Author's Notes: Shit just got real. My first story without a happy ending. This was inspired by so many sad fanfics I've been reading recently, as well as losing my best friend a couple weeks ago over something really petty. The writing styles of all different authors really inspires me and I love how they can turn something so tragic into something beautiful to read with just their words alone. I doubt I'm capable of that at my own capabilities right now, but I had to write something down.
So.
Heads up.
This is gonna be sad. Call a Wambulance cuz shit's about to get dreary up in here.
If you're gonna be somebody's heartbreak
If you're gonna be somebody's mistake
If you're gonna be somebody's first time,
Somebody's last time,
Baby, be mine
If you're lookin' to be somebody's just friends
A little laughin', little lovin', never callin' again
That's just fine
If you're gonna be somebody's heartbreak
Be mine
Hunter Hayes, Somebody's Heartbreak
When you're twelve you realize, with no small amount of panic, that you are interested in boys.
Sure, when you were younger you'd notice things about your fellow male classmates that struck you as odd thoughts to linger on; like in grade two when you noticed how long Anthony Lupow's eyelashes were, that they were like blonde curtains that shielded the blue of his eyes when he peered up at you when you found him in hide-and-seek; like in grade four when Tommy DeMarco briefly grabbed your hand to hurry you off the bus when you were late, and you gave pause in realization that his hand was calloused, but still softer than your own.
Yes, things of that sort.
But it isn't until you move to the States that you're placed into the company of an obnoxious, contagiously energetic boy on a regular basis that you consciously understand what this feeling is.
The boy's name is Alfred Jones, and he also happens to live four houses down from you. His parents greet yours with a warm welcome and oatmeal raisin cookies the week of settling into your new house. Alfred is present and hugs you with enough force to crack bones. It isn't until he sees that you are in his class the next Monday as well that he states you, without asking your consent, to be his self-declared best friend.
You wince at the sunlight pouring from his smile and the warmth his eyes provide and conclude that it might not be so bad. After all, his enthusiasm is hard to detest.
Spending your afternoons helping him with his homework, discovering new territories at the creek by your house, and a surplus of sleepovers which consist of, ironically, no actual sleep make the title of Alfred's best friend that much more of a pristine label. It's like you are a puzzle piece that finally found its place to fit. The best part is that you didn't even know you were part of the right set until now.
Looking at Alfred drinking his Diet Coke on his front lawn, talking nonstop and gazing in awe at the burst of color littering the night sky on your first July Fourth holiday in America, you know that you undeniably like him. It's your first secret you don't share with him.
But hey, you're pretty okay with that, too.
When you are thirteen years old, rapidly approaching your fourteenth birthday, you realize that you hit a little bump in the road.
Up until now there has never been an issue with secretly liking your best friend. So it comes as a bit of a shock to you when he dashes across the schoolyard at lunch one day, grinning ear to ear with a spring in his step. You grin back, unable to hold it in when Alfred's looking at you like that, and he all but slaps you on the back.
"I finally beat you, Art." You hate it when he calls you that.
"Beat me at what?" you inquire.
He's beaming at you, and you feel your knees going weak with his cheeks aglow in the autumn afternoon like that.
"I have a girlfriend!" Alfred gleefully announces, and your smile is gone, heart dropping to your feet in a cold rush like an anvil from a rooftop. Alfred doesn't seem to notice your sudden silence, looping his arm around you and talking your ear off.
Her name is Eva Holly, a brunette with slender hips and a freckled nose and just the tiniest hint of a lisp when she talks. She apparently has liked Alfred for some time – news to you – and had her friend pass him in a note during third period. Alfred says he practically shot out of his seat to accept, but waited with jittery nerves until the bell rang. She giggled and said that he was her boyfriend.
"What, you don't get a say in the matter?" you mutter, hoping it doesn't sound breathless and bitter. Alfred's enthusiasm isn't quite so contagious in this matter that he blindsides you with.
"Well, yeah. It's not like I don't – I just figure . . ." he says, shrugging and looking up at the clouds. Your stomach is in knots and your skin feels clammy. It's not like you weren't expecting this, but it still is surprising enough to leave a burning pinch inside your chest. You've been friends with Alfred for nearly two years and never so much as inquired into his love life (or lack-there-of, his interests more in the sports and roughhousing categories), but you feel as though you would notice if he has a crush. If he likes a girl.
"She's really popular. I can't believe she'd want to even go out with someone like me," he concludes, his eyebrows high into his hairline as he looks expectantly at you, silently urging you to get it. You blink, dumbfounded.
"She's . . . popular?" You suppose she is, but this is why Alfred eagerly accepted her proposal? He nods emphatically and it's as though the balloon in your chest suffocating you deflates a great deal.
"How could I say no, dude?"
And just like that Alfred belongs to a couple. Eva starts to join you both at lunch from there on, and she walks home with you and she jokes and is smart and really is a very nice girl. You can't seem to bring yourself to hate her, but that sting in your chest is still there, dulled down to a throb, each pulse of your heart spilling green blood throughout your veins as you watch them hold hands or cuddle in envy. This feeling is easily negated, however, because Alfred still spends majority of his time with you.
He doesn't take her to the creek or the park you both visit so frequently, still keeping personal traditions and jokes just with you. It's almost as though nothing has changed, so you can't quite complain about this turn of events as much as you'd like to. The fact that Alfred never outright says that he likes Eva romantically also helps buoy that smothered hope inside of you that you never poke or prod or even address.
Eva lasts a total of one month and two weeks before she breaks it off with Alfred. Alfred doesn't show any emotion aside from the small crinkle on his nose when he tells you.
When you are sixteen and a sophomore in high school, you make the mistake of joining the honors program.
You thought it would be enjoyable. It is more challenging than the easy remedial classes you abhor and looks good on a college application, which you keep in mind, considering it is only two years away. But as you join, the workload is overbearing. Not necessarily difficult, but it is time consuming. Alfred briefly becomes a foggy figure in the distance, much like one of those hallucinations in the desert, taunting a dehydrated being into the pleasantries of a watering hole.
Alfred has his own hobbies and friends to deal with, but he makes it abundantly clear on a regular basis that you're neglecting him. When you do have the time away from your binders of papers and he's not at baseball practice, Alfred spends the moment moping about the jokes and stories you're missing out on.
You apologize, but there's really nothing else you can do.
It's on one evening that you sigh and rub your temples and just try to explain it to him for the millionth time that Alfred pouts with an overdramatic moan, draped over your couch like a ragdoll. Your fingers curl in frustration against the material of your pants.
"What am I, your boyfriend?" you ask, sarcastically referring to all the attention he feels leeched out of. It isn't like he's entitled to it, though the sentiment alone is enough to flatter you.
Alfred rolls off the couch and drapes himself across your outstretched legs, your body tensing up. He shuts his eyes and blows a puff of air that ruffles your bangs.
"I thought that was clear."
There is nothing but white noise in your ears, playing on a loop like the cable cut off from a television. The flurry of butterflies are released from their net in your abdomen and your palms begin to sweat. This is not what you expect. Your hand reaches out but halts, hovering over Alfred's head, hesitant to run your fingers through his hair that always looks so soft and smooth. You stop completely when his lips tug up into a grin, blue eyes peering up at you with amusement.
"No homo, of course," he laughs.
You thaw slower than a truck full of frozen stakes in Antarctica, teeth digging into your bottom lip. You don't like it when he makes jokes like that. There is too much what if and maybe he really does in them.
"I just miss our bromance, dude. I don't see you anymore and it sucks." Alfred pulls at a loose thread on your pants and you open your mouth to respond but he waves you away like some bug that's not worth his time. "And I get it. Sheesh. I know it's for school and stuff and blah blah blah. I just gotta get over it; it's my problem."
You want to tell him that you don't want him to get over it. You like this attention sponge of a friend who misses you. Because when Alfred misses you, it makes you feel wanted by a person so sought after, yet he never seeks anyone else out but you. But you can't say that. There's no way to say that without sounding clingy or sappy or gay.
You just smile and give him a Wet Willy that has him squawking and rolling off your lap. "Don't be queer, Alfred."
Inevitability strikes on Alfred's sixteenth birthday.
It's something you hoped to avoid, but dreaded with reluctant certainty would happen: Alfred gets another girlfriend.
This girl's name is Clair Baker, and she's on the dance squad at your school. She's a completely separate entity from Eva back in grade eight in every single sense. Clair is makeup pretty, her face smoothed with cover-up and blush and eyelashes like prickly spider legs soaked in mascara. She's outspoken and cusses when it suits her and she's almost as tan as Alfred.
But the most important thing is that she doesn't get along with you.
You hear her calling you a nerd or acting like you're her grandfather when you adjourn a sweater vest to school. You simply smile a tight lipped smirk and comment on how lovely she looks for a person with acne scars. That one always makes her bristle like a cat. It doesn't help that her face is all angles and points like a feline, to boot.
"You don't like her?" Alfred asks, eyebrows drawn in disappointment after school when you're walking home with him. She apparently mentioned it in passing and he takes it to heart. You wince, unable to defend yourself against sadness in your friend's eyes.
"No," you mumble, the word forced awkwardly from your vocal chords against your will. "It's not that I don't like her . . ." You scrounge quickly for an excuse. "I just don't know her that well." You know her plenty.
You expect the conversation to die there, but two weeks later Alfred is at your door looking like its Christmas day. He announces that you all are going on a double date together, and when you protest and say you don't have a date, the grin on his face makes your stomach clench.
It is the worst experience of your life. You don't know why you agree in the first place (you do know, you do, it's that bloody guilt trip he takes you on), but the evening is as pleasant as a prostate exam from Edward Scissorhands. Alfred sets you up with one of Clair's friends, though she technically isn't her friend, not really. Bonnie Wong spends the night glaring across the table at Clair whenever she kisses Alfred or snuggles too close, eating her salad like the vulture that she is. It appears that she was going to ask Alfred out the day before Clair but the blonde beat her to it.
She has a vendetta and decides to show it in the most obscene way by mirroring what Clair does to Alfred to you.
Your night goes dodging lipstick coated lips and nails like lion claws trying to embrace you. When she sticks her tongue down your throat you throw in the towel and call it a night, Alfred's guilt be damned. When Alfred asks how it went – "You like her, don'tcha? You guys had real chemistry." – you call him a blind twat and hang up the phone.
Somewhere deep down you're trying to reassure yourself that this is just a phase; that Alfred is simply dating Clair for the same reasons he dated Eva: he can't say no to a popular girl. There are no earnest feelings between the two. He puts up with her just because he likes the attention.
You spend the night curled bitterly on your bed glaring at the wall, tear tracks down your burning cheeks when Alfred tells you he gave her his virginity after sneaking some alcohol from her parent's liquor cabinet.
Clair sticks around until graduation.
When you're twenty-one you never touch a drop of liquor.
Alfred gawks and hounds you for it, saying that you need to take advantage of what's in front of you. You bite back any comments about how willing you would be if only Alfred would let you do that to him, instead telling him that you have plenty of time to drink in your life. You just need a proper occasion.
Alfred moves out of his parent's house a few months later and you both decide to get a flat together. This is occasion enough and you spare no expense, nerves buzzing and head spinning with adrenaline. You know living with Alfred when your feelings for him have budded into something you can't control – a sort of shrubbery blossoming ripe bulbs of longing and affection – is an action that will bite you in the butt someday. Your gut says someday soon so you drown it in alcohol and tell it to shut up.
Seeing Alfred is enough for you, you try to convince yourself. Being his friend is enough. It's better than the alternative.
After living in Alfred's company for a few months you realize you are wrong about that. If anything, living with him causes the shrub to tangle out of control, consuming everything in its path and making your heart ache. You see Alfred reading the cereal box ritualistically every morning. You see him walking around in sweatpants and a towel in his hair after a shower. You see how he falls asleep with a trickle of drool down his chin on the couch with the telly blaring when studying for finals. You see so many Alfreds you never even fathomed existed and you can't contain yourself.
You find yourself more heartbroken than you've ever felt, a sea of depression rolling in with crashing waves. It's with this realization that you understand what you can never have. You can never be more than friends with this boy and now you know for sure that friendship is not enough.
It will never be enough for you.
When you wake up some random morning in October with a sour mouth and a gut full of nausea, Alfred strolls into your room with a raised eyebrow, toothbrush hanging from his lips. He snickers about you having a hangover and needing to go to work soon, so you call him a fucking piece of shit and roll over to cover your head with a pillow. One sentence causes you to jolt, your bare shoulder blades protruding like wings from your back into the chilliness of the bedroom.
"I love you, man."
You turn your head to stare at Alfred with what is possibly the worst case of bead-head and bloodshot eyes. He lets loose a bark of laughter, some toothpaste spatter hitting your door.
"Dude, you need to quit drinkin'. It took me forever to get that movie reference."
Your outward bewilderment causes him to toss you his mobile phone and you stare at the text messages in horror. Your first confession to this lovely, horrible boy and you were too drunk to commit it to memory. You play it off and say that you have to get ready for work.
In the shower your forehead rests against the tiles as the hot water drips over your face. Thank goodness for Jason Segel and his abhorrent movie, and thank goodness for Alfred's stupid naivety. You don't purchase anymore alcohol for some time and make Alfred get his personal liquor cabinet equipped with a lock and all when he comes of age, too.
At the age of twenty-three you graduate from college.
Alfred throws you a small party with the few friends you possess and eats nearly half the cake on his own. He finds it hilarious that it's shaped in the gag form of a penis, but you merely smugly comment that he's the one who consumes the most of it. He flips you the bird and goes back for another slice.
During the handful of years living with Alfred you come to understand him more than you thought you would. His quirks and mannerisms are practically your own, and you know that you will never love someone as much as the man purposely making his brother cringe by seductively licking the frosting from the phallic pastry he bought you.
You stare at your slice in morbid thought, hating that you will never possess what you covet. You've seen girls come and go from these rooms, always there when they don't last. Sometimes Alfred will shrug it off with a stern look on his face, other times he will get drunk and babble about bros before hoes and pass out on you. You recall only one time where you catch him crying after a particular breakup, though he hides it by dropping the pepper container and saying some got in his eyes.
There are too many times where you've had the displeasure of hearing some of his escapades through the walls, believing that you were asleep or at work. Your face burns with shame that some of those nights you were leaning against your bedpost, eyebrows furrowed, palming vigorously at your trousers and panting along with his small sounds of pleasure leaking in through the vent.
Loving Alfred is a beautiful curse that you're not entirely positive you'd give up if you could.
Alfred inquires what you plan to do with your life. You inform him that you don't know yet.
He makes a comment about marriage and being your best man, but telling you not to knock a broad up before then and get stuck with the child. He says you'd look like a common law couple raising some kid together.
You damn him for putting such a pleasant thought into your brain.
Alfred graduates a year later when he's twenty-three as well, and you're saddened to say that he's moving out.
"Lydia asked me to move in with her. You know I love it here, but this was just a gig for school, y'know?" he says, trying to placate the obvious misery in your form. He grabs your shoulders and you feel the wall inside of you crumbling, refusing to show some sort of breakdown in front of your friend. You must have an ugly expression on because his face softens. "I'm only five minutes away. I gotta – Man, I might marry her. I gotta start thinking about stuff like that now, just like you."
You snort unapologetically, seeing him pause when you brush his arms away bluntly.
"Marriage? You've only known her six months, Alfred," you spit. Jesus, you're so pathetic, it disgusts even you. "Just because you finish college means you've gotten your shit together? Well, bravo, mate, you sure fooled me. I suppose I'll go adopt some third world child and start my own business, now that I'm finished with school and all."
Alfred frowns. "I didn't say it like that. I just think –"
"Yes, yes. I know what you think. Time to grow up," you mutter, looking off to the side and taking deep breaths through your windpipe that feels like a shoe has crushed it.
"Yeah, a little," he admits.
Alfred is out by the end of the month with a bear hug and rowdy invitation to see him. You bite your tongue and don't tell him that you know this is a mistake. You don't have the right to criticize him when he's trying to be an adult for once, though he never showed interest before.
You make him leave the liquor cabinet and remove the key taped behind the fridge where you always knew he kept it.
Alfred never comments on the nights he receives incoherent texts from you.
Surprisingly, Lydia and Alfred last much longer than you expect. She makes it past the year mark when you turn twenty-five.
God, you're twenty-five and alone in an apartment that reeks of rum and self-pity when you get a knock on your door. It's raining outside and you wonder who would willingly be up at this time of night. Well, aside from you, that is. You blink stupidly when you see Alfred there, soaked to the bone and looking at you with what you know is a broken smile.
"Hey, can I stay here tonight?" he asks.
You wordlessly step aside and he enters what once used to be a bachelor pad, as he used to call it.
As he removes his sweatshirt and soggy shoes, you notice the sheer lack of girlfriend that usually accompanies him whenever he visits. It's been seven months since Alfred moved out and it's surreal to see him back here by himself, slumped against the couch and running his fingers through dampened hair.
You let him have his space and sit on the opposite end, watching a rerun of Dharma and Greg with a beer in your hand. When infomercials kidnap your television screen you glance over to see Alfred staring intently at it.
"You're just here for the night?" you ask.
He crumbles and rubs his face forcefully with a dejected groan. "She dumped my ass."
You can't say you're shocked but can't help but feel for him. He obviously liked (likes) Lydia, otherwise how would he have left for so long? You scoot down the couch and carefully rub soothing circles between his wet shoulders. He makes some choked noise in the back of his throat and leans against you.
"She says I'm not mature. Can you believe that? Me?"
You smile against his hair and breathe in cigarettes and coconut shampoo and something woodsy that is so distinctly Alfred.
"Seems to be the general consensus."
He vents for a long while, though you can tell any bitching towards the woman is half-hearted and false just by his tone alone. You become unresponsive when he sniffs and rubs his sleeve against his red nose.
"Maybe I'm just done with women. They don't seem to like me very much."
It's meant as a joke; a pick-me-up for a down and out fellow with his hopes crushed. In your mind drunk off loneliness and depression and anguish you don't see it for what it is. Before you're even conscious of what you're doing, you grab Alfred's face between your hands and kiss him.
His lips are cold from the outside storm, but his breath is as hot as fire, searing against your skin when your teeth clack together. They're so soft and your body is reeling at how nicely they fit against your own, and for one moment that ever constant pain that's been residing inside you for who knows how long untangles and is released. For one moment you can breathe.
But then it comes to a halt when Alfred's mind catches up with the situation, his limbs flailing and fingers prying your hands away from him. He's across the couch and on the floor in less than a second, eyes large and disbelieving.
"What the fuck?" he shrieks, horror etched into his facial features.
Oh, right. You forget he's straight.
"Arthur?" he demands, voice shaking and confused and God, you feel that balloon inflating inside your ribs, pushing them out and tearing through your skin like shards of glass. You need to find your own voice so you swallow the building lump in your throat and try to look like this doesn't mean anything to you.
"You said you're done with women," you comment, and applaud yourself when your voice only cracks once. Alfred's still sprawled on the floor staring at you like you're about to deep fry him and serve him at a restaurant or something. He sputters, knowing that he did just say that.
"I meant – It was supposed to be – You – You're gay?" he blurts instead, arms thrust in your direction for emphasis. You know you must tread carefully or fuck up the only thing that hasn't sent you hurtling towards your liquor cabinet and drinking until you don't know where you are anymore.
"I was just trying to help, lad. Don't throw me under the bus because you can't own up to your own words," you explain, sidestepping the question. He blinks at you rapidly, mouth shutting but his eyes still as large as dinner plates. You can see the gears working in Alfred's brain against the low teal light illuminating from the television. He slowly sits up but doesn't get off the floor.
"Right," he says after a long, tense moment, and you feel your hands trembling against the couch. Thank the Lord he can't see them in the dark as you keep a poker face strong. He exhales and looks at his feet. "Right," he repeats.
"Do you want my help or not?" you implore when the silence becomes too much. Alfred hesitates, appearing frightened of you when you lean forward minutely. You stop immediately, heart bleeding inside you when he regards you with actual fucking fear. "It's your choice," you mutter, shrugging noncommittally.
In Alfred's desperation to get rid of the pain from the girl he claimed he could marry only seven months ago, he cautiously joins you once more on the couch. And when he takes the longest swig from your beer you've ever seen, you feel the throbbing of your rapid heartbeat in your temples, down your arms, through your abdomen like tribal drums.
His lips come back on yours and you melt.
If there's one thing to lament in your entire life, it's the year you turn twenty-six.
Twenty-five is the year you develop a disease called alcoholism to cope with your best friend moving out. Twenty-five is the year you sink into a never-ending pit of depression that even medication won't numb. Twenty-five is the year bitterness starts to invade you like a virus, affecting your social life as well as your work life.
Twenty-five is the year Alfred lets you kiss him.
It happens on three occasions, all of which you feel guilty over. He is still vulnerable from his breakup and takes your physical offerings as appeasement; a balm to coat a wound from a selfless friend. It's ridiculous, even you know that. But who are you to argue with something that restores the colors that drained from your world years ago?
Nearly anytime you mention Lydia when Alfred is in the vicinity of alcohol you become pinned to whatever furniture is convenient at the time, rushed and desperate touches littered about your person. You test this theory often, and finally manage to understand that it has to be a particularly rainy day like the day of said breakup, and Alfred must be drinking.
You keep the blinds open and remove the lock from your liquor cabinet.
It's always above clothing and nothing near what you would like, but when you rut back against his pelvis, holding it in place with sturdy hands and feeling his own bulge in his jeans touching yours, Alfred jumps out of his skin and looks violently ill. You thought fear in his eyes was bad; it's nothing compared to the nausea that replaces it.
You make sure not to push it that far, keeping up the charade of nonchalance. If you appear distant and detached then Alfred will ease himself back to you and feel reassured.
You love Alfred.
Alfred wants comfort.
You come home after work when the sky is drizzling, your skin tingling and face warming when you walk through the door with groceries. Alfred is nowhere in the house, and it's when you see a sticky note pasted to the fridge that your shoulders sink.
She wants me back! ;)
Alfred
You eat dinner in the darkness of your kitchen, alone.
Lydia and Alfred are on and off for the next two years. Neither of them can seem to commit. You're twenty-nine when Alfred lands yet again on your doorstep.
It's the rainy season again, and he doesn't even bother saying anything when you open the door at ten PM, his arms around your shoulders and shoving you inside. You don't even have the chance to ask what it's about this time, simply falling into routine and tugging at his lip with your teeth when he pins you to the couch.
Each breakup Alfred is more frantic than the last. He's breathing harshly, eyes red-rimmed and wild when he starts in on your belt buckle. Your heart is beating a mile a minute, fingers grazing under his shirt and feeling his stomach muscles ripple when you come into contact with them.
This is a terrible idea and you know it. Just like each breakup with Lydia, each morning when Alfred and his girlfriend resolve their problems you're left alone in a broken, shattered mess on the floor with nothing but a memory and grief, grief, grief. But much like chocolate, you simply cannot just have one bite. It's too tempting and any thoughts you have of absconding from this are blown out the window when he touches you - strictly skin on skin.
The morning comes and Alfred is gone, another note placed under the corner of a vodka bottle on your coffee table.
Too far.
Alfred
"Too far," is all it reads. You find out that Lydia called during the night and he missed it, apologizing and wanting to talk. Like the obedient dog he is, Alfred goes back to her, your tryst no more than a hazy dream under the cloud of poor judgment and liquor. You tell him that you understand and that you are just glad to help, then you hang up the phone. You sound pleasant, and you almost believe it, too, until your phone is hurtling against the wall and your nails are digging crescents into your face when you drop to your knees.
You don't want to keep wanting this love.
Another breakup happens that same year and, as much as it pains you, you push Alfred away when he tries to kiss you. His eyebrows furrow and you shake your head, smiling a plastic smile laced with falsities that make you sick.
"You're right, lad. This has been going too far. I think that's as much as I can help in that regard," you say, screaming and howling inside the cage of your skull. He takes it fairly well, though you see him try to argue with you weakly for a moment to continue this dysfunctional setup you both have going on. It hurts your heart more than anything, but then he abstains from the subject and starts explaining what caused this breakup while flipping through your channels. Halfway through you excuse yourself to the restroom.
You put a hole in the wall and claim it was the door handle.
When you are thirty years old you get a text from Alfred that makes you numb.
Lydia's pregnant. He's going to be a father.
You text back a congratulations and turn your phone off. You attend the party they throw with their friends, Alfred looking so fucking excited with his arm around the blonde beside him. She literally looks like she's glowing, you can't help but note with a small sense of interest. You take a swill from your beer when they approach you and you smile and congratulate them like everyone else.
"I'm happy you're happy," you say, and it is genuine. You are happy he's happy. That's all you've ever wanted. It just pains you to know he won't be happy with you.
"Thanks, dude." Alfred gives you an affectionate clap on the back. Lydia smiles that petite smile at you and you nod in her direction. Fuck, she's so tiny.
"Arthur, can I have a word with you for a minute?" she asks when Alfred is busy with someone by the kitchen. You raise an eyebrow but concede, curiosity getting the better of you. What can she possibly want to talk about with you? For a moment your body turns to ice, scenarios of Alfred blabbing about your bizarre form of comfort to her when they got back together. This fades quickly because when you're both alone she's got the warmest eyes trained on you.
"I know you and Alfred have been friends for a long time. And I just wanted to say that I appreciate everything you've done for him."
Your mind flashes to Alfred's gasping face under your palms on your carpet and your smile becomes pinched, blameworthy.
"Don't mention it."
She grins and it looks so much like Alfred's that your shoulders sag. Her green eyes glance about, making sure no one else is within earshot when she gestures you closer. You hesitantly bend down and feel her breath against the shell of your ear when she speaks.
"Don't tell Alfred I told you this, but if it's a boy, we're going to name it Arthur."
Your body springs up like a two-by-four, nostrils flared in disbelief. She nods eagerly and the drink almost slips from your hand. This is too much. It's too Goddamn much and you excuse yourself in a rushed breath. You leave their apartment and drive until you can't see the lights of the city anymore.
The sky is relatively clear when you park in a field littered with stars up above and corn down below. Your hands run over your face as you sit against the hood of your red Honda, tongue clicking against your teeth disagreeably. When you look up, your vision is blurred by the stinging mist in your eyes, and you catch sight of a lone scarecrow's silhouette in the moonlight, the figure forever destined to be alone in this sea of endless nothingness.
You stare at it a long time and decide that you two are one in the same.
You put another bandage on your heart and drive back home.
You are Alfred's best man at his wedding the May after you turn thirty-one.
You smile and laugh and tell the bride that she's beautiful while shooting some homely remarks towards Alfred. God, you don't mean any of them. He looks stunning.
The ceremony is small, nice, something that the Alfred you knew back in high school would never want. He always wanted big, enthusiastic events that boosted his ego and put him in the spotlight. The man standing and kissing that petit woman in front of the clapping crowd is a completely different person; a caterpillar turned butterfly.
The wedding goes by without a hitch and the reception is a time to celebrate. You watch the dancing bride and groom, managing another smile when Alfred looks over her shoulder and beams at you. You raise your glass weakly and forcefully look away. Sitting at your table is Lydia's mother, and beside her is baby Arthur.
You stare at the child, eyes squinted and hair sticking up like static from a balloon took hold of it. He was born a few months ago, but you weren't present like Alfred wanted you to be, instead out of town on business. You work a lot these days. He called you and you didn't pick up until he left four voicemails, one littered with a plethora of cuss words that you haven't heard since his potty mouth in college.
"I had the baby, you dipshit. His name's Arthur."
You had swirled the ice cubes in your drink at the hotel bar you were at, watching the silent baseball game on the telly above in boredom. "You don't say? Congrats, love." You remember when he hated you calling him that, but after years he didn't even bat an eyelash anymore.
"You're going to be the Godfather."
"Am I, now?"
"Yes, Arthur, you fucking are. Jesus, why are you being so pissy lately?"
Because I love you, you simpleton. "Sure, yes. Godfather. I like the ring of that. Call me when you'd like to get that official," you'd said.
You stare at the infant with a sense of unhappiness, like this is all some elaborate joke and he's the cause of it. You don't want to be Arthur's Godfather. You don't want to be Arthur's anything. But, like always, you cannot refuse your friend, and you carry on with his wishes. After Lydia and Alfred's honeymoon they make it official.
You hold baby Arthur in your arms and let the tiny droplets of sunshine that is Alfred's unabashed smile at you break through the clouds of your gnarled heart.
It's a wonder the damn thing is still beating.
When baby Arthur is no longer baby Arthur, you're nearing thirty-five.
You're still ever the bachelor and ever the workaholic, but every now and then Alfred wrangles you in to babysit. You want to move away from Alfred's family after the wedding, knowing you won't be able to take living five minutes from the very thing you'll never have. But when you move to Oregon, Alfred persistently follows.
"You're family, duh," is his response. You choke on bile.
Family. You don't want to be his family. How can someone who practically fucked you be family?
He hands you the child anyway and goes about unpacking the boxes of the apartment next door to yours. You stare after him in desperation before glancing down at the blob dangling from your arms. Arthur has ratty hair and his mother's green eyes and you hate to admit that he looks a lot like you.
Bollocks.
Arthur bites at his thumb in what you presume to be a nervous habit before you grimace, looking around uncomfortably before setting him down.
"There you go. Now . . . Go sit down or play or whatever it is you like to do," you instruct, never the best with children. Arthur continues to stare at you and you shift the weight of your feet and adjust your tie. "What?"
"Up," he orders simply, arms outstretched towards you. You balk.
"Er – no. No up."
"Up," the toddler keens, fingers wiggling like worms. You sigh, looping your hands under his armpits and lifting him. He does not smile or frown or anything. He just stares at you.
You wonder how this living situation is ever going to work.
It turns out you like to gossip with children, you realize at the age of thirty-seven.
Alfred and Lydia have been living next door to you for two years and you still haven't gotten used to it. They kiss and laugh and hold hands and you want to vomit. They join the PTA and make you get involved with little Arthur's activities, much to your chagrin, and talk about getting a dog or a hamster or something. You don't know. Arthur's words are still a little choppy and his stutter is indecipherable.
He tells you about things in the Jones house, about how Alfred is with Lydia and what they talk about. You nod and try to glean enough about your best friend, who feels so distant now that he's a father. You miss sharing an apartment with him and helping him with late night study sessions and kissing him on the couch and you just fucking miss him.
But you don't tell Arthur as you stack the Lincoln logs, so you just nod.
He smiles more often at you now, but he still stares. One time he slips up and calls you daddy. You drive across town to deposit the kid with his mother at her doctor's appointment, your hands shaking. Alfred reassures you it is a common mistake but you will have none of it, shutting the door and making yourself a drink.
Arthur tells you that his mommy wants another baby and you feel a cold sweat grip you. You don't let it show but just ask what daddy says about that. Arthur shrugs and says daddy doesn't want more kids. You don't know how to take that, considering Alfred is fantastic with children. If you were ever allowed to have any with him you'd be sure to look like Mitt Romney's family or something; children galore.
Arthur says daddy doesn't want to hurt you anymore, whatever that means. When he looks up from the wet drop that lands on his little hand, he sees you crying and stares.
The bandage falls off of your heart and onto the floor.
You are Arthur Kirkland, a man who has loved his best friend for his entire existence, and today is the worst day of your life. You are thirty-eight.
The sky is rainy when you walk into the police station, your clothes stuck to you like a second layer of skin. You think of all those nights Alfred showed up at your doorstep wet and broken and all alone like you. You are no different from back then, but at least he found someone who matched.
Your legs move mechanically until an officer points you in the direction of a small boy huddled under a blanket. He looks up at you and smiles, but you just stare at him. You are out of town on business when you receive two phone calls. You don't pick up for Alfred; you are in a meeting, after all. He will call you back if it's important enough. But the second call jostles you out of your seat three hours later.
You take a plane back immediately.
The words go in one ear and out the other when a large man in uniform pulls you aside. You stare at Arthur the whole time. Something about wet roads; an oncoming truck; going quickly and painlessly. You can't quite piece it together now, and you vaguely know that you don't want to. Instead, you gather Arthur up in your arms and wince under the somber expressions the officers bestow on you.
The car ride back to your house is quiet, aside from Arthur's rambling about having a fun time at the babysitter's until the police showed up. He's not sure what's wrong, though you know he knows something is, and is worried his mommy and daddy are going to think he did something bad if they see police at his house.
You reassure him they won't.
The house is dark and hollow when you enter, dropping Arthur's backpack full of weekend clothes by your couch. You turn on some cartoons and give him macaroni and cheese. When that seems enough to keep him occupied, you start to clean your kitchen. You've never liked kitchens. Bad things happen in kitchens.
Alfred tells you he's moving out in a kitchen.
Alfred tries to kiss you in a kitchen.
You find out Alfred is going to be a father in a kitchen.
You sit down and stare at your mobile, seeing your voicemail box with a hovering exclamation point over it. With a buzzing in your ears, you click play and hold the phone up to your head. There is some static on the other end until what is distinctly Alfred's voice reaches you.
"Hey, Art." Christ, you hate when he calls you that. "We just dropped Arthur off at the babysitter's. Too bad you're out of town. I know you secretly like kids, you asshole," he laughs. You stare at the clock on your wall and see that it isn't ticking. You wonder if it needs new batteries.
"Anyway, I just wanted to check in with you, but you must be busy. I'll call back in a little after the movie, okay?" There is a pause, one that makes you sit up straighter when Alfred pulls away from the phone. You expect something like goodbye or see ya later. Instead, you get a laughter that sounds like wind chimes. "I love you, man."
The message ends and you're left staring at the clock with white knuckles around your phone and the bloodiest heart in existence leaking from your chest. It rolls down your body and mixes with the rain water pouring from your eyes.
When Arthur peeks his head in the kitchen, he appears distraught, rushing to your side in confusion. You pull him close and tuck your head in his neck with a rough sob, your last remaining link to your best friend and fuck, you've never wanted to hold something so tight in all your life and never let go.
You are Arthur Kirkland, and you are thirty-eight when your heart finally breaks.
The hope is fading from my lips
When I kiss you with goodbye
Now when you let go of our last embrace
Please don't look me in the eye
Secret's out, that I just might care about you
You broke me, you're leaving
There's nothing I can do
Kesha, Goodbye