Note that the sections in italics are excerpts from Arthur's novel.
Act I: Where the Roses Bloom Brightest
"You must know, little one, that everything has power. Words, actions, that little pebble by your foot, all of it has power."
"And of my thoughts? Surely my thoughts are safe."
"The mind wields unspeakable force. You best be wary of yourself above all. Remember that, Kiran, for you are the only one who can defeat your mind."
Flower shop, Isle of Portland, early August:
"Hello, Mr. Jones, might I be of any assistance?"
A customer walked into the cozy little flower shop, looking somewhat bewildered at the bright bunches of flowers ambushing him left and right. Bright blossoms faced him, revealing to him their delicate hearts. Leaves and branches extended their arms, trying to pull him closer, capture his gaze, crying out for his attention.
Arthur set his book down, folding his hands. Long, slender fingers closed over dry, pale skin. "May I interest you in any flowers?"
The customer looked distraught, blue eyes darting between the exit and Arthur. Perhaps he would make a run for it.
"Is there anything you're looking for? You can take a look at what I have on the shelves." Arthur gestured around him, waving slender arms back and forth. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing boney white arms threaded with eerily prominent blue veins.
"No, no." The customer finally found his voice. "Just browsing."
Arthur nodded, and turned away. He opened his book again, red pen in hand for improvements.
The customer walked up to his counter a few moments later, the heavy impact between leather boots and wooden floorboards announcing his steps.
The customer leaned in, pulling Arthur toward him before whispering conspiratorially, "How much do you want?"
"Excuse me?" Arthur pulled away, brows raised in confusion.
"How much?" Arthur's blank expression prompted the customer to continue. "To stay quiet? So you don't go running to the tabloids? Ten grand? Twenty? I'll give as much as you want, just don't say anything, please ."
Arthur coughed. "I see how it is. Rather faithless, are you not?"
The man's eyes narrowed. He sneered. "Money talks. Not much else does. So, do we have ourselves a deal or not?"
"Mm, I would say not ." Arthur responded drily, eyes glancing at the old grandfather clock in the corner. The second hand was slowly creeping up to the next minute.
It was now the customer's turn to look taken aback, though he didn't release Arthur. "Don't you know who I am? Obviously you know I'm Alfred F. Jones. The Alfred Jones. Yeah, the lead actor in Heart in a Box and Echoes. Hollywood's golden boy, latest heartthrob. I've won the People's Choice Award for top actor in four categories in four consecutive years!"
"My, aren't we full of ourselves."
Alfred pressed his hands on the counter, palms down and fingers out. He leaned forward, getting in Arthur's face as much as he could.
Through gritted teeth, he spoke. "What will it take to keep you quiet?"
Arthur pointedly ignored him, once again looking at the clock. Another minute had passed.
A hand closed over the scruff of Arthur's button down shirt, pulling Arthur to his feet and slightly cutting off airflow.
Despite the predicament, Arthur remained expressionless, green eyes the epitome of boredom. "Release me."
A growl.
Fierce green and blue eyes bored into one another, a battle of psychological resolve.
Tick, tock, another minute.
Then Alfred loosened his hold on Arthur.
Arthur took a series of well needed gasps of air before speaking. "You will have to trust me when I say I give you my word that you will not be discovered. But, know that there is nothing you could offer me that could ever buy my silence."
"In that case, I guess I don't have much of a choice." Alfred stuck his hand out. His blue eyes were chilly. "Alfred F. Jones."
Alfred's hand dwarfed Arthur's pale, bony hand.
"Arthur Kirkland. Pleasure to meet you."
It has been said that time heals all wounds. 'All' is an infinitely large number of wounds. And time is only a bandage. The wound will only heal when a bandage is used well, and in conjunction with other salves. Time by itself is a monster, a silent assassin, and you will not be aware of its presence until it's too late. Time is cruel.
Alfred lounged on his bed, staring at the faceless wall. He was on vacation, a temporary relocation, just a couple weeks of peace and quiet before returning to his hectic lifestyle. A short break from all the fanfare that surrounded him back home. A couple weeks should've been enough to curb his need for quiet; he should've been jumping off the walls, driven insane by the boredom after mere days. Instead, he found himself wanting to stay longer and longer, growing attached to the small island. He appreciated his fans, but they were overbearing. There was no freedom in Hollywood; everyone stuck to a strict schedule of plastic smiles and scripted actions. The boredom was worth his newfound freedom.
He went to the beach and threw rocks into the sea, bemoaning the low temperatures forbidding him from jumping in and swimming. He went to the pubs, realizing it was quite boring when he was alone and no one was rowdily making a huge scene and dancing on tables sans pants. He called his parents to let them know he was still alive and promptly realized he forgot about the time difference. He couldn't even go online because he wanted to avoid everyone. There was nothing more stressful than reading the tabloids' exaggerated lies and see millions of people believe it.
Alfred did a stellar job of avoiding people. The only people he had run into were old and male with fancy uniforms, people who did not fit into his fanbase and likely did not see their families often enough to recognise the movie star their daughters fawned over.
And he avoided that florist. Alfred convinced himself it was because of their less than stellar first meeting and how the little Englishman clearly was hiding things. Avoidance would keep Alfred safe from blackmailers and undercover reporters and sneaky little Englishmen who appeared harmless but would probably ruin his life when given the chance.
For some reason, after circling around the town for the fourth time, Alfred found himself heading towards the florist. Suspicious Englishmen be damned. The man did have a nice shop, and he was the youngest person Alfred had seen so far, and at least Alfred wouldn't be as bored. Nothing killed boredom quite like hanging out with someone who despised you with a passion.
The outside of the shop was simple. A few hanging baskets of overflowing flowers dangled before the windows. Rows of blossoms brightened up the lands under the windows and the pathway leading up to the store. A PVC sign labelled the building as 'Flowers' in a scrawling, cursive font. Simple, but elegant.
The sweet aroma of flowers hit Alfred as he stepped through the doorway. Arthur was sitting behind the counter, concentrating on the arrangement of flowers before him. Not wanting to distract him, Alfred stood in the doorway, unnoticed, and watched Arthur work.
Arthur's fingers slipped through the stalks, alabaster fingers a stark contrast to the deep green stems and the black watch sitting on his wrist. His brow furrowed as he moved the stalks back and forth, and back and forth. Occasionally he would pause, bite his lower lip, before trimming a stalk. Green eyes remained clear and steady, wholly concentrated on the task before him. Slowly, Alfred watched as the mass of flowers became a stunning bouquet, bright with orange lilies and pink roses adorned with edelweiss. There was some sort of magic when Arthur worked. It was such a simple little creation, yet took so much effort and concentration to create.
Arthur tied the stalks together with a white ribbon and leaned back. With the back of his hand, he brushed hair out of his eyes.
At that moment, Alfred chose to make his presence known. "Nice bouquet. Someone getting married?"
Surprise flickered through Arthur's expression as he looked up. "No wedding, my hands were feeling restless. I'll be giving these to my neighbour. Fine old lady she is. Should I prepare myself for further accusations and threats? For another assault?"
Alfred rubbed the back of his neck. He at least had the decency to appear a little ashamed, Arthur noted. "Isn't that a bit of an exaggeration? I mean, it's not like I hurt you or anything. Besides, it's what any person with a sense of self preservation would do. Who knows what you might leak to the press. People will do anything for their fifteen minutes of fame, you know."
Arthur scoffed. "Boy, if I wanted fame, I would have gone about in a more dignified manner than that. You think too lowly of others."
"Oh?" Alfred challenged, crossing his arms. He casually leaned against the wall. "Well I'm sure that if you had spent the last eight years in Hollywood you wouldn't be nearly so high and mighty about your dignity."
"And I'm quite convinced that you are blinding yourself to the good. You are trying too hard to convince yourself of how terrible your life is, woe is you, your life is so pathetic even though you're rich, famous, young, and healthy. You are not going to convince me your life is all that bad." Arthur was glaring at him, venom oozing out from bright green eyes.
Alfred glared back. "You wouldn't understand, being a nobody and all. You don't know how the world of showbiz squeezes the life out of you. It leaves an empty shell behind once it's done with you."
Arthur turned away and looked down at his neatly bound bouquet. He played with the stem of one of the stalks. "Emptiness is clarity for the soul. One must always retain a healthy dose of empty. Full is what breaks you, fills you to the brim until you can no longer hold so much fullness and alas, you have nothing left for yourself. Too full of dependence on the attention of others, you have forgotten how to take care of yourself." Alfred thought he saw Arthur's eyes glaze over slightly, as if he wasn't quite present anymore, but Arthur recovered quickly enough for Alfred to convince himself he was seeing things.
Arthur continued, "I can't deny that you have a point; indeed, I don't know what your world is like. Nor could I imagine living in a world as hectic as yours. But the four things you need for a good life are hope, optimism, longevity, and health. You are the only one at fault for your emptiness and you're projecting your faults onto society."
Alfred blinked. It had been a long time since anyone had so blatantly disagreed with him, stomping over his words and practically feeding them into a shredder. It was refreshing. "Well are you living a good life?"
Arthur's expression became unreadable. "No, I suppose I'm not."
"Then aren't you kinda being a hypocrite?"
Again, Arthur's eyes glazed over. This time there was no doubt about it; his expression was spacey and unfocused. In a small voice, he responded with a single word. "Perhaps."
And then it was dark. So, so dark. Darkness so unnatural, only the strongest would last. Darkness that ate away at one's sanity.
But sane is the mask of insanity.
Ring, ring.
Arthur picked up the phone, annoyance clear in his voice. "Hello, Arthur Kirkland."
The voice on the other end was blunt. "You told me you would send me a manuscript by last week. I see nothing in my mailbox."
Arthur sighed and rubbed his temple. "Nothing was worth reading, all just piles of words meshed lumped together and left to dry. It's garbage."
"And I, my dear Englishman, will have to call you out on those little lies you're so fond of telling. Mon cher, we both know that anything that little head of yours churns out is a bestseller in the making. And you know just as well as I that the problem is never that your writing is not good enough, only that it's too brilliant and deep and raw to share. And you are too stubborn to change a single word."
Arthur scoffed, "Frog, you know as well as I that I will never allow another word of mine to be printed. You think I don't know how much money you made off of my last book?"
An exaggerated gasp was heard on the other end of the line. "My, you wound me. Thinking so little of me. You must think of what you are letting slip past your fingers! Millions would offer their souls to the devil for this opportunity you so carelessly toss aside!"
Francis could hear Arthur sniffling on the other end of the receiver. "I'm already dead, Francis. Another book will only make things worse." Arthur said softly, shakily.
Hearing Arthur so small and restrained tugged at Francis' heartstrings. " Cher, I don't believe anything would change -"
He was interrupted by Arthur's furious screaming. "You made me sign movie rights to Hollywood! Hollywood. An American will be trying to understand me. They have no appreciation for fine literature, he'll ruin everything. Everything! Bloody yanks have no appreciation for the-" Arthur was cut off by a violent coughing fit.
Francis scrambled to calm Arthur down. "Arthur, dear, don't strain yourself. It's not good for your health. You wrote the screenplay, I'm sure it will turn out fine. You can even go on set to set the actor straight if you wanted." He could still hear Arthur's heaving breathing. "Go make yourself a cup of tea. Do be careful not to strain yourself-"
Francis heard two words - "Bloody Frog"- before Arthur slammed the receiver down.
Well, Francis thought, running a hand wearily through his hair, that could have gone worse.
Pain is a reminder that all we are is human and in the end, that is all we can aspire to be. Pain grounds us, reveals us, restrains us, but it empowers us.
Because only those who have suffered pain can truly say they have lived.
Today, Arthur sat in his garden. A book sat in his lap, closed, and untouched. It was still brand new, price tag still stuck on the cover. A receipt poked out from the top. Arthur wasn't in the mood for expending the extra energy to discard a scrap of paper and hunt for a real bookmark. A receipt would serve its purpose just fine.
It was a beautiful day. High in the sky the sun shone, gifting the earth with warmth and joy. The light was greedily accepted by the pansies, the sunflowers, and the columbines as well. White, purple and yellow blossoms stretched to their their limits, revealing a vulnerable heart out for the world to see.
Absentmindedly, Arthur lightly fingered the cover of his book. Catch 22, because life is a game, and no one ever wins.
But some lose more than others. And Arthur wasn't about to be one of them.
Under the book, a quilt covered his legs and lower torso. The tips of the quilt trailed on the ground. Arthur's other hand was buried under the cloth, nestled amongst the folds. His palm rested lightly on his stomach, fingers gingerly rubbing against the pain. Cries of distress arose from underneath, shooting sharp pangs throughout his body. Arthur grimaced, but still keeping a neutral expression. He was, after all, an English gentleman, and English gentlemen had the stiff upper lip mastered down to an art form.
The only sound in the garden was the light rustle of wind blowing between leaves and the steady ticking of Arthur's watch.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
It was like a timer slowly counting down until the day Arthur was free.
Arthur sat alone, intense concentration in his green eyes welled with tears. For all his concentration, he saw nothing but black and red spots.
Gingerly, he massaged his abdomen, willing for the pain to go away. Once upon a time, he would've taken a painkiller, a little capsule that presented a solution to every problem. At some point along the line, he found that he just didn't care anymore. Pain was natural, was it not? It wouldn't do for him to take the easy way out.
Months earlier, he had disposed of anything remotely medical in his house, save for a small box of assorted bandaids. He had fought long enough; it was time for nature to take his course.
((But not in his shop, of course, because he needed to be able to wear the mask of good health for customers.))
He opened his book, reading empty words, processing none of the words on the page.
Arthur was tired, hurting, too much to continue living naturally.
But he was too stubborn to admit it.
What is the future? Infinite possibilities exist tomorrow, who knows where life will bring you? Only the fates can tell, three old sisters with the knowledge of the world.
Why are we so obsessed with the future? What about the present? The present is a gift, one that should be cherished. For there is only one present, and never a chance to go back.
The past is a story, the future is infinite, but the present, your life, right now. It is a gift. Treasure it.
It was past two in the afternoon and Alfred was still in bed, reclining on a small mountain of pillows in his bed. He fiddled with his phone, scrolling through his unread messages.
Braginski, Braginski, Braginski, Braginski, Mattie, Mom, Braginski, Braginski, spam, Hedervary, Braginski, Mattie, Braginski, Dad, Braginski, Braginski, Braginski, Braginski, Mom, Braginski...
He checked off every message from a certain Ivan Braginski and deleted them all with no regard to the contents of the messages. Alfred was on vacation. An unapproved, extended vacation in which he conveniently might have accidentally forgotten to tell anyone anything about his whereabouts. But it was a vacation, nonetheless. His mildly sociopathic but generally well meaning manager slash bodyguard would have to wait.
As for his friends and family, they received the same scripted message they had already read countless times before.
Hey guys, don't worry about me. I'm safe. Just taking some down time. Love you xx
Just as he was about to turn his phone off the stupid device buzzed, announcing a new message in his inbox. Against his better judgement, Alfred opened its contents. Curiosity always caught the cat, after all.
From: Ex-Commie Bastard Dude
Hello Jones. I hope you've been well. It has been dark here, without your sunny presence. Toris sends his regards. I do not know what has caused this latest childish outburst of yours, but I do believe this package I forwarded is of the utmost importance. This is the latest talk of Hollywood, of the world. If you get the role, it'll put you on the international table. Your career will reach new heights. All you've been doing in complaining about how all your roles have been shallow and too easy for you. Prove to me that you're as good as you say you are by playing the role of Kiran D. Lurkrath in A Graveyard of Buried Infinities. I dare you.
I hope you enjoy your holiday.
Ivan.
Perhaps if Alfred was still interested in fame, he would have found the message to be enticing. Kiran D. Lurkrath was foreign to him, but he had heard A Graveyard of Buried Infinities from time to time. It was some bestselling book by some guy no one knew. Elizaveta had spent a good chunk of the time on the set of their last movie crying over the book. Alfred never really saw the point of crying over a book; it was just words on page. How could words be such a big deal?
Ivan had perfected the art of passive aggression, however, and a chill ran down Alfred's spine. The thinly veiled threat was obvious, and Ivan was clearly appealing to Alfred's competitive nature. I dare you. The traitor.
Alfred wanted nothing to do with the twisted world of lies, gossip, backstabbers, and egotism. So he did what he considered to be a good decision at the time.
Alfred threw his phone at the wall.
It landed in the trash bin with a satisfying clunk.
A little push.
That is the difference between intent and action.
But don't shove. That's just rude.
Arthur was going to bash his head into the nearest tree if Francis did not stop talking about writing.
Arthur had woken up this morning sore and grouchy, after a poor night's rest. Figures that the frog would drop by when Arthur most wanted solitude.
The frog was the entire reason Arthur was out in the sun, slowly burning to death, instead of in the safety of his precious shop. Arthur hadn't watered his flowers yet today; he hoped they wouldn't suffer without his care for a few hours. The frog was why Arthur was wasting valuable energy on a walk rather than resting with a book as he ought to be doing.
For some reason, the frog had put it upon himself to coax Arthur out of his hole. Arthur vaguely suspected his family had put the frog up to it, but one could never really tell with the French. No matter the reason, Francis had hopped on a plane after their last call and decided to confront Arthur in person.
"Ah, mon dieu, the struggles of writing. Wilde, Plath, you, such self inflicted suffering for your craft. Such dedication!" Francis Bonnefoy, the frog in question, was, as usual, twisting events for dramatic effect. How very French of him.
Given Arthur's natural disposition to despise the French, it was a surprise to all how Arthur and Francis, the epitome of Frenchness, managed to coexist.
Arthur scoffed in response to Francis' words. "I rather see my suffering as an unfortunate side effect of a lifetime of poor luck."
Francis waved a hand airily. "That is simply because you English must learn to let go of that stiff upper lip."
Arthur stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but was Wilde not arrested and humiliated for the very reason of his torment?"
"You English, draining the beauty out of everything. How such fine works of literature came from such emotionless shells shall never fail to surprise me." Francis declared.
Arthur did not dignify that with a response. He simply continued walking, and Francis did not disturb him until the trail led to a long stretch of rocky beach.
Francis tsked disapprovingly. "English waters, as gloomy as the people it surrounds. Could it be that the drabness of you English folk are seeping into your land? Such a shame, an empty grey beach on such a beautiful day. Your Prime Minister really could take some pointers from Marseille."
Arthur snorted, kicking a rock along as he walked, but said nothing.
A couple more moments of silence passed until the frog began croaking again. A familiar croak that Arthur had long tired of hearing.
"It has been years since I last read something new from you. Remember when we were children? You used to be so excited when you finished writing anything and wouldn't give anyone peace until they had read whatever you wrote." Francis draped one arm across Arthur's shoulders, the other resting in a pocket with the thumb peeking out. Francis was, after all, the very epitome of the casual, laid back and fashion forward Frenchman.
Arthur shrugged the arm off and gave Francis a cold look. "Remember how I spent my entire childhood in a hospital?"
Francis hummed. "Touché. But Arthur," Francis stopped walking and turned to face Arthur. He grasped Arthur's bony shoulders to keep him from walking away. A rare seriousness had taken over his expression, "you work magic with words in a manner no one has before, and no one will after. It is a gift, and such a shame it would be to leave it veiled behind obscurity! Your words could define a generation, a new age!"
Arthur pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed them over his chest. Through thick lashes, Arthur glared up at Francis. In the distance, far over the water, Arthur vaguely registered the cry of seagulls, squawking as they fought the waves.
"And what use have I for fame and talent if my life has been one death sentence after another? My entire life, I have been on death row."
Francis did not have a response, not an adequate one Arthur could not counter.
On the other end of the beach was a certain American, blond haired and blue eyed, munching on a McDonald's burger. The stretch of beach had already been explored extensively in the week Alfred had been here; to his pleasure, he found that no one really cared about his presence. Occasionally he would run into someone who recognized him, but they were always polite and never asked for pictures or autographs while squealing like his traditional fan base he had left behind.
Alfred had taken the last bite of his burger when he caught sight of Arthur in the distance. Somewhat ashamed of his treatment of the Englishman so far, he scrunched up his burger wrapper, stuffed it in his pocket, and began walking towards Arthur. It was barely noticeable, and Alfred certainly was unaware, but there was a slight bounce in his step that was not there before.
Arthur was with another man, but that didn't deter Alfred. After all, Alfred lived strictly by the philosophy of the more, the merrier.
From where he was standing, Alfred couldn't see the expressions of Arthur or his companion's face. It was not long until he regretted joining their conversation.
"Hey, how's it been going?" The other man turned to face Alfred, wearing a blank expression but matched with stormy eyes. Arthur ignored the interruption, instead turning his back to his two companions to look out at the sea.
The other man recovered first, his face instantly lighting up. "'ello, Arthur did not tell me he had made friends. I am Francis Bonnefoy, charmed." His English was perfect, though lined with a French accent. With a flourish of his arms, Francis gave an exaggerated bow as soon as he had finished talking. Before he straightened up, Francis grabbed Alfred's arm and laid a chaste kiss on the back of his hand.
Ever so slightly, Alfred's shoulders tensed but he laughed goodnaturedly. "I suppose you're a fan?"
For a split second Francis looked confused, before breaking out into a wide smile. "Per chance, would you happen to be Hollywood's golden boy?"
Arthur looked at his watch; he had been away far too long and interjected flatly, "He is. Are we quite done here? My flowers are drying up by the minute and I really must water them."
Francis' pleasant demeanor was unfazed as he brushed off Arthur's grumbling with a laugh. A hand rested on his hip, exuding confidence. Unlike the overconfident, arrogant stars Alfred often associated with, Francis' confidence was comfortable, natural, and certainly not over the top. Francis was not trying to flaunt his dominance, confident was simply how he was. And certainly, it was a good look for him.
"Well, you certainly are ungrateful today." remarked Francis.
"Shut it, frog."
Hints of a grin still glinting in his eyes, Francis teasingly put his hands up. "Very well. As his grumpmeister wishes. Alas, I must make my farewell as Alastair awaits for my arrival in London."
"You came down to ruin my day before plotting with my brother. Truly, I am honoured to be held in such high regard." Arthur's words dripped with biting sarcasm.
Francis was as unfazed as ever. "You spend some quality time with your American friend here. I will be checking up on you shortly. Expect a call from Alastair within the month, and do keep my words in consideration." Alfred noted how Francis acted in an almost maternal fashion to Arthur; then Francis turned to him. "And monsieur Jones, I trust you will not be turned off by Arthur's sour demeanor. He could use a fine friend like yourself, not too harsh on the eyes at all." Francis winked. "I bid you two adieu , and I expect we will meet again, Alfred F. Jones."
And just like that, he was off, disappearing around a bend.
Once he lost sight of Francis, Alfred turned to Arthur. "Well, uh, I just wanted to apologize for what I did when we first met."
Alfred was going to say more, but was cut off by a curt, "apology accepted."
Alfred blinked. "Oh. So, um, I was thinking we could get to know each other, make an acquaintance? You seem like an interesting guy. I could leave, though, if you want." He stumbled over his words, unsure of how to act towards Arthur.
For the first time that day, Arthur finally looked at Alfred. "No. Stay. I could use a slave."
And as abruptly as Francis, Arthur began to walk away in another direction, leaving Alfred both confused in the dust, and scrambling to keep up.
The value of a relationship can not, and should never, be measured by what you receive from the other. One who would give up everything for you is one to be avoided. Possessions should not be so easily discarded; if one would give anything for you, they would do anything against you.
There is no shame in admitting you associate with certain individuals for what you receive in return. It is, after all, human nature to be evil and selfish.
Be wary of those who claim and act without selfishness.
"You know, for a stuffy old Brit you're a pretty interesting guy." Alfred leaned on the counter, casually twirling a cut flower stem in his hand.
Arthur's back was turned towards him as he watered the flowers in his shop. "For an egotistic American with rather violent paranoid urges you're quite companionable."
Alfred laughed drily. "Don't get too full of yourself, Artie. I'm only keeping you company because I don't really have any other choices. Besides, I figure if you're going to sell me out I'll just have to put you out of business."
Arthur moved along the shelves with his watering can. "Then I suppose my only choice would be to reveal your hidden true self. Now wouldn't that be a shame? You'd let down all your fans. What a pity."
The stem twisted out of Alfred's grasp and he laughed. "Keep dreaming. My fans are more dedicated than that. You're just some jealous nobody who wants to extend their fifteen minutes of fame. No one would believe you. After all, who'd question a face like this?" Alfred gave his brightest grin and winked, his signature expression. His voice was somewhat strained, though, and his eyes were dull despite the brightness of his smile.
But Arthur didn't call him out on his poor acting. He was preoccupied with his strawberries which had just begun to bear fruit. "I may be a nobody, but I am a nobody with connections. Perhaps my word holds little weight, but I am sure a few well placed calls would tip the balance in my favour."
"Oh really?" Alfred straightened and slowly headed towards where Arthur was standing, watering his strawberries. "And who these connections of yours that are important enough to possibly hurt my image?"
Arthur looked up at Alfred, who was now standing behind him. He could feel the pride emanating off of the American, who was standing tall and proud, not unlike his tiger lilies. Bloody prideful flowers always absorbing more than their fair share of the fertilizer. "As it happens to turn out, I am rather well acquainted with a certain Kiku Honda."
Alfred startled, shocked gaze meeting smug green eyes. "Kiku? You mean, THE Kiku Honda!? Like, the greatest up and coming film director of this age?"
"And the youngest winner of the Academy, Golden Globe, and BAFTA for best director amongst numerous other awards? Yes indeed, that Kiku Honda." Arthur smirked, turning away to water his tomatoes. Despite his obvious smugness, Arthur had sounded completely casual about it, as if he was talking about a neighbour or distant friend rather than the most celebrated director of the modern age.
Right then, Alfred did a fine impression of a fish, mouth opening and closing wordlessly, blue eyes bulging out of his skull. Perhaps it was unintentional, but Alfred's posture became rigid, giving him several additional centimetres to his height, and he leaned in slightly, as if to intimidate the smaller man before him.
Alfred's hand gripped Arthur's bony shoulder, forcing the smaller man to look at him. Alfred's movement was rough, causing Arthur to drop his watering can. The metal sang as it bounced along the wooden floorboards, a clang resounding with each impact. A trail of water dripped out of the spout, splattering across the floor before slowing to a steady drip.
"But Kiku never sees anyone . It's practically impossible to get a hold of him. He only meets people through personal invitation! People would kill to meet him. Why would he... how would he know a nobody like you!?" Alfred's eyes flashed maniacally. No doubt, Alfred was one of countless stars who would kill for the chance to work with Kiku Honda.
There was a pause after Alfred stopped talking. Arthur's eyes fixed on a point to the left of Alfred's head. A long scratch marred the wall, a remnant from the last time Arthur's brother visited.
Arthur blinked a couple of times, refocusing himself in the present. His eyes still seemed hazy, heavy lids covering much of the colour, and his voice was distant. "I suppose one could deem it to be a meeting of chance. Kiku was quite taken by my work, and I with his. We artists stick together, you know, in this world moving too fast for the people to keep up."
Alfred scoffed indignantly at Arthur's remark about artists. "And I'm not an artist? I'll have you know, I make my living by bringing out the emotions in my viewers!"
Arthur looked at Alfred, critically looking him up and down. This was akin to his first meeting with his agency representative, when a barely fourteen year old Alfred stood naked except for his boxers, arms out and feet spread. Awkward not-quite developed gangly limbs, and the remnants of baby fat on his hips and cheeks were on display, under the scrutiny of the stern woman who had some strong words regarding Alfred's pimply forehead. Regardless of her harsh words, he was accepted and in less than two years he would see himself labelled Hollywood's newest rising teen star.
Despite being fully dressed (with two layers, too), Alfred felt equality naked under Arthur's piercing stare as he had in his underwear all those years ago. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fingers tugging at the threadbare sleeve of his hoodie.
Then Arthur looked up, looking him in the eye. "No, I don't reckon you are. Humour me: would you be making your living if you did not have physical beauty on your side?"
His tone was bored, dismissive, as if Alfred was some child Arthur had been coerced into entertaining. Alfred clenched his fists, but said nothing. He had no leverage, nothing to refute Arthur's words with.
Arthur face had been a blank mask, but Alfred's silence softened the edges. When he spoke, his voice was softer; any traces of his previous animosity had dissipated. "What was it that drew you to the limelight?" His head head tilted slightly to the side, eyes wide and questioning peeking out from underneath a shaggy fringe.
Alfred's gaze bounced around the room, avoiding the figure standing before him. This was a common question, and Alfred typically said he wanted to inspire people when asked by interviewers. No one ever brought up his lack of inspirational actions other than a few photo ops with charities and unending patience with his fans.
But Arthur's gaze held strong and steady, boring into Alfred's soul, as if seeing the deep secrets buried under layer after layer. Alfred gulped, hit by a sudden realization. When he was younger, Alfred thought being an actor meant being a hero. After all, Clark Kent was Spiderman acting as a regular person. But no longer was Alfred the bright eyed, naive little boy he had been, and no longer did he know what he wanted in life.
Arthur's gaze remained focused on Alfred. His eyes were narrowed, but his eyebrows were raised, mastering the look of disinterested curiosity. His eyebrows framed his face perfectly, a perfect declaration of his curiosity but not over the top. Alfred couldn't resist this face and answered as honestly as he could.
"I don't know." Alfred dragged a hand through his hair. "I always liked attention when I was a kid. I was the class clown, you know? Then when I was nine I ended up in a theatre performance and all I did was dance around covered in cotton fluff while waving around a cardboard cloud in the background. And I loved it, being the centre of attention. I got this adrenaline rush afterwards, with all of my family congratulating me and everything even though I got the part out of random luck. They would've taken any random kid and I happened to be the first they saw. It wasn't even an important role or anything. I don't think anyone other than my family even knew I was there.
"But I loved the feeling of coming down from the stage and having people rush at you, talking about how great you were. Even though it was only my family, I loved it. It's the best feeling in the world. After that I kept signing up for school plays and I was probably awful but I always got the part.
"And actors are like heroes, right? All the superheroes act like regular people, and I kinda associated being a hero with being an actor. I guess I still do. And I like being someone else. Because then you can literally be anything you want. Acting is so freeing 'cause how you appear is up to you."
Alfred inhaled deeply, slouching against the frame of the shelf. His arms folded across his chest.
"Indeed, I really do envy your freedom. I really am seething in jealousy at how you are avoiding your fans, managers, and your responsibilities on an obscure island no one lives. I dearly regret not choosing the acting route." Arthur retorted, voice dripping with cynicism.
Alfred's shoulders slumped even more. His entire body sagged, as if he couldn't draw up the energy to stand to his full height. His gaze flickered down, traces of hurt seeping into his features. "Well acting is freeing. But I guess I got caught up in the high from all the attention and then I ended up typecast. Have you seen any of my movies?"
Arthur shook his head, then gestured for Alfred to continue. The water from the watering can he had dropped earlier finally stopped its dripping, having finally run out of water. The pool of water was no longer there, having seeped into the wooden floorboards. Only a damp patch remained, filling the shop with a light, musky forest scent.
Prompted by Arthur, Alfred continued. "Well about two years ago all the hype kinda died down and I realized that all my roles are pretty much the same person with a different name. And then I realized all these awards I got and all this attention isn't because I'm a hero or talented or anything and I just snapped. So here I am."
Alfred finished his speech with a flourish, arms outstretched and palms facing out.
Arthur turned away to retrieve the discarded watering can, then headed for the sink in the corner.
Then the room was quiet, only the sound of water sloshing in the can in the room.
When the can was a quarter full, Arthur turned back to face Alfred. Alfred had moved away from the shelf and was now resting his weight on the counter, shoulders slumped forward. The two shared an understanding look, conveying with their eyes what words had failed.
Ever so slightly, Arthur's lips curved upwards. "Here you are."
Behind him, water continued sloshing around.
I once dreamed of a clock.
Time is infinite, but miniscule. Time is a minute, but also minute. A second can crawl at a snail's pace, simultaneously zipping by at the speed of light.
I can die in a second.
As I watched my dream clock tick, I wondered: will this next second be my last?
After all, it only takes a second for a man to die. Even if it's the second time.
Alfred was unimpressed.
He was sitting on the steps leading up to Arthur's flower shop, leg bouncing up and down impatiently as he waited for Arthur to finish up some last minute chores inside. Alfred had offered to help, then they could be on their way out sooner, but Arthur had all but shoved him out the door. Minutes earlier, after much heckling, Alfred had convinced Arthur to go on a walk with him. Or, as Alfred worded it, "exploring".
His phone was in his hand, displaying his numerous unread emails, all of which were from Braginski involving this new movie that would supposedly propel into the critics' circles.
Of course, Braginski also claimed his last three films would also be critical successes. Then they were nominated for the Razzies. All of them.
But as always, there was a silver lining. A critical failure was not synonymous with a box office failure, and Alfred had earned himself a hefty paycheck for the movies, not to mention the publicity and endorsement deals that had come out of it. But after eight years in the business, money and publicity meant little to him.
To add salt to the wound, his movies were box office hits due to the influx of hormonal, preteen girls. The last three movies, the so-called critical masterpieces, ended up marketed as teen chick flicks.
Needless to say, Alfred was not impressed.
Alfred did give Braginski credit for one thing, though. At least the title wasn't cheesy and over the top like Heart in a Box this time. And there was no costar. Only him. At the very least, this one wouldn't be some terrible romantic flick.
But Alfred was still unimpressed.
Having run out of things to check on his phone, Alfred stuffed his phone in the pocket of his hoodie. He rested his elbow on the step above where he sat, leaning back to study the community. Alfred had only run into people a handful of times on the streets, almost none of whom had recognized him. They waved in greeting, and Alfred waved back with a bright grin. Just as he had done on his little farm village all those years ago. A restlessness suddenly awoke inside him, and he felt this need to be on his feet and moving.
Alfred pushed himself off the stairs, dusting off his pants. The sky was clear with only a couple solitary clouds drifting in the sky. One was full and fluffy, colouring book-esque in every way possible. The other was thin, wispy, like the cotton candy swirling around in a machine. He paced back and forth at the foot of the stairs for a minute, then two, before finally giving into his impatience. Alfred barged up the stairs, prepared to haul the florist out. On the third step, Alfred heard soft footsteps steadily approaching. The door flung open, revealing a slightly breathless Arthur.
Arthur leaned heavily against the doorway. "My apologies, it appears that time just flew away from me."
His earlier irritation gone. Alfred grinned. He held his arm out, as if he were a noble knight and Arthur his fair lady. "Time does that, doesn't it? Shall we?"
Arthur said nothing, simply sliding his arm through Alfred's. And off they were.
There is never enough time. Life is a ticking bomb, every moment one step closer to the end.
For many times over the course of my life, I have resigned myself to the end. My life is short, shorter than most, and I am ready for the end.
Or so I tell myself.
But will I ever truly be ready for the end?
Alfred was waiting for him outside, so Arthur had to move fast. Arthur rushed to the back room of his little shop. Shelves upon shelves of budding flowers and packaged seeds and fertilizers greeted him but Arthur made a beeline for the a small drawer at the end of the room, shoving past the greenery in his path. Roughly, he yanked open the drawer, pulling out a small pill container. He fumbled with the lid, unable to pry it off with his shaking hands. Arthur swore under his breath, willing his hands to steady. Finally, just as Arthur was on the verge of slamming the cylinder against the wall, the lid came off with a pop. Hurriedly, Arthur shook two little caplets out and lifted them to his mouth. In a single, fluid motion, he had thrown his head back and swallowed the pills dry.
As expected, the pills did not go down easy without the lubrication of water. Arthur could feel the capsules lodging in his throat, straining against the walls of his esophagus. It was an unpleasant, almost painful, feeling that always made him regret his hurry. Arthur coughed and pounded lightly on his chest to help the pills go down. It worked, but he found drops of blood splattered on his hand.
Arthur moved a couple steps to the side to a large square sink. He rinsed the redness of his hands, but made no motion to step back or dry off his hands. Instead, he placed his hands on the sides of the sink, bracing his weight as he leaned forward over the drain. It was silent. Still. The plants were as still as Arthur, unmoving, burdened by the weight of their brightness.
Tousled blond locks fell before Arthur's eyes, curtaining much on his vision. Tears filled his eyes, but did not flow out. His eyes were lined with dark bags, bruises against his yellow tinted skin.
The silence was broken by Arthur's heavy breathing. In, and out, and in, and out. This was a regular routine, one Arthur absolutely despised, but nevertheless regular. Shakily, he lifted a hand to his mouth, suppressing the churning in his stomach as best he could. It was like Kronos, attempting to defy fate. The end cannot be defied, but it can be delayed.
A drop of water leaked from the sprout, echoing in the little room.
It brought Arthur out of his reverie.
He blinked, the hand at his mouth lowered to rub at his abdomen. A hardened lump lay under his shirt, under his skin, unseen, but all too prominent.
In, out, in, out.
Arthur heard faint movement from outside. He collected himself best he could before scrambling out to meet Alfred.
I believe I have spent much of my life following the desires of others.
Did I ever fight for me?
What do I want?
...I think I want to die.
Alfred whistled a cheerful tune, the opening to his TV show from his early days in Hollywood. He was heading for a clearing, (American) football tucked under his arm and ratty old baseball cap on his head. His blue eyes were clear and bright, shimmering with excitement.
Arthur walked beside him, just barely keeping up with the American's wide gait. The air was still and the sun was out, dusting everything in a warm sheen of gold.
"What took you so long? Harbouring a secret drug addiction?" Alfred's tone was light and teasing, but his words hit a little too close to home.
Arthur kept his voice flat. "You would know, wouldn't you? How many of your colleagues have you suspected of being not quite sober?"
Alfred's eyes lost a bit of their shine. "Hollywood is a long story. Celebrities are probably the most two faced people there are," he said, his voice just barely masking weariness. He didn't elaborate any more than that, and Arthur didn't push him.
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
When they did reach what Alfred deemed to be the "most perfectest footballing spot that even the pros would kill for," Alfred wasted no time in teaching Arthur about the sport he loved so dearly.
"I'll have you know that I used to play rugby. It can't be all that different." Arthur failed to mention that his rugby playing days barely lasted three weeks before his cancer relapsed and he spent the next six months in and out of the hospital.
"No, you have to hold the ball this way!" insisted Alfred. "It should make a nice spiral. Like this!" He threw the ball at Arthur who caught it.
Arthur tossed it back, though Alfred had to run forward a couple steps to receive the ball.
"Come on! More muscle power! That's it! No you have to twist your arm more! Take a step forward when you throw! Yeah like that!"
Alfred ran a rigorous teaching session and it wasn't long before Arthur was panting, hands on his knees and drenched in a layer of sweat.
"I think it's time...for a break," gasped Arthur.
Alfred was glowing, adrenaline surging through his veins bringing him to a pleasant high. "Tired already, old man?" He stepped forward, closing the gap between the two.
"Not all of us have personal trainers or the time to move around so much. Some of us have real jobs that keep us from staying fit." countered Arthur, glaring.
"If you say so, gramps."
An elbow jabbed into his side. "Remind me to give you buttercups. They represent immaturity."
"Well at least I don't have to worry about throwing out my back every time I get out of bed!"
While Arthur and Alfred exchanged insults, two girls, who had been watching the two men, walked up to Alfred.
"Excuse me," one interrupted, "are you Alfred Jones? Like, the Alfred Jones?
Alfred froze and smiled brightly. If one looked closely enough, they would notice the hardness in his eyes; how they narrowed slightly. How his smile was just a little too bright, a little too plastered on. When he replied, his tone was reserved, guarded, so unlike the freedom when he teased Arthur. Most people wouldn't notice, but Arthur was more perceptive than most. "That would be me. You guys fans?"
"Yeah! I love Heart in a Box. You and Natalya Arlovskaya are totally my OTP!"
"No, Echoes was the best. Especially when you and Elizaveta Hedervary had that balcony scene."
Alfred laughed, "I hate to crush your dreams, but Natalya and Elizaveta are just friends. Want autographs?"
Arthur stood off to the side, gripping the football.
After photos and hugs, the two girls turned to leave. One called out, "Hi Arthur. Mum loved the flowers you brought." Arthur nodded his acknowledgement, and they waved and were off.
Arthur fidgeted with the ball in his hands, fingers tapping an irregular beat against the pigskin. Alfred wore an unreadable expression. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders sagged.
Sensing the mood, Arthur answered Alfred's unvoiced thoughts. "They won't tell anyone, you know. It's an unspoken rule. Pry not, let untold secrets remain as such. It's hard to keep a secret in a community as small and closely knit as this one. There are clear boundaries, and those lines are never overstepped."
"There are no rules when it comes to fame."
This was the end.
And the beginning.
It was at this moment when I understood my purpose. How life was simply a series of struggles. This peace of mind I was so desperately searching for, it did not exist. The closest one will ever get to achieving peace of mind is through the acceptance that one can never achieve peace.
"You should go back to acting."
Alfred looked at Arthur in shock over their food.
Alfred's mouth opened and closed silently before he was able to use his voice. "Why would I do that? I hate everything about it. Aren't you like the number one proponent of 'I don't give a crap what other people think so I just do me'?"
Arthur was picking at the barely touched plate of pasta before him. His gaze flickered up, and he looked at Alfred through thin lashes and an untamed fringe. "And how well is not caring going for me?"
"Actually, pretty damn well," Alfred said through a mouthful of food. "You're happy and have everything you want."
Arthur let out a short, bitter laugh. "You have no idea," he muttered under his breath.
Before Alfred could question what he had no idea about, Arthur interrupted him. "Why did you stop acting?"
"The people are horrible. I hate everyone I work with. They're all snobby little dolls who expect everyone to bend over backwards for them. This one guy who was my stunt double tried to throw me off a four story building to prove I was a wimp to the entire crew. And this one actress I worked with refused to kiss me! We were the main couple but she didn't like how I looked and another stunt double had to do all my kissing scenes. My stunt double was practically a doppelganger! And there's nothing wrong with my face!"
Arthur held up his hand to stop Alfred before he launched into a full blown tirade against his job.
"Surely you met some decent folk? I'm rather unconvinced that you have gone all these years without having met at least one decent person."
Alfred paused for a moment. "Well...I do really like Elizaveta. I starred with her a few years ago. She's pretty much my best friend. But she's literally the only one."
Arthur set his fork down, giving up on his meal, and setting all his attention on Alfred. "But she is someone. Are you in Hollywood to meet nice people, or to do something you love? Because from what you've told me, acting is a part of you and you can't just give up a part of you like that."
It was now Alfred's turn to look down, thinking over Arthur's words.
Arthur continued, "I've never mentioned this to anyone before, and I may have lied a bit when you asked me earlier, but I have watched your movies before. All of them. All the roles you've taken are wrong. You can do better. I know you are better than the stereotypical boy next door and I watch you act because I see so much potential in you. Know that you are one of a kind, and all the critics, directors, anyone who says you'll burn out of your fame has no idea what they're talking about because you are going to make history and giving up now would be such a waste.
"There's a lot more to acting than just Hollywood. You don't need a break from acting. You need a break from Hollywood. Maybe a break forever. But please don't give up acting. You have a passion for it, I know you do, and the way you move on screen, you immerse yourself so completely into a character and you really bring them to life. You are not just acting as the character, you become the character and it's just so brilliant and perfect and I swear to God if you retire from acting for good it will be the end of me."
Arthur said his words with such conviction that Alfred was surprised those words had come from Arthur himself. Never before had Alfred seen Arthur show so much emotion, see him feel so strongly about anything. In fact, Alfred wasn't entirely sure if he had ever seen Arthur show emotion other than anger and repressed anger.
Their table was overcome with silence. Alfred sat quietly looking at Arthur, and Arthur looked down at his cold plate still full of food. Arthur was breathing heavily.
In a small voice, Arthur broke the silence. "Please don't stop acting. It would be such a waste. Do you understand how lucky you are? To be healthy, talented, given the opportunities you have at your feet, and such perfect health. Please don't waste your life." Arthur's voice broke on the last sentence and his hands, which had previously been sitting limply in his lap, were now covering his face.
Taken aback, Alfred sat still, stunned and silent.
As the watch on Arthur's wrist ticked on, his face remained buried in his hands. His shoulders shook, slightly at first but steadily grew more violent until broken sobs started leaving his throat.
The sobs pulled Alfred out of his reverie. For a second he sat there, unsure of what to do. But, his inner hero took over and he stood up, walking to Arthur's side of the table. He pulled his chair along with him. Setting his chair beside Arthur's, he gathered Arthur into his arms. He half expected Arthur to put up a fight, but Arthur was stiff. Stiff and bony. Alfred rubbed Arthur's back, feeling the bumps where Arthur's spine protruded out from his skin.
It was the best he could do to comfort the man who had given him so much.
Later, Alfred would forget that Arthur had eaten almost nothing during lunch, forget how small and frail Arthur felt underneath his many layers of clothing. Arthur would say he simply got caught up in the moment, and Alfred bought it.
For as talented an actor he was, he knew nothing of how to read people.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that there is no successful method of avoidance for the past stalks you, shadows you, waiting for the perfect moment for karma to hit you.
You can not win.
There was a knock on Alfred's door. It was heav y, shaking the entire wall. It was an eerily familiar knock. Through the peephole, Alfred saw an unfortunately familiar face. It was large and round, with a pleasant expression that did not quite match the menacing violet eyes. Thought he did not expect this particular guest, Alfred was not surprised by his appearance. Alfred swallowed down a growing lump in his throat as he unlocked the door.
"Braginski," he greeted, opening the door just wide enough so that he could see his manager standing in the hallway. "Can I help you?"
"Jones," his manager responded pleasantly in acknowledgement. "We'll see how much trouble you are worth today." The threat was thinly veiled, but was clear to Alfred. He was going to agree to Braginski's demands, or he was going to be joining the ranks of other unemployed former teen stars. Which really, Alfred wouldn't have minded all that much were it not for Arthur's speech the other day.
Braginski didn't wait for Alfred to invite him in. Instead he pushed the door open, causing Alfred to stumble to keep his balance, and walked directly into the small sitting area. He made himself at home on the couch, casually crossing an ankle on his knee and slouching his arm along the back of the couch.
Alfred regained his balance and scurried after his manager, setting himself down on the corner of the TV stand, as far as he could sit from Braginski while staying in the same room.
Braginski sniffed disdainfully, turning his nose up. "A rather scant little place, no? You can't imagine how difficult it was to track it down."
"How did you find me?" Alfred's voice was tight. Firm, but tight.
"Why, I know some people. They tracked your messages to your family and Elizaveta. You are quite the amateur at running away. Now," Braginski waved his hand, "for real business. You are going to read A Graveyard of Buried Infinities." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly wrinkled paperback of the book and set it on Alfred's coffee table.
"No." Alfred crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. "I do not answer to you. I will be choosing my own roles now, a job that should never have fallen into your hands."
Braginski remained eerily pleasant, though a coldness had settled over the room. "Is that so?" He said, smiling a smile that showed all his teeth. "I do hope you remember the ones who supported you from the beginning."
Alfred smiled back an equally disturbing grin. "I remember you never supported me, unless you could something to gain. But Ivan, I hope you remember how long, how many times you've walked over me, and how I let you flatten me every. Single. Time." The two sat on opposite sides on the room, sharing equally maniacal grins in silence, waiting for the other to back down.
Not being one for patience, Alfred backed down first. But not without a fight. "I will not be reading the book. You will only arrange the roles I have approved of. And I will never star in another teen drama."
Braginski laughed, throwing his head back and clutching his chest as if Alfred was the greatest comedian on earth. "Surely you are joking. You don't have the slightest idea what you're about to give up. This is the role that will define your career. Are you really so naive as to give that up?"
Alfred looked straight at Braginski, dead serious and a no joking demeanor. "Do I look like I'm joking, Braginski? Do I?" He took a deep breath and paused for a second before giving his manager the hardest look he could make. "I would give up everything if it meant I was free from you."
Ivan had no response to that. He simply stared at Alfred, still wearing that pleasant smile.
After several moments of silence, Ivan spoke softly, "End your career, if you are so idealistic as to dream the world spins for you."
Despite his victory, Alfred did not smile. He kept his face straight and serious, his expression leaving no room for disagreement. "Excellent. Speak to the producers for A Graveyard of Buried Infinities. I will be playing Kiran D. Lurkrath."
Without a doubt, the most terrifying moment one can experience in life is the realization that you don't care.
Without a care, without humanity.
An empty shell of a person.
"They've cast him."
"What?" Arthur grumbled, having been interrupted in the middle of his late afternoon nap. "What are you talking about, Frog? Cast who?"
"Kiran. For the movie. He's been cast."
"Is that all?" Arthur yawned.
He could hear Francis frowning through the phone. "You know, I was under the impression you would care more about the casting. You had some rather strong words to say on the matter."
"Yes, well, it's not as if the producers would have listened to my suggestions." And Arthur hung up.
Do I want to be known?
Will I be remembered for the great things I have done, or my faults?
History is cruel when it comes to the memory of the deceased.
Breaking news: Teen heartthrob Alfred Jones confirmed to star in A Graveyard of Buried Infinities. The much anticipated film adaptation of the international bestseller by an elusive anonymous author will be starring the three time Razzie nominee in the main role. Will this be another butchered acting attempt by Jones?
For all of the Russian's faults, efficiency was not one of them. Alfred never failed to be awed by how quickly his manager could work. It had been less than three weeks since their unfortunate meeting and the movie deal had already been finalized.
Alfred burst into Arthur's shop with a brand new copy of A Graveyard of Buried Infinities Alfred had pulled an all nighter so he could finish reading it.
"Artie! I just read this book and my life will never be the same again oh my god I can't believe what just happened this dude is amazing why would the author of something so amazing want to stay anonymous?"
Arthur merely looked up from his own book, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, with disinterest written all over his face. "Fame is not for everyone."
"But this character! This Kiran guy is so amazing how could they have created such a character!"
Drily, Arthur responded, "You seem awfully inspired by this character."
"Well, yeah. Obviously." Alfred was bouncing with excitement, a beaming little ray of sunshine. "You've got to read it! I bet even you with all of your fancy classics will be amazed by Kiran. The author is actually the most amazing person. I don't know how I'm supposed to play Kiran. He's just so, so...so human and flawed and how can I possibly give his character justice?"
Suddenly, Arthur straightened. He closed his book and looked directly at Alfred. "You're playing Kiran, you say?"
"Yup! I can't wait until filming starts. Oh! Filming!" Suddenly Alfred's expression sobered ever so slightly. "I'll have to leave for filming in a month."
Arthur's gaze dropped. Silence ensued, broken only by the systematic ticking of Arthur's watch.
"Well," Arthur finally said, "I guess you wouldn't have been able to stay for much longer anyway. You have a life out there. Go out and conquer the world." Arthur smiled a broken smile.
"Artie..." Alfred's previous joy had dissipated. "You know, you could come too. I mean, you can't be on set of anything but you could come to where filming's going to happen."
Arthur shook his head. "No, I can't. I won't. You shouldn't be going around getting attached to strange men you don't know, anyway." He tried to pass it off as a joke, but it failed to lighten the atmosphere.
He took a deep breath before starting again. "What I mean to say is, relationships are much like people. They come and go. The month spent with you has been quite a pleasant experience, but there is a time stamp for everything and our correspondence will be nearing its end."
"No."
Arthur was taken aback. "...no?"
"No." Alfred reiterated. "I am going to come back after filming and we are going to watch the movie together and we are going to break this time stamp because you are one of the most inspiring people I've met. Seriously, you're up there with my parents and I am keeping you in my life for as long as I can get away with it."
"Alfred..." Arthur was momentarily speechless. "You can't do that. You have a career, and you are going to shine. You should never let other people hold you back."
Alfred smiled sweetly, a genuine smile that lit up the room, that shone in his eyes. "Ah, but Arthur, don't you understand? You could never hold me back. After all, you are my muse."
And isn't it ironic that it was by pursuing his muse that resulted in Yeats driving himself insane?
Muses are fickle creatures; treat with care.
With the rain pounding against the walls, Arthur and Alfred sat across from one another in Arthur's small dining room. Arthur had been filling out a crossword puzzle when Alfred insisted he needed Arthur's help in practising for his new role.
From the start, the practise had been a disaster.
"You know, I honestly think Kiran should just man up. I mean he has everything he needs so why is he going on a useless adventure? He has a family, friends for emotional support, everyone has enough food and they have a medic and his life is just fine. There's nothing he could get from going exploring. And everyone already recognizes him!" Alfred cried out, just on the verge of tears.
"If you believe there is nothing Kiran could need, you have misunderstood his entire character." Arthur was merciless, despite the state the American was in.
"I can't do this anymore! I must have broken my acting gene." Alfred planted his face against the cool wood of the table. His hands tore at his hair, leaving behind ruffled bunches of tangled locks.
"You are being ridiculous," Arthur snapped. "You have broken nothing. Perhaps you simply are not cut out for this role. Kiran is a much deeper, more human character than all the one dimensional pretty boys that seem to be the only type you can portray properly!"
The table shook harder each time Alfred banged his head against the wood.
"Artie, you've got to help me!" Alfred was on the verge of tears. "I need this role! You said I had so much potential, you can't just shut me out when you feel like it! I'm human too! I have feelings and flaws and look at me, I am on my knees, on the ground, and I am literally begging you to save my career and this character so I don't mutilate and ruin such an amazing creation and all the hard work of the author and everyone behind the scenes. Please?"
On the last word, Alfred's voice broke which finally prompted Arthur to put his crossword aside.
"Alright," Arthur said, pulling Alfred off the floor. "I think you've suffered enough. You really have your heart set on this Kiran, don't you?"
Alfred nodded, taking a seat at the table across from Arthur.
"Then tell me," said Arthur, "what about Kiran appeals to you so much? Does he remind you of yourself?"
Alfred propped his head up on his forearms. "Well, yes? No? I don't know? I mean I really like him, but..."
"Well I think Kiran is a little bit like everyone in the world. He is selfish, self centred, ignores good advice because he thinks it doesn't apply to him. He thinks the rules and laws of nature, and of society, are beneath him. Really, Kiran is the absolute worst humanity has to offer."
Alfred raised his head, blinking repeatedly. "But Kiran is such a good person! He stopped his village from stoning that innocent girl to death and ended up being kicked out and he gave the stray cat some food and he did save his village! I mean, sure, maybe Kiran isn't the perfect hero, but he has to be one of the better guys since he basically got nothing out of all the good things he did but he still chose to do them anyway instead of being selfish. Like he could have been so much more selfish but he didn't! And doesn't everyone break rules? And he never did evil things without an ulterior motive, so really he's just human, isn't he?"
Arthur smiled and said, "And now you understand your character. Up until now, you've been treating Kiran as an omnipotent super being who could do no wrong. And that is simply not what he is. To portray Kiran properly, you must be able to dig into his humanity, and present not a hero, but a human with flaws like us all."
Across the table, Alfred tilted his head and gave Arthur a curious look. "You know, for someone who cares so little for that book, you're really good at figuring out the characters."
Refusing to meet his eyes, Arthur looked out the window and watched the droplets stream down the glass. "Indeed, it is quite the mystery."
Secrets should never be discovered, but always have a way of being uncovered.
It is a most unfortunate string of events.
"Hey, what's this?"
Arthur was pruning his apple tree while Alfred dug through the many drawers and cabinets of Arthur's checkout counter. Alfred had come across a book Arthur had stuffed in the back of a bottom drawer, underneath piles of paper that were important enough to be kept, but only in an out of the way location.
The book was new, the cover unblemished, and the pages unopened.
Arthur turned, affectionate exasperation written over his face, expecting Alfred to be holding a gel highlighter or an uniquely shaped USB, something of that sort. He immediately recognized what Alfred was holding up, even before he make out the cover, and his expression fell automatically, a reflexive action to seeing his own book anywhere.
The cover was simple, dark, and elegant. Alfred eyed the cover design appreciatively. Even Arthur himself had much respect for the artist who designed the cover. It was a shame that such a perfect, befitting design was for his own work. The design was solid, but abstract. A wispy figure in white - perhaps a ghost, perhaps a human, perhaps a man, perhaps a woman, perhaps not even humanoid - centred the cover. The background was a gradient of blue, lightening from the black corners to the royal aquamarine blue outlining the figure. A wispy, intricately woven design, perhaps a wind or broken spirits, danced around the figure.
Underneath the figure was the name of the author printed in a calligraphic font, with thin tendrils sprouting from each letter and delicately wrapping around the name.
Arthur was silent, still. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly before he gave up and settled for simply staring at the book in broken horror.
Alfred glanced back at the book; was it something incriminating Arthur wanted no one to find out? Was this a Fifty Shades of Grey esque book? A guilty pleasure no one was to know about?
The title was in the same font as the author's name, too lengthy and intricate for Alfred's lack of patience. He froze, much like Arthur, when he realized he recognized the author's name.
Arthur Kirkland.
Well then.
Arthur was frozen, pruning shears still raised against the leaves.
His companion recovered rather quickly, doing a double take before bursting in excitement.
"Yo, Artie! I didn't know you wrote a book? Why didn't you ever mention it?"
Arthur only blinked. His skin was white, all colour having drained out of his face.
It is a sad moment when one realizes they look healthier on the verge of fainting from shock than in their regular lifestyle.
Alfred was now studying the cover, admiring the artwork, the finer details the artist had slipped onto the paper. "This is a real nice book," Alfred started. "How come you never men...mentioned it?" His voice faltered when he read the title.
A Graveyard of Buried Infinities .
Oh. Oh .
Alfred's mind was racing. What were the chances? Of all the people in the world, he met the elusive author of the the book that had taken the world by storm, that had redefined the limits of writing, and had changed Alfred's life so profoundly?
"You-you're the one who created Kiran?" Alfred asked, awe and disbelief and shock and confusion meshed together in an intangible mess.
There was no where Arthur could hide, no way to avoid this conversation. "I am."
"Why is this cover different from the printed editions?"
Arthur sighed. "A first printing. For my eyes only."
"Is that why your name is still on it?" The first consumer printing did not have Arthur's name anywhere. He was anonymous.
Arthur nodded. "Yes." He had a closed tone, shutting down all the questions Alfred was still bursting to ask. This was going to be the end of this discussion.
The two men looked at each other in silence, Arthur wanting to disown his book, and Alfred wanting to know everything about the book. But it was too late for Arthur to unprint his book, and Alfred could never learn anything without antagonizing Arthur. And so, they sat in silence, punctuated only by the steady ticking of time gone by.
Alfred finally broke the silence, cutting through the tension. "Well, it looks like we'll be heading across the pond together." Arthur was cold and stiff, and Alfred had many unanswered questions, but for now, a brilliant grin had overtaken the actor's features. So bright, that even Arthur couldn't resist offering a smile of his own back (though his was thin and ever so slightly strained).
"Indeed, it appears we shall."
Hello dear reader, and thank you so much for having made it this far!
The second and third acts will be up shortly, within the month.
I hope you enjoyed the first act, and feel free to leave me feedback ^^