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Alfred was bullied as a kid.
It was just the usual, of course. They’d called him “braceface”, made fun of the bowl cut his mom insisted made him look adorable, the glasses too big for his face, but it was nothing he ever talked about it because, well, it was nothing. They were children.
He’d grown older, and even before his shoulders broadened, before he joined the football team, everyone was okay with him. Just like that, they’d grown out of it. Nobody gave a damn about braces or glasses in middle school. So Alfred had been bullied, yes, but it was never anything serious.
What it had been was a sort of revelation. It had given him insight into the minds of ex-attackers. The kids who’d made the rude comments when they were younger were always the ones that were nervous around him in class. They laughed at his jokes, they made good company, yes, but they were always so shifty. Alfred chalked it up to the fact that it meant they were guilty.
Applying a similar analysis to Arthur Kirkland, Alfred concluded that Arthur was the same. He was guilty.
It was either that or he had a very, very strong emotion of some different nature. That was as far as Alfred could tell.
“So, final thoughts?” Alfred asked, cautiously, seeing as Arthur looked just about ready to puke any moment now. “Still hate me?”
Arthur blinked. He took a controlled breath, parted his lips as if to say something, then furrowed his brows and shut his mouth. He didn’t speak.
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