Falling for Crime

Chapter 9

"Hey, Alfred?"

"Hm?"

The bright blue-eyed prisoner looked to the solemn-sounding brit. The American noticed the other blondes' uncomfortable fumbling and fidgeting with his cell keys, and shifted his gaze between Arthur's fidgeting hand and his averted eyes. "What's the matter, Arthur?"

"If...if by chance, you had the option to be free earlier than your persecution, would you take it?"

Alfred had never heard such a question from the Brit, let alone had never heard him imply such things. The American gulped, leaning back on his bed.

"I don't know, man. I would probably take it."

It had been a little over three months since Alfred F. Jones' first entry in United National Prison. The same day flew by him, routine after routine. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday Arthur would guard him. Friday and Thursday were labor periods, where the Swedish man took Alfred's post. The American tried not to get himself into trouble as often as he could, although sometimes he couldn't help it. He recalled one time where he landed his first real punch on that one Danish prisoner(after being provoked to no end), before proceeding to take a harsh beating. Alfred remembered the harsh blows he had taken on every part of his body and being escorted into a bright white room- according to Arthur, was the nurses center. Alfred remembered how amused he was when he finally healed up and was escorted back to his main cell, with how concerned Arthur was when he saw the Americans' condition.

Alfred had gotten decently buff since his first day. He noticed how as each week passed, Labor Period got easier. And not too long ago, the American even got promoted to do even harder harsh, strenuous work.

At some point, the American completely forgot why he was in here to begin with. This was life for him, and this was how it was going to be until he was free. Some days are hard. Some days, all he wants to do is sleep away the morning, afternoon, and night. But then other days, Arthur is there to pick him up, promise him that freedom is on his way, promise him that he'll make it out unscathed. Arthur was Alfred's last grip on seeing proper daylight again.

Lunch had just ended. Alfred sat in his cell, as per usual, leaned up against the wall on his creaky, uncomfortable prison bed. He stared at the sad barred window, a mental clock ticking in his mind. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Where was Arthur? He was late. Again.

At first, Alfred thought it might have been stupid Francis' fault. The American recalled once during shower period that the dirty frenchman tried groping him, and Alfred almost put his head through the tiled walls. Hopefully Francis wasn't giving Arthur any more trouble than he's been put through.

"Arthur, why were you so late to come back to your post...? I've been waiting all this time for you to come back, babe."

Arthur looked tired, drained, almost sad. He leaned down and pressed his head up against the wall, pulling out a cigarette. "I'm sorry, Alfred. There's been a serious situation."

The American had already heard only an hour before. A prisoner had attempted taking his own life. "Yeah, was it that suicidal prisoner not too far down?"

"Yes, but," Arthur gulped, "It was one of the italian mafia brothers. 11408."

Alfred paled. Lovino..? He recalled somewhat 'befriending' the rude prisoner not too long ago during lunch period. Well, 'befriending', more like forming an alliance. Alfred swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably. "Is he okay...?"