And finally, here we have it! The long awaited fourth installment of my ongoing hospiverse series. This story focuses on Alfred and Arthur's side of things. Reading the other stories may add to the experience, though it's not at all necessary to read those in order to understand this!
(Please note this story required extensive amounts of research. I apologize for any inaccuracies, though I suspect they're kept to a minimum.)
Alfred could not fathom why this, out of all things, was how he decided to spend his day off. But it had to get done at some point or another, he guessed. All around him were boxes, most of them containing items he had not seen in years. Some were filled with clothes, others sport trophies he had won before he could read; a few remained unopened. Maybe he had allowed this to pile up for too long. Then again, he was almost never in this house… or this state, for that matter.
This damn closet really was too big. Cleaning it out felt nearly as strenuous as practice had yesterday, but maybe that had something to do with his already aching muscles. Alfred groaned as he used a shoe rack as a step ladder in order to reach the top shelf of the huge, seemingly boundless walk-in closet, and attempted to lift yet another box. It ended up being heavier than he expected. Not to mention bigger, and this shoe rack wasn't exactly stable, and oh god the ground was a lot closer than it was a second ago-
Alfred landed on his back with a tremendous thud. An avalanche of what turned out to be books spilled out from the shelf in every direction, and just when he allowed himself to believe he had avoided it, a hard-covered, heavy silver one landed spectacularly on his face. Alfred groaned again. If he had the same amount of coordination he did in the field in any other aspect of his life, things would probably be a lot easier.
It was not until Alfred sat up that he got a good look at what had assaulted him. When he did, he actually laughed out of a strange mix of shock and amusement. Sitting open-faced in his lap, glossy pages shining, was his high school yearbook. "Well I'll be damned," he said to the empty space around him. The year on the cover was two thousand on the dot – his freshman year. It felt like a lifetime ago. "Dude, I thought I lost this thing…" he trailed off, leafed absently through the pages, and stepped into the past.
One thing, however, sent him flying directly into it.
Alfred thought he had completely forgotten. It had been years, nearly a decade, of constant activity and change. He had no choice but to forget. But now that he was staring at this picture, one that stuck out from the others like a flash of sun in a downpour of rain, he realized that had never truly been the case. Messy blonde hair, eyebrows the size of Texas, a permanent scowl… all of it leapt from the page and hit Alfred like a smack to the face. He lifted a hand and ran his finger over the printed letters, perhaps to remind himself they were real: Arthur Kirkland.
All these years, and Alfred remembered perfectly.
Right from the start.
...
Alfred was beginning to wonder if this was not actually a high school, but a small town. He stood in the middle of a hallway that looked no different from the last five he had walked through, clutching a tattered map in his hand, and glancing uselessly to either side of him as if directions would be written on one of the walls. He wondered if he was even in the right wing. What was a 'wing,' anyway? If one thing made sense to him at the moment, it was that this really was nothing like Tennessee. Everything was just… bigger, in the city. And more confusing. Definitely more confusing.
Alfred was broken from his musings at the sound of an indignant scoff. "Must you stand in everyone's way?"
The voice startled Alfred – partially because he wasn't expecting it, but mostly due to how it sounded. It was something he had only heard on television. "Well I'll be!" Alfred whipped around, grinning madly. "I've never heard that accent 'round these parts! You must be, like, British or somethin'!"
The boy raised his eyebrows – the first thing Alfred noticed was how massive they were – and blinked. "Acute observation," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grimace. "You have a bit of a twang yourself. Now, please, if you could step aside so I can pass through…"
"Twang? That's a real funny word." The Brit did nothing but sigh, then attempted to step around Alfred's unmoving form. Alfred quickly remembered his situation and reached out to touch his shoulder. "Hey, wait, could you help me out a second?"
The Brit adjusted his hold on his books and sighed again, as if he was already fatigued by this conversation. Alfred would not be particularly surprised. This boy certainly looked like a tired old man – really, what kind of high school student wore a sweater vest? "I suppose," he said. "What seems to be the issue? And please don't take terribly long, I'm going to be late."
"You sound a little uptight, fella. Calm down." Ignoring the glare Alfred knew he was receiving, he lifted the crumbled map in his hand and smiled sheepishly. "Anyway, it seems I'm lost. Can you point me to the science wing thingy?"
"That's on the other side the building." The Brit narrowed his eyes. "Are you a transfer student? I don't recall seeing you last year."
"Well, I moved over here this summer, but I'm a freshman."
"Oh." The Brit creased his brow, looked Alfred up and down, then shook his head and met his gaze. He almost had to crane his neck to do so. "Right, then. Jolly good. Anyway, in order to get to the science department, all you have to do is walk down the hall, take a right, go down the second set of stairs, take a left…" Alfred tried to look attentive but the directions were already over his head. The Brit must have sensed that, somehow, because he trailed off with yet another sigh. "On second thought, it would probably be easier to simply walk you there."
"Fine with me!" Alfred extended his arm in a dramatic pointing gesture. "Lead the way, uh…" He trailed off, raised and eyebrow, and looked to the Brit pointedly.
"Arthur," he said flatly, taking a step forward. "Alright, follow me-"
"The name's Alfred," said Alfred, quickening his pace to match Arthur's hurried steps. "Alfred F. Jones, all the way from the great state of Tennessee."
Arthur glanced briefly to the side, and then nodded once. "Well, that certainly explains that accent of yours."
"Do I really have an accent? I never noticed. I bet people notice yours all the time, though!" Alfred couldn't contain his grin. "Man, I can't get over it, you sound like Dr. Who or Sherlock or something. Where are you from anyway?"
There was a pause. "London," said Arthur finally, with a slightly dazed shake of the head. "Has anyone ever told you you talk quite a bit?"
Alfred shrugged. "Not really. Has anyone ever told you you don't talk much?"
"Can't say they have."
"Well, there you go." Alfred rounded the corner behind Arthur, who led them down a narrow, crowded staircase. He felt like a salmon fighting its way upstream. "Ah man, we really aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto. Well, it was Tennessee for me, but still. Good movie. Anyway, there's way more people up here in the city. It's mighty confusing, I'll tell you what."
"Quite." Arthur glared as students shoved past him, or maybe that glare was simply perpetual. Alfred was beginning to think the latter. "Tennessee is a ways away. What brings you to New York?"
"It was my dad's doin', mostly. Something about more career opportunity here in the big apple." At that, Alfred's grin finally fell. He really did miss the countryside. There was just something about the open fields, clear skies, small towns… he fought the urge to sigh and smiled again. After all, if he never moved to the city, chances are he never would have gotten to meet a real, live English person! "But ya know, I'm adjusting. I should be asking how you got here. Isn't London, like, by Africa or something?"
"Not… quite." Arthur cleared his throat and stared down the hall, as if he suddenly had no idea where he was going. "My family moved here for personal reasons."
Alfred considered pressing on, but decided against it. He was raised better than that. He just nodded. "Alrighty. Hey, about London, is it true that y'all call elevators lifts?"
"Yes," said Arthur shortly. Then, he stopped dead in his tracks. "We're here."
"Huh?" Alfred looked around, remembered what they had been doing in the first place, and stopped himself. He was surprised when he felt slightly disappointed. "Right, the science wing. Thank you much. I'm sure I can find my room from here."
"I would hope." The bell rang, and Arthur groaned. "Bullocks, I'm late. Goodbye, Alfred."
"Hey, thanks again for gettin' me here!" said Alfred as Arthur turned. Arthur raised his hand in recognition, and Alfred could not help but watch as he walked away – messy blonde hair, stiff posture, sweater vest and all. He knew he was already late, but he could not help but call out, "I'll be seeing you round, right?"
Surprisingly, Arthur paused to look over his shoulder. For a moment he only stared back at Alfred, seemingly conflicted, and finally nodded. There seemed to be a lot of purpose in the simple act. "I suppose," he mumbled. Arthur then whipped around and walked away even faster than he had before.
It was not until then that Alfred noticed… he had the nicest green eyes.
...
Another pile of books spilled from the top shelf, and Alfred's senses came flooding back. He tightened his grip on the page and traced the letters with his eyes again. All these years he had gone on without even thinking about this era in his life, and suddenly, overwhelmingly, it was all hitting him again.
He remembered the first time they met like it happened yesterday. On top of that, Alfred remembered almost everything that followed it, albeit it was only in pieces. It seemed that, even though there were thousands of people in that school, it was always Arthur that would lead Alfred to this room or that office, always Arthur that he would constantly run into and sit with during breaks. Arthur would always scowl and roll his eyes, always mumble some snippy remark… but he kept finding Alfred. And Alfred doubted, even now, that that was entirely coincidental.
Over the time they spent together in the hallways – and eventually, beyond them – Alfred had gotten to know Arthur pretty well. He knew he was three grades above him. He knew he had three brothers, all of them scattered across the United Kingdom. He knew he drank too much tea to be healthy, had a crazy obsession with Shakespeare, and, even though he would go to great lengths to deny it, quite enjoyed knitting. He knew there was a lot of compassion behind that hardened glare, when Arthur chose to let it show.
But of course, there were a few things he didn't know. Alfred never did find out what "personal reasons" Arthur had for moving to the states. He never knew much about his family, or exactly why his brothers had so eagerly moved away from London. Above all, Alfred didn't know why they lost contact. He didn't even remember how it happened. Nearly ten years, and all Alfred had was a set of fragmented memories, about a million questions, and a book.
Still dazed, Alfred flipped to the back pages. He searched the multicolored array of signatures, promises to hang out over the summer, overblown compliments and declarations of close friendships from people he did not even remember knowing, and finally, like a diamond in the rough, an impossibly neat note written in plain black.
Alfred,
Meeting you was an… interesting experience, to say the least. Regardless, I'm thankful that it happened. You've given me a great last year, not to mention a great friendship. Good luck with the rest of high school. I'll be seeing you.
-Arthur
Alfred realized, with what felt like a slap in the face, that the words were a lie. Arthur had written this on the last day Alfred ever saw him.
Maybe he knew a lot about Arthur, but more than anything, he knew watching Arthur walk away that day hurt like hell. Waiting months and then years for a call or text that never arrived was worse. Old pain tore into his chest anew. Alfred realized something then… perhaps it had never left. Maybe he had just grown to be skilled at ignoring it.
By the middle of Alfred's sophomore year, he had convinced himself he was over Arthur. He had about a million new friends by then. He had made the football team with flying colors, girls were constantly after him, and his life was a busy one. Things were hardly any different now. Alfred had a career, one that sent him traveling all over creation and left him with thousands if not millions of fans. But, despite all of that, here he was thinking of Arthur again, with such fondness it as if they had never drifted apart. And that must mean something.
A sudden rush of adrenaline caused Alfred to slam the yearbook closed. He clambered to his feet, nearly hit his head on the shelf, and just about lost his balance. By the time Alfred regained his footing, he had made a decision. A decade was enough. All these years, all these questions, and Alfred was beyond ready to get some answers. He was not a confused teenager anymore. He had power; he had determination. Leaving the mess of clutter in his wake, he ran to his computer. There was only one thought left in his head.
Alfred was going to find Arthur Kirkland if it was the very last thing he did.
.
The Internet, Alfred decided after about three hours, was not as useful as people claimed it was.
Alfred removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, the blue glow of the screen having left them stinging and tired. He had known Arthur wasn't much for technology – in fact, Alfred distinctly remembered him once blaming E-Readers for what he called 'the downfall of the literary world' – but he could hardly believe there wasn't a trace of him somewhere. It was as if he had dropped off the face of the planet.
Tired, frustrated, and slightly disheartened, Alfred closed out of the browser and rested his head in his arms. Barely a second later, his phone rang. The piercing sound shattered his moment of self-indulgent pouting.
"What's up?" answered Alfred, hoping he didn't sound as dejected as he felt.
"Alfred, where are you? I thought we were going to go out for dinner."
"Hey, Mattie bro!" Alfred sat up, suddenly aware there were things going on beyond this sudden fixation. He checked the tiny digital clock in the corner of his screen, realized it was after six pm, and silently cursed himself. Damn. He was supposed to be at Matthew's place an hour ago. He was only in town so often, after all. He usually spent every moment he could with his brother. "Oh, crap, was that today? Sorry. I got all wrapped up in something."
"Oh. Well, that's okay. Do you still want to go out? There's this nice little barbeque place that just opened, and-"
"Hold up," said Alfred, interrupting. For once he could not care less about food. "Matt, remember back when we were in high school?"
"Um, I would hope I remember."
"Okay, but like, remember that one dude I always hung out with?" Alfred paused, for some reason unwilling to actually say his name. If Matthew didn't know anything, maybe didn't even remember he existed at all, then he was truly stuck. He was met with silence. "You know… British, big eyebrows, stuffy as hell?" More silence. Alfred sighed. "Arthur Kirkland?" He finished slowly, drumming his fingers on the desktop.
Alfred could hear Matthew inhale sharply on the other line. He waited for the torturous silence to end, picking at the fabric of his jeans, listening to the summer wind blow through the trees, fighting not the hold his breath. Nothing.
"Matt, come on! Are you alive over there?"
Matthew quickly cleared his throat. "Sorry," he said. He sounded suddenly out of breath, in a hurry. "You know what, Al, I think we should skip dinner. Can I come over?"
"Whatever floats your boat, man," said Alfred, confused. "Did something happen, or-"
"I'll be right over." About a half-second after Matthew finished the last word, the line went dead. Alfred sat, dumbfounded, with the dial tone screeching in his ear for what felt like a very long time. Then he set down the phone and reopened the browser.
As promised, the doorbell rang less than twenty minutes later. Alfred stood from his desk and walked out of the office, past the door that led to the pool, down the hall, and finally to the open entryway. His footsteps echoed against the white-marble floors and white-painted walls; the crystal chandelier sparkled in the June sun. Alfred ignored all of it, ran to the door, and threw it open. He was speaking before Matthew had a chance to even step inside.
"Dude!" cried Alfred as Matthew kicked off his shoes. He was still dressed for work, in slacks and a flannel shirt. Alfred could never convince him that didn't go together. But his brother's fashion choices were hardly concerning to him right then. "Mattie, bro, this is getting ridiculous. I looked everywhere for that British loser. Everywhere online, at least. I checked Facebook, Twitter, YouTube… I even checked MySpace, dude! MYSPACE!"
"Nice to see you too, Alfred." Matthew shut the door behind him and rolled his eyes. "It's not like it's been a month since I've seen you or anything."
Alfred forced himself to come back to reality. "Oh, sorry. Uh, how are you doing? Are you still running the nuthouse?"
"Don't call it that," Matthew scolded. He was a therapist in an inpatient psychiatric hospital, and he never took well to terms like 'nuthouse' or 'loony-bin,' as Alfred often dubbed it. Except this time, his protests were half-hearted. Matthew wouldn't even look him in the eye. "But yes, I've been doing fine. And the hospital is…um… fine, too." He stumbled through the words, and Alfred could not keep from growing suspicious.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes, I mean, of course, I just…" Matthew sighed, as if resigning to something. "Can we sit down somewhere?"
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You're freaking me out, dude." Matthew said nothing, did not even look up. He only kept fussing with his sleeve. Confused, and honestly a little nervous, Alfred led Matthew to the kitchen and sat with him at the granite island.
"So, how are things?" asked Matthew after a moment. "How's football? You haven't hurt yourself playing lately, right? I don't think you can handle another concussion." He laughed but it sounded forced, and he kept looking around the room as if he had never seen it before. He was stalling. It was painfully obvious.
Alfred answered in rapid fire. "Everything is fine, the Patriots are doing good this season, and no, I haven't hurt myself, because I'm indestructible." The words were monotone. He hardly even thought about them. "Now, can you please tell me why you look like you've seen a ghost?"
Matthew sighed, visibly deflating. He lowered his gaze to the countertop, his fingers tracing the patterns in the stone, his eyes darkening behind his glasses. Alfred's heart pounded uncomfortably hard in his chest. "You said you wanted to try and find your high school friend again, right? Arthur?"
"Yeah, I did. Why? You got some info?"
There was pause. Matthew seemed to choose his words carefully. "Well, kind of."
"Alright, we're getting somewhere!" Alfred grinned. "What's up? Did he friend you on some weird hipster website I don't know about?"
Another pause. "…No." Matthew looked up, sighed, and delivered the words evenly. "I know where Arthur is."
A sudden, overwhelming burst of energy erupted in Alfred's veins. "What? Really? How? Actually, it doesn't matter, just spill!"
"Actually, Alfred, it does matter." Matthew removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, and it was not until then that Alfred noticed the dark circles beneath them. His hands were even trembling. Matthew just looked so… tired. "I haven't been completely honest with you lately."
"What?" Alfred's mania faded. He searched for a clue in his brother's expression, but found nothing. This didn't make any sense. Matthew had always been too kind, too honest for his own good. Alfred could not fathom him hiding anything from him. "What do you mean?"
"Well, you obviously know where I work." Matthew looked out the huge bay window in the next room, and for a second Alfred almost expected him to make a running jump out of it. But instead Matthew just sighed. A shadow cast briefly over his face – a cloud must have passed over the skylight above them. "Arthur is… under my care, Alfred. He checked in about two months ago."
Alfred blinked, feeling numb. Either he did not understand what he was being told, or he simply didn't want to. For once he could not find anything to say.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Arthur doesn't remember me, and I was sure you didn't remember him, so I kept quiet," Matthew continued. "There's doctor-patient confidentiality to worry about, too."
"But you're telling me now," said Alfred, his mind spinning. "I don't get it, Mattie. What would Artie be in the hospital for?"
"I don't believe I can tell you that." Suddenly, Matthew straightened up, crossed his legs, and looked at Alfred as if they had never met. "How are you feeling about all of this?"
Alfred was not impressed. He leaned against his arm and raised an eyebrow, his mouth pressed to a hard line. Matthew had done this before. He had snapped into therapist mode, and was treating Alfred like a patient. Matthew probably didn't even realize he was doing it. "I think you can," said Alfred flatly, ignoring the question.
Matthew deflated out of his momentary perfect posture. "Right now, the diagnosis is schizophrenia."
Then, Alfred could not help it – he laughed. "What?" he asked, his voice loud and breathless. "Isn't that when you hear voices and crap? I'm Arthur's best friend, Mattie. I think I would now if the dude had a screw loose."
"You were Arthur's best friend, Alfred. A lot can change in ten years." Matthew glanced up towards the skylight before looking back at Alfred, shaking his head once as if to clear it. "Look, I've already told you far too much. I can't tell you the details of Arthur's condition. It goes against my morality as a doctor. But I can tell you that Arthur is far, far different than you remember. He's a completely different person, Alfred. You probably wouldn't even recognize him. I'm sorry."
Alfred just shook his head. This was ridiculous. Arthur was still Arthur, wasn't he? And the Arthur he knew wasn't crazy. He was smart, sarcastic, sophisticated… schizophrenic had no place in the description. "You bet your ass I'll recognize him," he said.
Matthew's fact went blank. "What do you mean?"
"I'm going to go see him," Alfred banged his fist on the counter, "and I'm going to do it tomorrow."
To be continued...
AN: Ahh yes, I'm still alive. Sorry again for the inconsistent updates. I'm still writing, I promise! And here's the proof! I wouldn't expect weekly updates, but I'll be getting chapters out as fast as I can. Thank you everyone for sticking with me.
