"Arthur," you said, your voice soft but firm. "I don't want 'cool.' I don't want 'heroic.'" You squeezed his fingers. "I want the guy who saves me a seat every morning without being asked. The guy who slips extra biscuits into my bag because he knows I skipped breakfast. The guy who, despite setting things on fire, tries to do something kind for the whole school."
"Who said you failed?" you asked gently.
That made him pause. He turned his head slightly, one emerald eye peeking out from behind his messy fringe. "…I didn't think you'd care for the company of a… of a stubborn, failed magician."
He stared at your intertwined hands, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "You… you really don't mind the chaos?"
You pulled a chair up next to him, close enough that your knees almost touched. "Alfred is Alfred. But he doesn't leave an empty seat next to me. You do."
You walked in anyway, closing the door behind you. "You've been gone for three days. Everyone's noticed. I noticed."
"You know," he murmured as you walked towards the door, "my brother's hair is still blue. We might have to fix that first."
The final bell had yet to ring, but the energy in Classroom 2-A was already buzzing with the lazy anticipation of a Friday afternoon. You sat near the window, the spring breeze rustling the pages of your notebook. Around you, the world was loud.
You glanced to the empty desk to your left. The nameplate read: Arthur Kirkland .
He squeezed your hand. And just like that, the empty seat beside you wasn't empty anymore. It was home.
"I sit between Feliciano and Gilbert on a daily basis," you deadpanned. "Chaos is my default state."
Meanwhile, a blonde whirlwind was spinning by the chalkboard. "HAMBURGER! I mean, GOOD MORNING, CLASS!" Alfred F. Jones, the school’s energetic ace of the baseball team, was attempting to write the date in three different colors of chalk. He winked at you. "Yo (Y/N)! Ready for history? I bet I can get a higher score than you on the pop quiz."
He wasn't sick. He wasn't on a trip. He was just… absent. And the silence he left behind was louder than Alfred’s shouting or Feliciano’s singing. You missed the way he’d grumble about the tea being too weak, the way he’d wave his wand when he thought no one was looking, the way he’d get flustered and turn pink if you caught him staring.
You didn't go to the cafeteria. Instead, you walked to the old music room at the end of the third floor, a place you knew Arthur sometimes hid to read or practice his "magic." The door was slightly ajar.