"Da, he will not," a quiet, cool voice drifted from the seat behind you. Ivan Braginsky, who always seemed to fill the space around him with the faint scent of sunflowers and something a little more ominous, smiled pleasantly. "You studied, didn't you, (Y/N)? Unlike some hamburger-loving hero."

"Quit shovin', you spaghetti-shaped idiot," Ludwig, the tall, stoic class representative with perfectly ironed sleeves, grumbled, effortlessly pulling Feliciano back into his own seat by the collar. He gave you a curt, almost imperceptible nod. It was his way of saying 'good morning.'

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 laughed, shaking your head. This was your normal. A chaotic, wonderful normal. But for the last three days, something had been missing. Or rather, someone .

"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."

A snort of laughter escaped you before you could stop it. You quickly covered your mouth.

You glanced to the empty desk to your left. The nameplate read: Arthur Kirkland .

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.

"We'll buy him a hat," you replied.

And there he was.

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.

The bell rang, and the teacher, Mr. Wang (who everyone secretly called "China"), began a lecture about economic trade routes. You tried to focus, but your pen doodled a small pair of bushy eyebrows and a wobbly crown in the margin of your notebook.