm down even the more suspicious ones. He was frequently asked about his wife, which he always said he didn’t have, thus only raising their suspicions of him. He could only imagine the chaos if it happened to get out that he was gay.
No, for now he had to just focus on his career. He couldn’t indulge in things like that if he wanted to teach children— and he did want to teach children. He loved it and they tended to love him too. This was what he was passionate about— encouraging budding minds to open up and expand. Telling them that they could do anything if only they dreamed and worked for it. Bringing up the kids that were struggling and accelerating those that had a wealth of potential. There was so much power in teaching and so many teachers who didn’t quite grasp that.
But Alfred knew.
He could see it in each pair of shining eyes. He could find that one thing that made them fill with awe and wonder. He could shake loose the motivation and the drive to push for a goal.
Alfred loved his job.
He felt like a hero.
So when Peter approached him one day—for the first time actually—Alfred perked up with a bit more anticipation than he normally might have, prepared for the math question or the complaint about another student or, hell, even a sneaky little prank.
What he didn’t expect were the words,
"Do you like my dad?"
Alfred practically choked on his own tongue but managed to save face, taking a drink from his water bottle as he composed himself. And then he turned back to those bright, innocent eyes and asked, “What do you mean?”
Peter’s face crinkled up. “Do you like my dad?” And there it was again. That question with absolutely no explanation for it.
"Why are you asking me this?" He said, because, despite how unlikely it was, there was this pained thump in his chest as though he’d been found out and that creeping fear was scratching at him rather anxiously. It was always the reveal that put him on edge, because each and every time it was a risk.
Hell, if it weren’t for that fear he might have actually chanced dating.
The boy’s head cocked for a moment and then he looked down, his face stormy. “… Dad…” He started off, his tone that which foretold a story. “Dad works really hard. And he’s not always around. And he’s kind of a grump.” The little boy said, quite astute for such a young age. “But he…” The boy struggled for a moment, looking for words.
Alfred waited, patiently on the edge of his seat.
"I think he’s lonely." Peter admitted. "He doesn’t like a lot of people." A pause. "Any people." But then blue eyes brightened. "But he liked you!"
Alfred, damn it all, felt his heart flutter like a fool. “O- oh…?”
"Yeah, so. So do you think you could be his friend? I want him to have a friend."
For a moment it was all Alfred could do to marvel at this child because in that instant he could see that this was truly Arthur Kirkland’s son. They were alike in very strange ways. “Sure, kid.” He said, leaning forward to ruffle his hair. “I’ll be his friend.”
Maybe he was humoring him. Maybe he was serious. Either way, Peter’s face lit up like a Christmas tree and Alfred felt his heart expand ten times over.
"What are you doing here?”
It had been a trap.
Alfred had had his suspicions when Peter handed him a very neatly printed invitation to his birthday party, but curiosity won over in the end and he had gone, slightly pleased in a weird way to know that Arthur lived on the same side of town as he did.
But now, faced with a scowl and awkwardly tensed shoulders, Alfred realized just how foolish all of this had been, because teachers were never invited to their student’s parties and even if they were it wasn’t professional in the least to go. It would put unnecessary stress on the parents after all.
Like it was doing right now.
He handed over the piece of paper, his defense at the ready, “Your son gave me this, so, uh… I thought, ‘Why not?’” He explained, fidgeting. “I was just gonna drop off a present.” He added hastily. “Since he went out of his way and all.” He displayed the primly wrapped box.
Arthur looked at him, then at the gift, then at the invitation.
Then the man sighed, long suffering.
"He’s not here."
Alfred blinked. “What?”
Arthur looked up, looking far more uncomfortable than Alfred had hoped he would be at all of this. “He’s on a trip with—,” The man’s voice cut out, irritated, and then he concluded with, “He’s on a trip. That was what he wanted for his birthday.” There was a dark look on the man’s face, although really it just looked like he was tired and sad.
"Oh." Alfred frowned at this. It was true— the house was silent from what he could hear from the front step. There were no streamers or decorations— no children.
The teacher shifted from foot to foot.
How awkward.
"So, erm… thank you for the consideration." Arthur said, looking at the invitation with more scrutiny now. "I’m really not sure where he got this from, but I’ll be sure to make him apologize for this little prank. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing."
Alfred stared at Mr. Kirkland, his own brow furrowing.
And then it clicked.
Peter had set them up.
Peter had possibly gone on that trip with this in mind.
Because right now Arthur looked not only sad, but outright rejected, and here Alfred was standing before him. And Alfred was a hero. Everyone knew that.
Peter knew that.
He almost sighed aloud in appreciation of the mischief but he didn’t want to give the Englishman the wrong idea so he held it back, instead flashing Arthur a careful smile.
"I don’t mind." He said. Then added, "But since I’m here, do you wanna go get coffee? I have the entire afternoon free."
Arthur blinked at him, suddenly looking quite owlish, and then he slowly said, “Er… Yes, alright.” It was a hesitant acceptance, as though he were trying to feel out Alfred’s intentions.
The teacher grinned slightly, “Great.”
For a long moment Arthur simply peered at him. Alfred vaguely wondered why there couldn’t be a secret handshake that said, ‘I’m gay, you’re gay, let’s go be gay together.’ It would have made things so, so much easier.
"You know, I…" Arthur began. Then he stopped and waited.
"Yeah?" Alfred pressed.
The Englishman’s rather prominent brows quirked. And then he frowned lightly. And then he finally seemed to figure out what it was that he wanted to say.
"Is this a date?"
Alfred’s lips pressed together in humored mirth.
And that was all the answer Arthur needed because he buried his face in his hands and said, “Good lord, Peter is such a little prat.”
Alfred couldn’t help it—
He laughed.