Don't Jump
Arthur Kirkland lives in a rather sad town. It's small and desolate, planted ever-so cleverly in the middle of nowhere. It consists of an elementary school, a middle school, a high school, a small-scale convenience store, a pub, and a train station that leads off somewhere not visible in the horizon. Arthur used to dream, and still does, of hitching a ride on that train and leaving, heading for a place that isn't this town.
But until he gets a lucky break and his writer's block diminishes - the damn thing has been clouding his mind for the past year now - he's stuck living in a one-bedroom house with his brother and surviving off of the abominations that Alfred calls breakfast, lunch, and dinner. (McDonald's or something. Couldn't they plant another elementary school instead of that big ray of diabetes?)
"Hey, Artie!" Alfred also has an irking habit of making up nicknames. Arthur just grits his teeth and bares it. It's barely past seven; he doesn't want to have a migraine this early in the morning. Though that might be too late. "Guess what?"
"What," Arthur replies flatly. He raises his fork to his lips and takes a bite of scrambled egg. At least today's breakfast is decent.
He doesn't know how he and Alfred are brothers. They're almost complete polar opposites, but he supposes it's because of their parents: Mother hailing from England, father from the States. Thought it was a bloody brilliant idea to get married, have two kids, then divorce and take them away from each other.
They probably didn't count on them to end up in the same town. Not that it matters now. They're dead; Arthur is twenty-one and the legal guardian of Alfred.
He feels a sort of apathy.
Across the table, Alfred folds the newspaper he was reading and slides it over to his brother. "Another suicide," he says through a mouthful of bagel. "Jeez! I mean, why is this town so depressing?"
Arthur lets him rant for the next ten minutes or so. He scans the front page of the paper - titled something stupid like The Informer - and reads about the umpteenth body found mangled on the train tracks.
It's been like that in the three years that Arthur's lived in this town. Suicides happened tragically often, an astounding thirty-seven deaths each year, and that was just for train jumpers. He doesn't want to know the total amount.
He also blames the fact that majority of their population is ignorant and narrow-minded.
Humans.
"Iggy!" Another one of Alfred's infuriating nicknames. Arthur snaps to attention, glancing at his brother. "You're not listening to me!" Alfred pouts, and Arthur thinks, You're eighteen, act like your age for the Queen's sake.
"Wha- That was mean!" Alfred points an accusatory finger at him.
Oh. He said that out loud? "Sorry," he mutters, not sounding very sorry at all. He makes a big show of opening up the newspaper. "Don't you have school?"
"Oh, yeah!" Alfred is suddenly all smiles. Arthur hears him noisily rise from his chair, then rustling as the blue-eyed blond slings his favorite bomber jacket and backpack on.
"Don't do drugs," Arthur monotones after him.
Alfred laughs. "I will!" There's a boy in his class, Lars, Arthur thinks his name is, and he's notorious for selling drugs. And while Arthur knows that Alfred would never in a hundred years do something like become a druggie, he always reminds him. (And Alfred just smiles at it, because he knows it's Arthur's own little way of showing that he does have a heart after all.)
. . .
Matthew Williams is nothing and at the same time everything that no one wants to be. He hears them call him names behind his back - freak, homo, and the best one of all: "that depressed kid over there."
He's not depressed. He likes to call it "long-since desensitized."
His father was a drunkard and his mother never cared. That's why when he turned eighteen, he jumped on board a train and left their sorry excuse of a neighborhood.
Funny. He only ended up in another one.
But that's okay, he thinks. I'll be going away soon, anyway.
"Matthieu?" The only good thing that's ever happened to him, he supposes, is Francis. Matthew found him a year after living on the streets. At age twenty-two, Francis was already a quite well-known artist. The only reason he stays in this town is to get away from the busy-ness of everything. He plans to return to Paris in a month and take Matthew with him, hopefully all by Christmas. Maybe then, Matthew would finally brighten up.
"Yes, Francis?" Matthew glances up at the taller man briefly. He seems to see the question in his eyes, and the instinct to avoid it rises. "I'm going for a walk, okay?" He tries not to notice Francis's disappointed expression.
He wants to let him in. He does. Francis has done all of the things for him that no one else ever took the time to do. But he's too afraid to feel emotionally attached anymore - they'll all end up disappointing you, anyway.
Matthew's shoulders slump at this. He pulls his fleece coat from its hanger and shrugs it on, heading for the door. Halfway there, Francis puts an arm around him, pulls him close. He opens his mouth, words just on the tip of his tongue.
"Be careful," the Frenchman finally says. He presses a kiss into Matthew's hair.
"I will." I'll make it clean. Maybe follow the railroad track out for a mile or two, then wait for the train. They won't find my body, and if they did, they wouldn't know me.
Figures.
Matthew walks out of the house and closes the door behind him for the last time.
. . .
Arthur pulls his scarf tighter around his neck, scowling as the thin material does nothing to help keep him warm. His hands are gloved and stuffed in the big pockets of his trench coat, but they're still numbing anyway.
He really hates winter.
The sun came out half an hour earlier than it usually did, and Arthur initially thought that the weather would be fair. As soon as he stepped out and shut the door behind him, he realized two things: No, the weather was not bloody fair at all, and he left his keys inside.
That's how he ended up walking down the quiet street, already half-frozen after a mere ten minutes. The high school is two miles away from their house, and if Arthur's lucky, he can get there in time for Alfred's lunch period and he can retrieve his brother's keys.
He passes by the train station on the way there, and he pauses. Emerald eyes flick downwards at the tracks in apprehension. For a moment, he expects seeing severed, bloody limps or something alike.
It's clean.
But it might not be for long - the next train passes by in a few minutes and God knows if any other- He stops the morbid thought. He doesn't want to think about it.
Arthur turns to leave when a flash of gold catches his eye.
There's someone standing a little off to his side. It's a boy from what he can tell, with golden hair and-
Alfred?
His mind supplies him with a thought: Alfred's going to jump.
Arthur's never had to care for anything before, but Alfred - despite their rocky relationship - is the only living family he has left. And he doesn't want to lose him too.
In the distance, the train signals it's coming arrival with a loud noise. "Alfred!" he calls. Alfred doesn't turn.
The train comes into view. The bells toll.
"Alfred!"
Alfred moves, but not backwards - he takes a step forward instead, taking an all-too familiar stance, one that conveyed he's about to jump-
Arthur steps onto the platform, boots thudding softly on the wood, and he reaches for Alfred's arm and yanks. The train speeds past so fast that Arthur loses his balance and stumbles back and falls, bringing Alfred down with him. They crash down and inevitably knock heads. Arthur's lips land on his - or did his land on Arthur's? Either way, they find themselves mouth-to-mouth on the grimy floor of the platform.
Cor blimey, I'm kissing my brother, Arthur immediately thinks, and shoves Alfred off.
"Alfred, you-" He stops mid-berate when his vision re-focuses and he sees that the boy...isn't Alfred.
They stare at each other for a few moments of silence. Beside them, the train finally passes, taking off into the distance.
Arthur swallows. Had he just kissed a stranger? "Who are you?"
. . .
Matthew stares evenly back at the older man. He does a good job of keeping his face impassive, but his heart is running a hundred miles a minute. His mind registers the asked question, but he wills his mouth to stay shut.
This isn't how it's supposed to go.
He stands abruptly and turns, jumping off of the platform and walking back in the direction of his house. He wants to run - and with luck, I'll slip and crack my head open and die - but he's shaking too hard. He shoves his hands into his pockets and quickens his pace.
"Hey!"
The man grabs his arm for the second time. Matthew whirls with a scowl on his face. "Leave me alone!" he grits out, and pulls away. This time, he does run.
. . .
Arthur sits in his living flipping idly through the channels on the television. Outside, he hears the bus squealing to a stop at their curb; Alfred's home. Arthur turns off the TV, puts down the remote, and moves to the kitchen to get something out for his brother to eat.
The door opens. To the Englishman's surprise, Alfred's voice floats in, along with the sound of someone else. Curious to see who had been invited over, he steps out from the kitchen and glances down the hall.
It's the same boy he'd kissed a month ago.
He takes a full minute and a half to comprehend that thought, standing like a blubbering idiot in the middle of the hallway. Alfred's busy chatting away with his friend, hanging up his coat, kicking his shoes off. Meanwhile, the other boy is starting to slip his messenger bag off when his gaze travels upwards and meets the Englishman's.
Everything stands still for that brief moment. Arthur didn't think that those could happen at any moment besides cliched ones in equally cliched movies, but it's happening now.
And he doesn't know what quite to say.
"...you know each other?"
Then he realizes, oh, Alfred's talking, so he snaps himself out of the daze and averts his attention to his brother with a mindless, "Hm?"
Alfred looks slightly annoyed. "I asked if you two knew each other," he repeats. "Matt?"
The boy in question turns pink in the face and he ducks down, attempting to hide it by taking his shoes off. Arthur watches him, before tearing his eyes away to meet Alfred's questioning ones. "No." Keep the reply nice and short. "Why would you think that?"
Shrugging, Alfred takes the other boy's arm and drags him further into the house. "Whenever I invite someone over, you're either trying to kill them with your bushy-browed glare, or you're in your room like a hermit." He runs past his older brother, the other boy stumbling after him.
Arthur stares after them.
Then he shakes his head, deciding that the less he meddled, the better. Matthew has Alfred; he wouldn't be jumping in front of any trains soon. Alfred has that sort of effect on people - the kind of effect that has you wanting to smile even after you've been stepped on.
But he can't stop himself from thinking, What if...
. . .
He's not quite sure when it first began, but Arthur finds himself watching Matthew more than he'd like to admit. And sometimes, he catches Matthew staring back too, even though the Canadian would look away immediately, blushing.
Arthur tries to convince himself that he's merely watching out for the soft-spoken blond; he gives up when he starts imagining how those lovely golden tresses would feel as he runs his fingers through them.
"Matthew," he says before he can stop himself one day.
The boy in question is slipping his sneakers back on, already clothed in his jacket. He's preparing to go home; Alfred's still in his bedroom cleaning up after their mess. His cheeks are flushed - probably from one of the many laughing fits Alfred sends him into - and to Arthur, he looks completely ravishing.
"Hm?" He hums in acknowledgement. In the time that's passed, he's gotten somewhat used to Arthur - at least, he doesn't act as skittish anymore. "Yes, Arthur?" he inquires in a soft voice.
"I..." Arthur's throat goes dry. Am I really about to do this...?
"Do what?" Matthew's looking at him curiously, and Arthur realizes that he said that thought out loud.
Indigo eyes are regarding him innocently; Arthur wonders how he's capable of staying so calm. We kissed! he shouts silently. How can you pretend like nothing ever happened? How can you pretend that you don't want it to happen again?
A thought strikes him for the first time: Do you even want it to happen again?
It makes him grimace. Really, how could he have been so blind and foolish? It was never established that Matthew even considered him a friend.
Hold on there, Arthur. You're letting your emotions get ahead of you.
But is it his fault that Matthew looks so stunning? Is it his fault that at every sight of the indigo-eyed boy, he wants to admire him and write uncharacteristically bright sonnets and feel breathless?
"Arthur?" Matthew murmurs. "Are you all right?"
And upon receiving no reply again, he crouches back down to continue tying his shoelaces. Arthur stares at the back of his head and makes a decision.
He kneels down next to him, taps his shoulder - "Matthew, can you turn this way, love?" - and when they're facing each other, he gently places two fingers underneath his chin. Then, ignoring Matthew's slightly wide-eyed expression, Arthur leans in and kisses him.
It lasts for only three seconds, but there are fireworks going off behind Arthur's eyelids so he doesn't really mind. Matthew pulls away, leaving a lingering sense of sweetness on Arthur's lips.
"What was that for?" the younger boy whispers.
"I've wanted to do it again since the first time," Arthur blurts out. Guilt starts gnawing at him once he sees Matthew's stunned face. "Do tell me that I'm not the only one who feels something. Because I swear to the Queen, if I really am the only one, then I'm turning clinically insane." He doesn't want to sound like he's pleading, but he can't help it.
Matthew studies his face for a moment.
Whether he's planning to reply or not, Arthur never finds out. They hear the tell-tale noise of Alfred coming out of his room and coming downstairs. Matthew stands back up, leaving Arthur still kneeling on the floor. "I have to go," he mumbles.
"Oh! You're still here, Mattie?" Alfred appears at the top of the stairs.
"I was just leaving, Al," Matthew replies smoothly. He smiles up at his friend, completely masking the shocked expression he wore before. He gives a quick wave before leaving swiftly through the front door.
Arthur is still kneeling there, staring blankly at the spot where Matthew used to be. His brother notices and laughs. "What'cha doing, Iggy?"
"Nothing." Arthur straightens, brushing dust off of the knees of his trousers. He meets Alfred's gaze levelly. "Absolutely nothing."
. . .
"You seem happier, mon cher," Francis comments over their dinner. The room is brightly adorned with holiday decorations already; there's only nineteen days left until Christmas, after all. Francis has already bought gifts - and plane tickets.
Diagonal to him, Matthew shrugs. "I wasn't happy before?" he counters, but his lips are threatening to pull up into a smile.
Francis laughs. "Ah, so is it that Alfred boy?" he teases.
"Alfred?" Matthew echoes. He looks up from his plate to shoot his guardian a questioning glance.
"It's love, non?" Francis says unabashedly. "You've been blushing since you arrived from their house. Did something happen that I should know of?"
"With Alfred? ...No!"
"Cher, you shouldn't be ashamed. I remember when I first fell in love..."
"Francis, nothing happened!" Matthew squeaks, mortified. He's afraid that his face is going to explode in embarrassment. "I-I've just been a little cold."
"Are you sure?" Francis asks. "You've been "cold" for an awfully long time."
Yes, nothing happened. Not with Alfred, at least. God, I wish it was him but instead his brother... "I'm sure." My first kiss.
The Frenchman's stare lingers on him for a little while longer. "If you say so," he says casually, tone light. He stands and carries his empty plate to the sink. "Moving on, I have something that I've wanted to ask you for a long time now." He returns to his seat, regarding Matthew carefully.
The other boy shoots him a weary smile. "As long as it isn't my hand in marriage, eh?"
Francis chuckles. "No," he answers. "I was actually wondering how you'd feel about moving to Paris with me...?"
. . .
"Paris?" Alfred exclaims excitedly, bouncing on the bed. "That's so cool, Matt!" He grins, and Matthew feels his heart flutter. "When're you leaving, dude?"
Matthew hopes he's not blushing too much under the affection. He inhales to calm himself down; the room smells like Alfred: leather and roses. "On the twentieth," he replies. "Francis said that it would be enough time to get there by Christmas."
"The twentieth?"
"Mhm."
"But that's in three days!" Alfred looks distressed. "Y-You're not gonna be here for Christmas? I was going to invite you guys over for some fancy dinner!"
"Al..."
"And, and, I have this awesome Christmas present that I picked out for you." Alfred hops off the bed. "Wait here, I'll go get it."
Matthew calls after him, "Alfred-" but the enthusiastic boy is already running out of the room. Matthew sighs, collapsing backwards into the soft comforter. If there's one thing he knows he'll miss, it's Alfred and his energy.
"Are you sure?" Francis had asked. "Once we're there, there's a high possibility that we're staying for good, mon chou."
Matthew had seen the hope in his eyes and found himself saying, "Yes, I'm sure, Francis."
And Alfred is most definitely straight - at least, Matthew hopes so. He wants him to feel otherwise, but that would mean that he might actually have a chance with Alfred, and he would become less inclined to leave.
He really wants to get out of this town.
"You're leaving?" an accented voice interrupts the silence.
Matthew sits up slowly, dreading the sight of the person. Arthur is standing in the open doorway, arms crossed loosely. "You heard?"
"Alfred's voice is hard to miss," Arthur says. "I didn't quite catch the destination. Where are you off to?"
"It's none of your business," Matthew mutters, trying to ignore the way his heartbeat starts to pump faster.
He hears Arthur sigh. "You're being childish," he informs as-a-matter-of-factly. "I'm merely curious and you clam up for no reason."
"I don't have to tell you."
"Why not? You told Alfred, didn't you?"
"He's my friend."
"I saved your life. I'm not considered a friend?"
"No. I don't consider a stranger who stole my first kiss to be my friend." He gets up from the bed, lips tight. "I'm leaving."
Arthur seems unfazed by this, almost bored. In two quick steps, he's behind Matthew. "Why?" he asks, grabbing his arm firmly. "Why do you keep avoiding me?"
"Let go."
"No."
"Let. Go."
"Not until I receive an answer."
"You want an answer?" Matthew hisses. "I avoid you because I'm afraid. I'm afraid that if I get involved, I'll either be disappointing or disappointed. I'm afraid because I'm never good enough." He jerks himself away. "I find myself thinking that maybe it wouldn't be so bad if you kissed me again, and that's what scares me. I'm leaving in three days and when I leave, I want to leave as few strings attached as possible."
A smile quirks Arthur's lips. "That's a load of shite," he says, and kisses Matthew for the third time.
(And he's not entirely sure, but he thinks that he feels Matthew kissing back.)
. . .
Matthew Williams shoulders his messenger bag, wincing slightly at the heavy weight over his shoulder. Beside him, Alfred pauses mid-bite into a burger. "You need help with that, Mattie?" he chirps, barely audible over the loud chatter of the train station.
"I'm fine," Matthew says. "The train will be here soon."
Francis is looking through a brochure of the airport that they're leaving to. He looks happy, excited. Matthew isn't so sure on his decision to leave but he doesn't want to take that happiness away.
"I'm gonna miss you," Alfred sniffles, spontaneously throwing his arms around Matthew. "Keep Kumajirou, okay? You're never gonna get a better Christmas present than him. And text me as much as possible!"
Matthew nods. "I'll try," he says into the bomber jacket.
Alfred pulls away and ruffles his hair with a grin. "Good!"
The bells toll, signaling the train's arrival.
Arthur is nowhere in sight.
Matthew swallows disappoint and grips the handle of his bag. "Bye, Al," he says to his friend just as the train whistles to a stop beside the platform.
"Bye, Mattie." Alfred pouts after him, but waves.
Matthew follows Francis onboard as slowly as possible. He can't deny that he's hoping Arthur would arrive at the last second.
"Are you ready, Matthieu?" Francis asks, beaming happily.
Matthew glances out one of the train's windows. "I..."
. . .
Arthur Kirkland trudges through the unshoveled sidewalk, hands in his coat's pockets, breath creating white puffs of smoke in the air every time he exhales. Alfred just called to let him know that he was home - that meant Matthew was gone already.
You're a blithering idiot, he thinks bitterly, and isn't quite sure as to who that thought is directed to.
He finds himself wandering to the train station, making his way onto the deserted platform. He closes his eyes and imagines Matthew standing there, luggage in hand, ready to leave. Had Matthew thought twice? Had he even crossed his mind?
It's his own fault, anyway - he shouldn't have pursued Matthew the way he did. Now all he's left with is guilt and a Christmas present addressed to someone who's bound to be miles and miles away already.
He's turning to leave when he hears a sniffle.
Arthur glances backwards over his shoulder and catches sight of a huddled figure sitting on the edge of the platform, legs dangling carelessly over the train tracks. The familiar tan-colored coat and scarf partially hide wavy blond tresses and thin-framed glasses.
"Matthew?" Arthur calls out without thinking.
The boy in question turns his away. A gloved hand comes up to wipe their cheek. "A-Arthur?"
The Englishman gives a small laugh out of relief, making his way over to the Canadian, footfalls sounding softly against the wooden flooring. "Planning to jump again?" he says, half-serious. He doesn't give Matthew a chance to answer and kneels down to press a fourth kiss against his lips.
Matthew smiles. He reaches up to pull Arthur closer and whispers into the chaste kiss, "Not now you're here."
A/N: USCan was winning my poll so I slipped some of it in there.
/Unedited