A/N: hey, lovelies! Welcome to the re-write of Novocaine! I'm super excited, as I like the style I used for this first chapter better. In this updated version, chapters will typically be longer. This one, however, is short; please forgive me. I'll also put together a youtube playlist for this, if I am able. (Edit: my youtube channel is Yesteryear's Killer Liner. The playlist is called Novocaine Companion playlist.)
Unfortunately, I only have a re-write of chapter 1 so far. You see, I'm prone to a little issue that causes pain in my wrist (not carpel tunnel, before anyone worries), so I have to be super careful when it flares up. I can still type without causing any further pain to my wrist, but it's slow. Luckily, I wrote this chapter ahead of time.
Enough about me. On with the story.
Cheers!
-YY
Summary: Music is Arthur's one way of expressing himself. It allows him to show the emotions he never talks about. And then, he meets Francis. Handsome, kind (and hella hot) Francis. And his heart feels like it's going to burst. But how can someone devoid of love and lacking care ever fall in love? Though thinks that he can't feel anything after all these years, what Arthur doesn't realize the only thing numbing him is himself.
Playlist:
1- While My Guitar Gently Weeps (The Beatles)
Some lives want nothing. They are content; complete. Some lives were a mess. They just felt wrong; either strange, the way a too small tee shirt feels, or the way the pain of scraping one's knees on the rough cement feels.
Arthur's life was completely wrong in every way.
His family was all wrong, though he had not realized it until later. He felt stupid for not noticing earlier.
His father had always favored booze. It had a negative effect on him, dragging him into the abusive stupor that came with having far more than just a couple of pints. He never had dared to touch the children before; only his wife. For five years, the young boy was blissfully unaware. For six years, he watched in horror as she kept it together for her children. When he turned twelve, the divorce papers were filed.
Many would have blamed the ale. Arthur didn't blame the alcohol itself. He blamed the sheer stupidity of the user, not noticing his mind slowly fading away into intoxication. Deciding to be drunk. His father's choice was the reason that Arthur's dear mother had left. The reason he saw her only every other week.
Some would have realized their wrongdoings and gone to correct them. Arthur's father did not. His drunken anger over his former wife had slowly shifted to his children.
The Kirkland Family consisted of five children, and as each one grew up and moved out, more of the brunt of the anger fell on the rest. Allistor, the oldest, had been awarded a scholarship to play rugby at a school. Owen was living with his girlfriend, Wes, and had enough of a mind to take one of the twins, Niamh, with him.
That left Liam and the one whom the other siblings considered the baby. Arthur.
Years passed, each year marring Arthur, nothing more than his spirit. No one had the nerve to tell their mother.
He had one person he ever talked to about it; more of a brother than anyone in his nuclear family. Alfred never told anyone. He did all that Arthur needed him to: he listened.
In the break before his last year of secondary school, when he was 16, Alfred introduced him to that which changed his life.
Fall Out Boy. ACDC. Green Day. All American, but all in tune with how he felt. The music brought new meaning and thrill to him.
And he loved every bit of it.
No action goes with out reaction. Soon enough, nearly every cent that Arthur was given went towards his obsession. CDs stacked upon his desk, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and Queen making room for albums by The Sex Pistols, the Clash, and The Who. Nearly every outfit that was not his school uniform became black, leather, stressed, or plaid. Unruly blonde hair was soon highlighted with green, and piercings further marred his skin, yet in a way that the Brit found to be acceptable.
In the corner of his bedroom, his most prized possession lay. He had bought it wit the help of his mother; a bright red Fender Squire. Only through that did he really show himself; raw emotion let out only under the disguise of music.
He felt like he had a calling, and he'd go to the ends of the earth to follow it.
Leaning against his headboard, he gently strummed out the song, softly singing along to it. The amp was unplugged; he didn't need to start a row with his father today.
"I look at you all, see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps."
"Pretty song."
He froze, looking up to see Alfred prying his bedroom window open.
"You could have bloody knocked, you know," he huffed, shoving his pick in his pocket as the American student stepped off the ladder and into the room.
"And face the wrath of his drunken-ness?" He laughed. "Ha! No, thanks! But really, what was that song? The Beatles?"
Arthur figured he was here for a reason. "What the fuck do you want?"
"Woah, woah," the American threw up his hands. "Who said anything about that?"
"Just get on with it."
"Fine, fine, oh-great-captain-eyebrows..."
Balling his fists, Arthur growled. "Alfred Jones, get to the bloody point!"
"Ouch. Someone's in a bad mood... I guess I won't tell him about the band members I found."
Looking up at him, Arthur's green eyes widened. "Band members...?"
"Hah, now you're paying attention."