For some reasons, the lines in the editing doc thing on here is giving me trouble. Warnings ahead for that. Aside from the lines, I wrote this while on vacation and, all things considered, I kind of like it. Which is a big deal. I had fun writing this. All 24 pages of this. Yes, it is a very long story. And its a little magical, slice-of-life story. Of a boy who is running away. And finds so much more in the end. Didn't you guys know I like cliches?
Warnings: language, OOCness, many many words, slash, AU, slice of life, weird magics, suspended belief required
Pairing: Not USCan
Disclaimer: Be happy I don't own Hetalia. You'd never get new episodes or strips. I also do not own Florence + the Machine or the Beatles.
Matthew calls Francis precisely three minutes and forty-five seconds after he watches his Lufthansa plane bound for Paris take off from the Montreal airport.
"I can't do it." Those are the first words out of his mouth as he presses his forehead to the cold glass.
"Neither can I, but has that ever stopped me?" Francis sounds cheerful and Matthew can hear the soft sound of sizzling in the background and Matthew can imagine his cousin standing over the stove, cell phone pressed to his ear, sautéing vegetables. "What can you not do, my little bear?"
"Don't call me that." Matthew scowls. "And I can't come to Paris. I'm not coming to Paris. Don't tell dad."
The sound of metal scraping against metal stops and the sound of sizzling gets softer as though Francis lowered the flame and stepped away from the stove. "Matthew. Have you completely lost all sense of yourself?" His accent has sharpened. Matthew feels vaguely guilty at the first dropped 'h'. "I am buying you a new ticket right now and I will meet you in Marseilles. If you cannot come to Marseilles, then Rouen—"
"It isn't about Paris or Marseilles or even Rouen. I should be at school. I should be getting ready to graduate, not take a year off to twiddle my thumbs in Europe."
"You will not be 'twiddling' any thumbs. You will be getting cultured. You will learn to speak French properly. You will be wowing the mesdemoiselles with your face and charming them with your little accent."
"I will be hiding because I accidently submitted a photo of our celebrated hockey coach frequenting a strip club and then the newspaper coincidently received an anonymous tip that he was using funds meant for the team to get blowjobs."
"Yes, that too." Francis sighed. "No one wants you to be hanged, drawn, and quartered."
"He got in the way. I only wanted to take a picture of the street."
"Of course."
"I didn't have time to check."
"It could have happened to anyone."
"If our team were lower ranked, people would care less." Matthew wants to cry.
"Come to Marseilles and let me comfort you."
"I'm not going to Marseilles."
Matthew does not go to Marseilles or Paris or Rouen. Francis promises not to call his father but makes Matthew promise to call him once he gets his life in order.
"Or at least once you get the next twenty-four hours in order." Francis had eventually conceded.
Matthew sits in the airport, grey knit cap covering his bright blond waves and duffel bag at his feet. He sits there for about an hour and then sighs deeply, grabs his bag, and desolately trudges towards the exit and tries to figure out if he has enough cash to pay for a taxi or if he should just withdraw some more anyways.
More importantly, he thinks about if he has the audacity to go back home and face his father.
It is strange, awful, and a little pathetic that he decides, no, no he cannot go home and face his father. His father would probably drag him by the ear to Paris and lecture him the entire way about facing his fears and accepting the unknown with a stoic face and grim determination. He would also throw in a line about the great Gauls facing down the Romans and going down fighting instead of running away like cowards.
Of course, Matthew would never dare point out to his father that taking a year off before graduation and going to France rather than facing the consequences of his unintended mistake (even if that meant becoming a social pariah on campus) was also running away.
He groans, at a loss, coming to a stop and earning a glare from a man who bumps into him.
"Maybe if you were paying attention." Matthew glowers.
It would have had a greater impact if Matthew had not waited until the man had not already hurried on his way.
It is then Matthew hears the final boarding call for an American Airlines flight to Kansas City.
"You do not make the best decisions under pressure."
"I don't know. It doesn't look too bad." Matthew peers around, curious, at the airport.
"You could be in Paris." Francis bemoans.
"Or Marseilles or Rouen." Matthew watches in fascination as two rotund women wearing matching Hawaiian print shirts greet two equally rotund men in front of the Starbucks. "But I'm here."
"Why did you not go home?"
"Because I think I need a break." Matthew hefts his duffel over his shoulder and misses the appreciative look one of the rotund women levels at him. "The thought of going back to school after last year makes me want to vomit. The thought of staying or going to the same old places has no appeal. I need a breath of fresh air. I need a place where no one knows me, where I can finally do what I want."
"Sounds romantic."
Matthew smiles at the wistfulness in Francis's voice. "I would say you should try it, but you already did."
Francis left home at the age of seventeen, got an internship with a culinary magazine and quietly honed his own cooking skills while working as a waiter.
Now he has his own mini empire in the cooking world and is a bit of a god amongst gourmets.
Francis hums. "Yes, so how can I stop you or say you are wrong? But, my little cabbage, I chose Paris. You chose the middle of America."
"Must you continue to translate those endearments?"
"Yes, because my love transcends both languages."
Matthew tells the taxi driver to take him to an area where he does not need a car to get around and where he can rent a place for cheap.
The taxi driver, most of his face covered by a hood, looks at him from the rearview mirror, dark eyes considering. And then he presses the stereo system, Turkish music flooding the car.
"It'll cost you, kid." His voice is gruff as he pulls away from the curb. "Any one else I'd toss out on their rear, but you look like you'd shatter on impact."
Matthew is a little offended and briefly thinks that maybe he should not be so trusting in a new country, but then he remembers he is Canadian and no one really feels too hot or cold towards Canadians so he decides he is safe.
Matthew wakes up when the taxi driver tosses a Big Mac into his lap. He looks around blearily and stares in confusion at the sandwich.
"Last chance, kid. I'll take you back to the airport right now and only charge you one-way." The taxi driver has crossed his arms and is watching Matthew from the rearview mirror again. "But, if you're dead set on doing whatever the hell it is you're doing in order to avoid whatever the hell you don't want to do, I'll take you the rest of the way."
Matthew is confused. He takes a timid bite out of the Big Mac, looking at the driver with wide eyes.
"My name isn't Kemal. It's Sadiq. And I can take you to a place where you'll find some real friends—not high society wannabes—and where you can practice your photography without your daddy reminding you that you're supposed to go into banking. You'll get your quiet life. No one will look more than twice at your pretty face and no one will care that you have nothing to say. Your daddy will be none the wiser. You'll have no problem with cell phone service. Francis will worry if you don't call once a week, at least."
"How the fuck do you know all that?" Matthew's mouth was dry. He could not dislodge the mass of burger in his throat. "Who the hell are you?" He scrambled for the door handle. And though the door was unlocked, it would not budge. Panic began to build in his chest. "Let me out!"
"Calm down." Sadiq-not-Kemal ordered. "I'm not going to hurt you. I wanna help and all I need is an answer. One word."
"What if I made a mistake?"
Matthew had spent the better part of the ride bent over with his head on his knees, his eyes shut, as the taxi sped off in a forward direction. The Turkish music was blaring now but Sadiq seemed to have no problem hearing his soft voice.
"No one is expecting to see you for a year. No one wants to see you for a year and you don't want to see anyone for a year. I don't see how this is a mistake."
"You'd say the same thing if I had said 'no', wouldn't you?"
"I wouldn't have said anything, kid. We all need a little change of pace." And with that, Sadiq presses down on the accelerator and the taxi jolts.
"It wasn't your fault, by the way." Sadiq took the cash from Matthew, tone casual. "They want a scapegoat because the university has to fire the guy and everyone knows your team'll lose to those assholes in Toronto without him."
Matthew is unable to stop the small smile at those words and the comfort from those words are enough to steel his resolve and turn to face the house where Sadiq dropped him off.
There is a small path that leads up the hill on which the house sits. It is a lopsided, mismatched sort of house. The front yard is in ruins, rose bushes overgrown and weeds crowding the dusty path. The shutters are white and the walls are pale blue and the shingles are weather-beaten brown. There seems to be a gable on one side and none on the other. One section of the house is bigger than the other with a steeper roof while the smaller section has a chimney. The walls that are not pale blue are either stone or whitewashed.
Altogether, it is a very strange house.
Matthew walks slowly up the slope, pausing now and again to avoid an upraised root or dip of ground. He pauses next to a circle of grass, darker than the blades around it with tiny white and brown mushrooms dotting the ring, and wonders if this entire set-up is not just a scheme to sell him into sexual slavery.
But Sadiq had been very straightforward with him, not mincing any words, and telling him right away all the secrets and thoughts Matthew had kept quiet inside. He was convincing and strangely kind in the way he barked at Matthew to buckle up. And Matthew, for lack of anything else, chose to trust him.
"From which court do you hail?" A stern voice called out, tearing Matthew from his musing.
Looking up, Matthew stared at the shorter man who had just come out of the house. Clad in a deerstalker cap and trench coat with the collar pulled up high around his eyes, the man cut an eccentric, imposing silhouette. Matthew thought he saw a flash of green but he was positive that he heard an English accent.
"Orchard Courts." Matthew is stunned, to say the least. The answer sort of stumbles from his mouth and, thankfully, he does not reveal the rest of his home address.
The stranger regards him for a moment, arms crossed. "Is that a joke?" He nods at the ring of mushrooms next to Matthew's foot. "That was not there yesterday. So, speak the truth, from where do you hail?"
"Montreal." Matthew was growing more and more confused by the moment. "My taxi just left. My driver told me you had a room for rent."
"You are not a faerie?"
"I don't think so."
"Visiting faeries are not rare here, you see. It was an understandable mistake." Mr. Kirkland, as the deerstalker-wearing stranger introduces himself, eventually explains.
"Of course."
Matthew is too busy trying hard not to look too hard at the dusty insides of the entryway to sound more than politely interested.
The leafy vines of the wallpaper are faded and dust is streaked across the floor. As they move from the foyer towards the stairs, Matthew can see the white sheets spread across the furniture in the parlor with its dirty fireplace from the corner of one eye and from the other, he can see the mustard yellow of the kitchen and its cluttered dining table. Also, from one ear he hears Mr. Kirkland explain that utilities bill and rent and Matthew files that information away before letting it filter out the other ear.
The stairs creak and groan and Mr. Kirkland tells him that the banister is a little wobbly so he should be careful.
Matthew nods and follows the other man quietly until they reach the second door on the left and Mr. Kirkland tells him this is the room.
"Oh." Matthew's murmured appreciation hangs in the air as he steps into the room, duffel falling from lax fingers, taking in the beige walls and patchwork quilt on the queen size bed.
There is a wide window across from the door and Matthew heads toward it as Mr. Kirkland explains there is no closet, but that door leads to a bathroom and the wardrobe is bigger than it looks. The window overlooks the untamed backyard with its sprawling bushes and lone, gnarled tree. A clothesline cuts diagonally across the lawn and Matthew can see the rows of houses below the hill, little rooftops dotting the landscape beyond beneath the blue sky.
"It is 50 dollars a month. You are responsible for your own food and necessities, but you do not have to worry about cleaning and washing supplies. Or salt. I tend to keep boxes of that on hand."
Mr. Kirkland does not ask if Matthew can pay that much. In fact, it sounded as though he was struggling with the price, first 100 then 10 on the tip of his tongue. Matthew feels uneasy, at first. So low a price. Again, the possibility that Sadiq and this Mr. Kirkland are going to do terrible things to him cross his mind, but Matthew is more curious than unsettled. Also, he is more worried about what warranted the low price than the chance that he could be someone's sex slave tomorrow.
"Okay."
Mr. Kirkland seems surprised. "Oh. Well. Wonderful. Rent is due at the end of the month. Any room in the house is open to you except my room and the basement. My room for obvious reasons. The basement because I keep my potions down there."
Matthew gave him a bemused look.
His roommate was turning out to be quite the strange fellow.
"Do know how much I worry about you? Why do you tell me these things?"
Matthew idly listened to his cousin continue to chide him for being overly trusting and that if anything happened to him then Francis would be unable to help because his relationship with that pretty redhead from Scotland Yard ended terribly. All the while, Matthew curled his toes into the plush rug while watching the clouds pass from his window.
"I think I like it here." Francis quieted at Matthew's soft declaration. "And Mr. Kirkland seems decent enough."
"They all seem decent until they're standing above you with a cattle prod and leather boots."
"…You broke up with Ludwig, didn't you?"
"Not so much as broke up as I realized there are even some things I cannot bring myself to do."
"…Was this before or after he put you in a harness?"
"After, if you really must know."
Matthew laughed, knowing full well Francis was probably sulking at his amusement.
After Matthew washes his face and changes his shirt, he goes downstairs to examine the dusty rooms. With the occasional bout of sneezing, he walks through the beams of dust motes caught in sunlight and leaves footprints in the grime and eventually decides that the cleanest thing downstairs is the large metal kettle on the stove.
The tap spurts him with water when he switches it on and it is around the time that he hears something squeaking in the cabinets that Matthew decides he misses the team of maids his father had kept on hand to deal with the mess that invaded the house without either of them noticing.
"Oh…wait a second." Matthew's brow furrows and he stills, hand pressed against the scorched countertop. "Cleaning never looked that hard."
Cleaning is harder than it looks.
Matthew slumps over the bright yellow bucket—that still had the price tag on the bottom—and stares into the iridescent bubbles littering the surface. The soggy rag lies abandoned on the floor next to him and Matthew cannot seem to bring himself to keep scrubbing at the black splotch on the floor that has been mocking him for the past ten minutes.
"There has to be an easier way."
The Internet is a beautiful thing.
After one hour in a chat room with a sixty-year-old grandmother in Bristol while perusing ten different open tabs in Firefox, Matthew feels empowered enough to tackle the black splotch.
This time he douses it in vinegar and is glad that he had not made Molotov cocktails of bleach and dish soap. The sixty-year-old grandmother in Bristol had talked him down from that plan of action.
He spritzes the countertops with cleaner and scrubs at the appliances until they gleam. He dusts the table and polishes the cabinets. And, for good measure, he pokes at the spider webs until they fall and he sweeps them up when he cleans the floor.
His hands feel dry and the sun is low in the sky, but Matthew feels a sense of accomplishment when he sits at the table and takes a deep breath of the lemon-scented air.
He will start cleaning in the cabinets tomorrow.
"Get down from there. People sometimes eat on that table."
Matthew gives Mr. Kirkland a terrified look, pointing at open cabinet with the toe of his sneaker. "There is something in there."
Mr. Kirkland sighs loudly and heads towards the cabinet, squats down, and then laughs. "So that is where you have been hiding. Naughty boy." And he reaches in and pulls out a rabbit. The rabbit is a faded shade of green.
Mr. Kirkland strokes its ear. Matthew asks why it was in the cabinet.
He figured it was the more important question to ask.
"He gets lost sometimes." Mr. Kirkland shrugged, cuddling the fairly fat rabbit. Then he looks at Matthew and the bottles of cleaner. "So, this is what you have been up to."
"I hope you don't mind." Matthew finally climbs down from the table.
"Not at all." The other responds, walking over to Matthew and handing him the rabbit. "I usually do not receive company and the last boarder was so long ago, that I simply lost track."
Matthew holds the rabbit, petting the poor thing's quivering side.
"Come, let us take him to the garden so he can stretch his wings."
"What?"
"What?"
"You said—"
"I know what I said. What was unclear about it?"
Matthew chances a glance at the rabbit. "He has no wings."
"Of course not. It is a figure of speech."
Matthew does not believe his answer, taking note of the evasive way it was delivered, but he lets it go and follows Mr. Kirkland into the garden and deposits the rabbit onto the shaggy grass. The rabbit promptly begins to nibble on a dandelion.
"I have a proposition for you." Mr. Kirkland's voice dragged him away from his watching of the rabbit. "You clean, cook, and not play loud, trashy music in exchange for rent."
Matthew gives him an incredulous look. Mr. Kirkland does not budge.
"No, truly. I have not the need for the money. The house is paid off and the bills are really negligible. But I have my deadlines and cannot cook to save my life."
"And cleaning?"
"I just hate it. You can tell by the dust that was here before even I."
Matthew considers the offer. He does need something to keep him busy. And this would save him from withdrawing any more money and drawing his father's attention.
"Anything you need to buy, take the money from here." At this, Mr. Kirkland opens a drawer and revealed banknotes, of various and increasing sums, haphazardly strewn about. "Also, I would greatly appreciate it if you put the change in here." He taps the lid of a cookie jar. "When it gets full, take it to the bank and exchange it for banknotes. Questions?"
"Why do you keep your money like this?"
"Because it seemed more sensible than my mattress. Any others?"
"Are you crazy?" The question slips out before Matthew can stop it and he waits with bated breath in case the other takes offence.
"A little bit, yes." There is a smile in Mr. Kirkland's voice and Matthew relaxes. "But, never fear, you will rarely see me so my madness should not bother you."
Matthew is at the grocery store when he meets Alfred.
"What're you going to make with all this?"
Matthew looked up at the speaker after carefully putting the change into his pocket. The speaker is the bag boy, dressed in a white t-shirt with a striped apron over it. The name of the grocery store is emblazoned across the front and his nametag reads 'Alfred'.
"I don't know yet." Matthew grinned shyly and a little self-deprecating.
The other blond laughs and his blue eyes twinkle as he bags the various vegetables Matthew had bought. "Well, you know, if you put some of these vegetables in a pot with some water, oil, salt, and pepper and then boil everything, you'll get a pretty good soup."
"Really?" Matthew feels the tenseness in his shoulders decrease and it becomes a little easier to return Alfred's bright smile and joking manner.
"Yeah. And if you slather some of those filets in lemon juice with salt and pepper and pan fry them, they'll be awesome."
Alfred is completely serious despite the teasing way he is relating these recipes to Matthew and Matthew takes an immediate liking to the high school student who continues to chat animatedly with him while handing him his grocery bags.
"You know, my Ma will probably want to send over a little something—since you're new and all. She's also a wiz with the oven. Her rhubarb and strawberry pie should be illegal. Do you like rhubarb and strawberry?"
"I've never had it."
"I'll come over tomorrow with a rhubarb and strawberry pie. You've moved into the Kirkland house haven't you?" Matthew gave him a surprised look. Alfred laughed. "Belle saw you when she was on her way to bug Mr. Kirkland about the deadline. She'll probably be by sometime tomorrow instead, by the way. You'll meet Belle then. She's a nice lady. Talking to Mr. Kirkland always gives her a headache so she stops by here to buy chocolate before going home."
Belle is wearing designer heels and a pink silk blouse when Matthew first meets her. Matthew is wearing dilapidated jeans and a ratty red t-shirt. He has half of an apple in his mouth when the woman steps into the house without knocking, yelling for Mr. Kirkland to come downstairs.
"Hello." She quirks an eyebrow and smiles at him.
Matthew mumbles a greeting and, thankfully, Mr. Kirkland shows up, irritable and still wearing that silly deerstalker. Matthew scurries around him, head ducked.
But, unfortunately, the attention is not off him because Mr. Kirkland suddenly grabs his hand and pulls it close to his face, inspecting it quietly. Matthew swallows the bite of apple in his mouth and gets ready to pull his hand away. But Mr. Kirkland lets go of him and turns to Belle.
"The chapter is only half written."
Belle's chastising of Mr. Kirkland follows Matthew up the stairs.
Matthew takes out the rugs from the parlor and hangs them up on the clothesline and beats them, watching in morbid fascination as dust and dirt tumbles from them to the grass, staining it black. Slowly, the browns and grays turn to rich red and off white and Matthew can see roses and briar and even a galloping unicorn. When he finishes, Matthew's shoulders and back twitch and hurt and the sun beats down against him. He is sticky with sweat and he sits right there in the grass.
Cleaning is hard. But he feels a fine sense of accomplishment when he sees shine replace dirt and citrus replace the weird, musty smell that loped about the house.
But cleaning is still hard.
He does not have the strength to drag the rugs back inside just yet and he barely has the strength to drag his self inside, but he manages, sore and aching.
Mr. Kirkland is waiting in the living room for him.
"Here." He shoves a pair of yellow rubber gloves at Matthew. "You do not have working hands, so use these."
Matthew thanks him, cheeks hot, and numbly puts on the gloves while Mr. Kirkland shuffles out of the room.
His hands do not sting as much when he finishes cleaning the parlor.
Once the downstairs is clean, Matthew realizes that he only has to cook two meals and the rest of his day is free. He needs to find ways to complete the hours.
Luckily, Alfred comes by with a rhubarb and strawberry pie and tastes the salt content of the soup Matthew has made for lunch.
"You know, Mr. Kirkland used to babysit me." Alfred likes to chatter. He is opening the fridge and Matthew does not stop him from helping himself to the cherries Matthew bought the other day. "I don't think I've ever seen his fridge so full." He shuts the fridge and sets the cherries on the counter. "I'm glad you're taking care of him."
Matthew is too busy keeping the soup from bubbling over to pay too much mind to Alfred's words.
When Matthew cooks, he likes to listen to music. He will set his iPod on top of the refrigerator after setting it to the highest volume and on shuffle.
Music makes his culinary attempts more enjoyable.
He used to call Francis while cooking, but eventually the constant constructive criticism took its toll and Matthew decided if he heard 'no, darling, you cannot just put everything in a pot or pan on a medium flame and hope for the best because that is not cooking' he would live off take-out forever and send Francis pictures of the greasy, empty boxes.
Anyways, today Matthew was cheerfully throwing random vegetables in a pan on a medium flame with soy sauce. He began to hope for the best just as Florence and the Machine came on and he began to hope and hum under his breath. But come the first chorus and Matthew is singing out loud, eyes fluttering shut, as he stirs the vegetables.
He whirls around, reaching for the salt, attempting to keep up with Florence's crooning. "And tonight I'm done with my graceless heart—" He stops when he sees Mr. Kirkland watching him from the doorway, despite ever present deerstalker and striped scarf.
"So tonight I'm going to cut it out and then restart." Mr. Kirkland's voice is muffled but steady, his polished accent almost nonexistent.
Matthew blushes and grips the salt. "Did I disturb you?"
"Not at all." Mr. Kirkland walks towards him and Matthew gets the sense that he is no longer the focus of the eccentric man. Florence continues in the background as Arthur peers into the saucepan. Matthew hears him sniff. "It smells nice."
"I hope it tastes nice." Matthew laughs, awkwardly, and sees that some vegetables are burning. He quickly disperses them with a swish of his spoon and hopes that the non-burnt ones will hide them.
"I am positive it will taste better than anything I make." Mr. Kirkland has this easy, graceless way of making his wants known. He reaches for something without looking and somehow manages to wedge himself partially between Matthew and the stove. He takes Matthew's wooden spoon and his fingers are partially covered by knitted gloves and his fingertips are ink-stained.
Matthew hands him the spoon and lets the other man watch the vegetables as he goes to figure out how to defrost chicken in the microwave.
In the end, the slimy texture and pinkness of the unfrozen chicken breast makes Matthew queasy and he decides to just add chop, fry, and add bacon to the vegetable mix.
Bacon makes everything better.
After two weeks of staying either within the confines of the house's fence or venturing out to the grocery store, Matthew decides to explore the rest of the town because he is not used to this hermit lifestyle.
He assumes the town is just a speck on some county map. He walks down tree-lined avenues and sidesteps children on bicycles. He takes his Polaroid camera and an album and stops at an ice cream shop.
The girl behind the counter is pretty with long, dark hair in pigtails and a powder blue tank top. She offers him samples of green tea and lavender honey with a smile and asks Matthew where he's from.
"Canada." He answers between samples of dark chocolate peanut butter and maple swirl. He eventually buys two scoops of maple swirl and asks if there is a park somewhere.
"Take a left at the next intersection and walk along Main and you'll get right there. You can't miss it!"
The park is actually bigger than he expected. And Matthew goes back there every other day with his camera until no corner is left unexplored. Sometimes he sees Alfred with his teammates, throwing around a baseball. Sometimes he stops by the ice cream shop before going to the park.
After a month, Matthew makes it habit to walk the tiny spun trails in the back of the park. Leaves and burnt grass and wildflowers fold over the worn trails and Matthew, one day, notices the strange rings of mushrooms popping up over the area. He takes a picture of the curve of two rings
"You know what those are, don't you?"
Matthew whirls around, nearly tripping over an upturned root. The stranger gives him a crooked smirk from knoll upon which he is standing. He gestures at the ring of mushrooms. "It's a faerie ring. There are many of them around here. That means that they must like dancing here at night." He steps down from the knoll. "It is a secluded sort of area."
The man introduces himself, stretching out his hand and clasping Matthew's in a firm grip. "Arthur. Forgive me if I don't give you my last name, but as soon as I do that, you'll have power over me." Arthur has eyes greener than the canopies above and his voice carries volumes and sounds a little like everything. He is not very tall but his presence seems to spread across the woods and over the trees and Matthew feels very small next to Arthur.
"How goes your idyll?" Francis sounds relieved every time Matthew calls him. "I told your father you disappeared to Spain for a week."
"I bet that made him happy." Matthew is prodding two-day-old tuna casserole with a spoon.
"He mentioned something about transferring you out of Montreal."
Matthew feels his appetite drip out, replaced by an awful, unsteady churning in the pit of his stomach, clawing up to his chest. It hurts and he feels like throwing up. And the sick sense of anxiety is coming back and he has to take a steadying breath.
"But that was my first choice."
"I never thought I would say this, but why do you not consider England? It would only be for a year."
"He is turning this into a bigger deal than it needs to be."
And rather than the anger Matthew expected, he only feels sick and sad.
Mr. Kirkland appears at the strangest time.
He walks in just as Matthew slumps to the floor, head in his hands.
"Oh, that will not do." He sighs, pulling Matthew up with a tight grip on his biceps. Matthew can see a shadow of beard on the other's face despite the scarf he is wearing and he lets himself be pulled over to the table.
"I think this calls for tea." Mr. Kirkland decides, bustling around the kitchen as Matthew tries not to cry into the table. "One sugar or two?"
"My father is ashamed of me and wants to exile me to the London School of Economics."
"Two then." Then, louder, "That is a good school." Mr. Kirkland sets the kettle on the stove with a grunt and begins rummaging through the cupboards. He makes a pleased sound of surprise when he discovers the chocolate biscuits Matthew had bought and arranges them on a plate. "Your father is not ashamed of you."
"I got the best hockey coach fired from our school and now we're going to lose every single game from now on. My friends hate me. They don't even like hockey and they hate me. I was practically a leper the last few weeks of school. " Matthew looks up, his face splotchy and red. "Do you know what its like to have no one on your side? To have everything go against you?"
Mr. Kirkland silently places the biscuits in front of Matthew. "I know what it is like to be lonely. I know what it is like to turn your back on everything because everything abandoned you first." His voice is low as he turns away and starts fixing Matthew a cup of tea. "And, what you are not saying, is that you know as well. Sadiq can go everywhere in that bloody taxicab of his. He brought you here for a reason, so chin up and steady on. This too shall pass."
Matthew sees Arthur and Alfred arguing in Aisle 4. He is struggling with a package of toilet paper, a box of cereal, and a carton of milk. He is contemplating backing out of the aisle when two sharp gazes, two angry faces, turn on him and Matthew is left to smile helplessly.
"Here, let me help you." Alfred rushes forward to help him and Matthew can still see the residual flush in his face and the set of his jaw. The teenager seems to be blinking back red and Matthew is at a loss of what to say.
He looks at Arthur.
Arthur looks troubled, upset, but when he catches Matthew's eye, he grins crookedly.
Matthew toys with the words, but eventually he ventures out a hesitant, "Is everything okay?"
"Just brilliant." Comes the swift response.
Matthew frowns, grabs another box of chocolate biscuits. He misses the way Arthur looks at him when he grabs two more.
But Matthew does not miss the petulant way Alfred bags his groceries, giving Arthur a dark look from under his eyelashes. At least Alfred has a smile for him.
As Matthew is walking away, he overhears, "You're such a coward."
He promptly forgets about it when Arthur hurries next to him and starts talking about the weather.
There is a little café run by two Italian brothers that Matthew likes to frequent. The first time he had gone in there, the older of the two Vargas was berating someone for sending back a dish. His auburn hair was tousled and he was waving a ladle.
When Matthew stood, staring, in the doorway, Lovino had whirled around and shouted, "Take a seat and you'd better order more than a water!"
Matthew had timidly asked the younger of the two Vargas, who had a wide smile, for the lunch special. The gnocchi had been superb and, upon leaving, he sent his compliments to the chef, by way of his less temperamental brother, and left a hefty tip.
After that, he made it habit to go there once a week, if only for a little dessert and coffee.
Two months into his stay, Lovino stopped him from leaving, sat him down, and glared him down until he finished two more cannoli and charged him only for the espresso he had.
"You're too skinny." Lovino had been disapproving, giving him a haughty, scrutinizing look. "If my grandmother could see you, she would never let you leave."
And before finally letting him leave, he even boxed some tortellini for Mr. Kirkland.
"The old bastard can't cook worth a damn." He had snorted, ignoring his younger brother's gentle chiding.
Four months into his stay, the little café is gone.
And no one seems to remember that it was once there.
Matthew is studying his album of Polaroids, taking one out at a time and examining the image closely. This is how Arthur finds him.
"You're a photographer?"
"I indulge." Matthew is a little distracted, his eyes heavy from staring at his photos. He can clearly see the little café with its white and red check table covers and glass display of pastries in the background. "You know that little café on the corner of North and Vine?"
Arthur does not answer immediately. Only when Matthew looks up at him, expression veering towards dismay, does Arthur concede. "Yes."
"It isn't there anymore." Matthew looks back at his pictures. The Polaroid shakes in his hand and his grip tightens. "But it was there. I have proof. But no one remembers. No one…"
"You don't know much about this town, do you?" Arthur settles down next to him and takes the photo away. "Did you know you can't find this town on any map? Did you know someone has to bring you here?"
"Why don't you just tell me what's up with this place?" Matthew feels irritation prickling at his ribs and he does not realize how much anger is in his eyes when he looks at Arthur.
"There are a few people who live here. But outsiders come and go. No one stays in this place for long, Matthew." Arthur began, quietly. "People come here to get away. This place protects them, gives them time until they can face whatever drove them here."
Matthew said nothing, fiddling with the Polaroid in his hands. "And Feliciano and Lovino?"
"Feliciano lost control of his car and hit a girl. He came here to deal with the guilt and Lovino came here for his brother. It's rare, but sometimes a person can come through sheer willpower. Feliciano came to terms with his issues and he and Lovino left."
"And no one remembers?"
"Only they do…but even then it'll feel like a dream."
Matthew stands up, then, suddenly. Arthur remains sitting and watches the other storm away.
No one is home when Matthew gets back and he waits downstairs. So when Mr. Kirkland comes downstairs, Matthew is understandably shocked.
"How did you get in?"
"Through the cellar." Mr. Kirkland makes it sound as though the answer should be obvious. He pauses, staring at Matthew very hard, the collar of his coat high around his face and deerstalker low. "Come outside."
Matthew, still despondent, does not argue and follows his housemate outside.
The faded green rabbit hops out from under a wild strawberry plant towards Matthew. Matthew plops down next to him and plucks a dandelion for the rabbit to nibble.
"Good lad." Mr. Kirkland nods approvingly. "Feeding the rabbit always makes me feel better. Now, want to tell me what is the matter?"
"This place doesn't exist."
"Of course it exists." Matthew bristles at the way the other snorts derisively. "You have to be looking for it in order to find it. It is well hidden you see. But just because something is hidden, does not mean it does not exist. It might not seem like it, but as long as you make the most of this place, you cannot say that it did not exist for you."
Matthew feeds the rabbit another dandelion. "What exactly am I supposed to take away from that?" He directed this at the rabbit. The rabbit merely twitched its nose and ate a dandelion petal.
"Ma says you're still too skinny." Alfred shakes his head and clucks disapprovingly.
Alfred and his mother are some of the permanent residents of the town. Mr. Kirkland had told him as much in that gruff manner of his and Matthew had taken solace in the fact.
"I just don't gain weight quickly." Matthew scowls, helping himself to Ms. Jones's peach cobbler. Alfred helpfully slides the carton of butter pecan towards him and Matthew spoons some of the melting ice cream onto the still warm cobbler. "I was a tubby baby though."
"Somehow I doubt that." Alfred snickers. Then, abruptly somber, he casually twirls his spoon between his fingers. "So…you and Arthur, how's that going?"
Matthew gives him a confused look, spoon sticking out of his mouth.
Alfred just shakes his head, dismissing his question.
Matthew crouches in the tall grass of the backyard, brambles and rose buds obscuring his camera lens. Pebbles crunch under his feet when he tries to maintain balance and he snaps a picture of the butterfly taking off just before he falls back on his rear.
When the Polaroid snapshot develops, Matthew frowns at the blurred effect from captured light, but it grows on him and he brings it inside where Mr. Kirkland is hefting the kettle onto the stove.
"Tea? Of course." Mr. Kirkland does not even wait for an affirmative and takes out two teacups. "Could you pass the—oh, thank you."
Matthew smiled, handing both the jar of sugar and tin of tea to the other man. Setting his camera on the counter, Matthew then pushes himself up by his arms and watches the sure way Mr. Kirkland prepares the tea. Matthew has his snapshot still in hand and wordlessly Mr. Kirkland reaches for it, air almost disinterested.
"So this is what you see." His first statement is almost hushed, thoughtful, then, "You like photography?"
"It's a hobby."
Mr. Kirkland gives a huff of laughter and shakes his head. "Give your hobby some more credit, boy. I was watching you out there in the yard…I would venture to say that photography is like breathing for you."
Matthew cannot meet Mr. Kirkland's eyes the next time they cross paths. He holds his breath when the other man brushes past him, the brim of his cap hiding his eyes. Mr. Kirkland's face is, as always, in shadow and Matthew briefly wonders if his housemate is hiding some horrid deformity.
Mr. Kirkland turns back to look at him and Matthew takes the opportunity to take a picture.
"Does it bother you that you've never seen his face?" Arthur asks, flipping through Matthew's photo album. He had off-handedly mentioned wanting to see what Matthew saw in the world.
"Not really." Matthew puts the picture of the play set at twilight, one swing longer than the other and the baby swing broken, next to a picture of Chels, leaning over the counter, handing an ice cream cone, four scoops of ice cream teetering dangerously in a stack, to a wide-eyed and wide-mouthed boy sitting on his father's shoulders.
"You took a picture of him." Arthur's tone is flat and Matthew looks at him, eyebrow raised.
"It was spur of the moment. It isn't even a good picture."
"He looks like the invisible man." A beat, then, "Do you trust him?"
"He hasn't given me reason not to." Matthew shuffles the remaining photos together. He wants to talk about something else. He wants a subject where he can lead the discussion. He sees his camera. "You know, sometimes I miss my other cameras. But I don't regret bringing my Polaroid camera. It's the first one I bought—with my own money—and it's not the best, but—"
"It suits you." Arthur finishes, stretching out his legs. "You have to wait a moment, but then you see the whole picture. There's a moment where you're not even sure you've caught something, but when you do, you can never forget it."
Matthew laughs awkwardly, looking away, hair falling into his eyes. Arthur's glance is piercing. "You're so profound, Arthur."
Belle has a tendency to show up whenever Matthew is cleaning. She has the uncanny ability to know when Matthew is shirtless.
Matthew feels very naked standing in front of Belle. He is ripping out weeds and pruning the rose bushes (again, the sixty-year-old grandmother from Bristol is a well of information) and sweat slides down the slope of his back, between his shoulder blades, and Belle blushes when he stretches.
Matthew blushes too. But only because Belle had whistled a little too appreciatively at the way his bare arms had flexed.
"Now I know Kirkland doesn't just keep you around just for your cooking." She winks as she passes him and Matthew feels quite flattered once the embarrassment wears off.
Belle left home when her lover cast her aside for a younger love.
He cast her aside for the next-door nymphet.
"I don't know what I did wrong."
"Sweet little cat of mine, you probably got lost in your mind and didn't realize the squash was done."
"What do I do?"
"Trash it and order pizza."
"…Are you serious?"
"Somehow I sense you are not in the proper frame of mind to cook. Cooking, unless you are as talented as I, requires your full attention. She is a fickle, jealous mistress."
"Maybe if I slather it in ketchup?"
"Step away from the refrigerator and sit down and tell me what bothers you."
"I think I'm in love."
"You think or you know?"
"…I don't—"
"Call me when you know."
"But I—"
Francis had already hung up. It was his way of telling Matthew he was not to throw around the 'L' word willy-nilly.
Matthew was not throwing the 'L' word around willy-nilly.
Let us backtrack.
What? Did I not warn you that this would be a long story?
…No? Well…sit down back down, shut up, and keep reading.
Matthew had grown very fond of stopping by Chels's ice cream shop. The fact that his jeans were a little snug around his narrow frame was proof of his addiction. And after a week of not seeing Mr. Kirkland, Matthew caught him in the kitchen and cornered him.
"I'm going to get ice cream." After almost half a year of living together, Matthew suddenly felt brave enough to try to work up a greater friendship with the other man. It helped that Alfred was in school and busy and Matthew felt guilty about taking up too much of the college-bound teen's time. "Would you like to come with me?"
The atmosphere in the kitchen suddenly shifted and Mr. Kirkland seemed to be hesitating.
"Um, no." He fumbled for a drawer, opened it, and then shut it once he remembered he didn't need a spoon. "I do not like to leave the house."
"I'm sure no one will stare at you." Matthew comforted, giving the other an encouraging smile.
"I have a deadline to make."
"It's only a ten minute walk. The banshee in the moor can wait half an hour."
"No no. By then, the death would already have passed."
And maybe it was because Matthew could not see the growing frustration on Mr. Kirkland's face or the anxious way he was turning his hands, but Matthew could not help but ask, "Why are you so adamant about not going?"
"Why are you so bloody adamant I go?"
Matthew felt as though he had been slapped.
Mr. Kirkland was not finished. "I never asked you why you ran away from home or why you refuse to go into commerce. I never asked why you are here instead of facing your father like a man. Could you show me the same respect?"
And he stormed out.
Matthew stormed out five minutes later and went to get ice cream by himself.
That was where Arthur found Matthew miserably staring into the sundae Chels had whipped up for him.
"What's her story?" Matthew sulked. "What's she running from?"
Arthur stood next to him and then slid into the booth, bright red leather squeaking under him. "She's settled here for good. She lost her fiancé in a boating accident and wanted to fulfill his dream of opening an ice cream shop. She couldn't stand the sympathetic looks on her little island anymore." Arthur glanced over at the cheerful girl who was wiping down the counter, her little paper cap tilted charmingly to the side. "She's happy here."
Matthew smiled, feeling his spirits raise. "That's good."
The click of a camera catches him off guard and he looked up just as Arthur is examining the snap shot pinched between his thumb and forefinger. His thick eyebrows knitted together.
"You're leaving in a few months." Arthur brought the snapshot in front of his face, hiding his mouth, green eyes flicking up to lock on Matthew. "Do you mind if I keep this?"
Matthew shook his head and chest constricting, scooted out of the booth. "Excuse me."
He walked out of the shop a few minutes later, a carton of vanilla and chocolate mix ice cream under his arm and Arthur next to him.
As they reached Matthew and Mr. Kirkland's mailbox, Arthur turned to Matthew.
"Matthew—"
"I'll see you tomorrow." And Matthew rushed up the path.
And then he rushed into the house and up the stairs and knocked on Mr. Kirkland's door.
No one answered so he went to the basement door and banged on it.
No one answered so he put the ice cream in the freezer and sat at the kitchen table.
And then he put his head into his hands and thought very hard about what to do.
After Matthew's conversation with Francis, Mr. Kirkland walked into the kitchen and Matthew, cell phone still in hand, stared at him.
"I think I owe you an apology."
"You think or you know?" Matthew's mouth is set in a tight line. Inwardly, he is wondering at his resolve. "I'm sorry for pushing the ice cream."
"I appreciate you bringing me some anyways." Mr. Kirkland shifted. "Apologizing is not easy for me. Will you accept that I was needlessly harsh and should show you the same kindness you always show me?"
Matthew is not the shrewd, cold negotiator his father is. Nor is he vindictive. He smiles and he forgives.
When Mr. Kirkland hauls down his typewriter to the backyard and then waves to where Matthew is attempting to weed the vegetable patch he found hidden under a destroyed gazebo, Matthew feels his breath catch.
"Do you like it here?" Alfred asks him suddenly, pulling the bagged groceries closer to his self instead of handing them to Matthew.
"I do." Matthew tilts his head. Alfred gives him a rueful smile.
"You know, you and my Ma have the same kind of eyes. The kind which look like they've seen a lot." Alfred hands him his groceries. "You never say, but I think you've seen the world and that's why you like it here."
"Don't you like it here?"
Alfred shakes his head, his normally tidy blond hair mussing. "It isn't like that. I like it just fine. But I want to leave. I'm too used to this place." He gives Matthew a strikingly knowing look. "It works both ways you know." He looks down, a little bashful.
Matthew thinks if he had a brother, he would be like Alfred.
Actually, he thinks if things were different, he would be Alfred.
He sees so much of what was and what could be in Alfred, that he wants the boy to do well and be happy.
Matthew tells him as much. Alfred gives him a tight hug and tells Matthew to visit him in Pennsylvania.
Matthew does not tease Alfred about his suspiciously red nose and wet eyes.
Matthew comes downstairs one morning and sees Mr. Kirkland turning his Polaroid photos over in his hands, reverently and slow, as though he is committing each shadow, each tilting facet of light, to memory.
Matthew pauses on the third step, hand on the balcony. Mr. Kirkland is looking at a picture of three kids attempting to trap a stray Tomcat in order to pet it. Two children are in motion, one yelling at the other. The third is standing, legs spread apart, to cut off the cat's escape. In the corner of the photo is Alfred's mother coming outside to scold all three.
Matthew remembers snickering about the entire incident while boiling pasta and then relating it to a curious Mr. Kirkland when prompted. "I Am the Walrus" had been playing in the background.
Both of them had stopped to say, "coo coo kachoo" and Matthew had fallen into another lapse of laughter against the counter.
Matthew thinks it would be really wonderful if Mr. Kirkland were also thinking about how close they were standing that day.
The sun is setting on the park and Arthur is standing next to him on a knoll and whispering that soon the fae will come out and if Matthew has any iron on him.
Secretly, Matthew is reminded of his first meeting with Mr. Kirkland.
Matthew laughs, a faint sound that carries with the wind. And the embers of the sun tangle in his hair and the silence is deafening around them and Arthur cannot help himself.
"My full name is Arthur Kirkland." His admittance hangs in the air.
Matthew, perhaps, is a little drunk off the magic of twilight and does not remember Arthur warning him about the power of names. He had earlier captured Arthur's soul on film.
He is also veering closer to love and, as a result, is a bit stupider because of it.
"Are you by any chance related to Mr. Kirkland?" Matthew secretly wonders at the smallness of the world.
"I know."
For the first time, Francis turns away from the woman he is wooing as the world narrows down to somewhere in a small town that cannot be found unless you are looking for it.
"Who is it?" He winces at the answer. "Your father will be furious."
There is a moment and then Francis chuckles because the declaration that trickles from the receiver is one of the finest he has ever heard.
"Let him." Matthew crosses the brook with ease and rushes up to Arthur. "Let my father do whatever he wants because I could care less." His hair is windswept and he brushes a hand across his eyes with a smile. "I have to tell you something."
"May I go first?" Arthur's voice is hoarse and his green eyes are shadowed and Matthew immediately sobers.
"Of cour—"
Arthur kisses him on the mouth.
If Matthew had any doubt before, he has none now.
"I-I'm sorry." His lips refuse to move after Arthur pulls away. The sounds die on his lips.
Arthur looks stricken and Matthew feels like he has committed another unforgiveable blunder.
Mr. Kirkland shuffles into the kitchen late in the evening to heat up some of the meatloaf Matthew had only partially burned that afternoon. He does not look at Matthew but Matthew jumps out of his chair, knee banging on the table.
"Mr. Kirkland. I love you."
Mr. Kirkland freezes, but does not turn around.
"And I mean that I love you, not that I'm in love with you. Because that involves a preposition and it implies that I could easily be out of love with you in the future but I don't see that happening. And I don't care if you're fifty-something-years old. I love you and I lost a very dear friend today because of that love so please…please…" Matthew does not know what else to say.
Mr. Kirkland finally turns around, shoulders trembling with mirth. "You sod." Matthew's jaw drops. "I'm not fifty-bloody-anything." He walks over to Matthew, seeing the rising red flush of anger in his cheeks. "I had hoped it was obvious…but you are a dense one, aren't you, darling?"
And the wool of his scarf hides the shape of his lips and Matthew has to press a little desperately, ignoring the roughness against his mouth, and he tangles his fingers in the buttons of the other's trench coat. Mr. Kirkland is little calmer, his hands cradling Matthew's face.
"You have every right to be angry. But let me explain." Mr. Kirkland's voice is husky, muffled, when he pulls away and Matthew is close enough, now, for it to sound familiar.
He recognizes the poison green eyes and crooked nose that were shadowed by the deerstalker.
Arthur has the sense to at least look ashamed.
Matthew hopes his eyes are conveying fire because he is angry and hurt and he feels like his chest will burst.
"I was cursed." Arthur admitted, fiddling with the end of his scarf. "I am bound to this house." Seeing the question on Matthew's lips, he added, "I managed to beat the witch in a poker game and she granted me a potion that would let me leave its perimeter. I moved to this town when my lover left me. I had forsaken my family for him and he repaid me by being unable to look at my face." Arthur grinned, crooked and bitter, and touched his cheek. "I moved my home to this town and, finding good people who did not pry, extended my protection over it and turned it into a haven for others."
"If you're a warlock, why couldn't you reverse the curse?"
"The terrible thing about curse reversal is that the consequence is often worse than the curse's touch."
"And was the cure a kiss from your true love?" Matthew tries to keep the mocking out of his voice. He crosses his arms and looks away.
"It was for my love to return my feelings." Arthur is giving him a very soft, fond look and Matthew feels his cheeks heat up. "I have bent over backwards for the boarders here and, to think, the one who I avoided the most turns out to be the one who prefers the invisible man. I had wanted to leave you in peace…especially after Alfred berated me, but you are very bewitching. I had hoped you would realize it on your own…but I suppose part of your charm is that you trust people and leave them in peace without drawing assumptions."
The two of them sit in silence.
Matthew's forgiveness comes in the form of a snapshot of a fairy ring.
Arthur finds him outside, barefoot with moonlight caught on his eyelashes and a half-smile blossoming, and even the faeries do not bother them.