It wasn't unusual to hear his father sigh into the night or to hear the tell tale click of a can being opened up; they couldn't pay the amount specified on the bills again.
Arthur felt his hands curl into little fists as they always did as he clung to the sheets and listened to the rather soft sound of the plink, plink of his mother's needle pushing through the fabric and creating something again.
He wondered if she knew, if she heard, but he curled tighter against the sheets and tried to listen to Alistair's grumbles with their brother next door in the other room beside his, the one that housed his two of his older brothers.
Arthur felt his small body pull in on itself as he stared at his sheets that always managed to appear green on nights like tonight and wondered if his mother would take her Chav fabric up to sell for a little extra money to get by.
He sighed and watched his notebook, from where he lay, on his desk, a dark shape just appearing out of the void, and watched the pages brush by each other from the wind blowing in from his still opened window.
The blond haired boy pulled his covers tighter around himself and closed his eyes; the scolding that he'd get in the morning from his mother meant nothing right now as the soft pitter patter of his mother's needle and the light scuffle from the room over lulled him to sleep as he tried to ignore the swishing of beer in a long since opened can.
He'd grown up wearing scarves that his mother had knit: some were worn as if born out of the bitterness of a heart while others were beautiful as if lovingly crafted through many hours of hard work.
Arthur had asked her to teach him once too and while he didn't actively knit, knew how enough to knit semi-well.
He'd been the kid in school that talked highly of many rock stars and hoped to join their ranks with money and fame; wealth sounded nicer than listening to the soft plink of needles, the scuffle from two boys without enough room to properly breathe, and the chugging of alcohol that always told Arthur when they didn't have enough money again.
His friends told him that he could do it, that he had the skills capable to be the best rock star out there, and most supported him.
Arthur had met a few kids in school however that laughed at him and told him that he couldn't do so; no one wanted his albums.
He ignored them as he'd grown up being told that opposition was only meant for one to grow from and not let it dampen anyone's spirit; many had succeeded where others had failed in an effort to bring about a change in pace to their life.
Arthur knew that some of his friend's parents bought Chav fabric and the ones that had cars painted them just like the design that Arthur had grown up with and found both hopeful and nearly devastating.
He loved his mother's scarves and other material that she'd made for him and for others, but some days he wished his father didn't revert to drinking when things felt impossible and some days he longed for the money to have the things that he'd grown up without.
Arthur found that writing songs down that may appear briefly as scribbles in his notebook were his small piece of sanity when he fell into depression.
He found himself trying to be strong though like his mother who he'd never seen cry a day in his life and be proud of themselves despite their status; they worked hard, believed strongly in their hopes and dreams.
Those days, Arthur tried to be confident and strong and in small ways defiant; he loved his own pride in this culture that knew of hardships but worked beyond them.
He always found himself smiling with pride when he thought back on it a little deeper and eased those old worries and aches away; he could become famous.
He could make his family proud and his friends proud; he could become wealthy.
Arthur often admired the design whenever he felt capable of anything as it was a symbol of all that they were and a symbol of hope for the future.
He loved to stare at the design that spoke of hope and a bright future for him, a future that didn't mean he'd have to deal with the tight living space of his two older brothers and that meant that needles and alcohol were his means of living, becoming stronger.
Arthur wrote songs for fun too.
He told of happy days and always found it in himself to describe the struggles of life as well.
The blond haired boy also wrote of love despite himself; he'd had his first crush just before he turned fourteen.
He had written those feelings down like many others as if it had become a diary of sorts for him, but that was really all he knew, had always known, of how to care for himself.
It was his comfort when no one else seemed to be and his curious ear that never rejected a word he wrote.
Arthur found himself staring at that little notebook in the light of day, felt the hope that it carried on its wings, and smiled at the little symbol of his mother's love: the symbol of who they were colored right on to the front cover.
He couldn't help smiling; his listening ear had a friendly face.
Arthur found himself humming to himself, listening to the crowds outside as people got settled, and while knowing that they weren't here for him, that they could always find another artist to admire.
He stood here with one of his role models, listening to the gentle yet eager roar of the crowds before stepping foot with his band, a few friends of his, and preparing to let them know a part of him that he could never take back from their eager palms.
Arthur found his voice carry over the near deafening sound of an eager crowd, watched them pause and listen, and felt the shift in the air when suddenly everyone was on the same page as him.
He felt his fingers guide his guitar along to the steady and beautifully deep tone of his voice; he'd grown up eager for this chance and now felt it light up across the stage, so close to reaching out for them.
Arthur found his heart bouncing with the steady thrum of his guitar and longed for this moment as brief as it would seem to last forever.
They were only the warm up band, the first act, yet he found himself smiling as he walked off the stage; his dream was completely in reach followed by the lucky Chav over shirt that he wore.
His past was a reminder yet not one that he regretted as he stared at the pages of his new notebook; Chav designs manufactured into it and listened to the soft sound of the air that welcomed him within his home.
Arthur would have to climb out of this chair to practice before leaving with the guys to another concert, one where they were the main act, and then they'd leave to party, feel the delicious sting of beer on their tongues.
He didn't see exhaustion etched in what he drunk when he was happy, celebrating; he saw his past given a new face, one that time built up with memories.
The blond haired man smiled and hoped that his little neighborhood stayed close to pride and excitement at realizing that he had another concert tonight.
They'd always been his support system that strengthened him and gave him hope; the design that he proudly wore was just another symbol of that fact, another reminder that his family and friends were still watching him, proud.
It was the reason that he could sleep well at night when busy days left him far too tired and when it still sometimes seemed far too expensive to live despite the money that he earned and that he could afford it now.
He smiled for they were the ones that raised him and still had his back.