January
001
Slowly, slowly the snow falls, slowly slowly the ice grows, slowly slowly all hell breaks loose...
He is here for the tea.
He will only ever be here for the tea, and as he watches the Asian man in the midst of the winter glow drink from a porcelain cup, he reminds himself that he to is only here for the tea—the delicacy. Not in any means his company or for the warmth another body brings. Because even though they are friends, they only agree on brief things—such as tea.
The man in front of him looks placid- lucid, and Arthur knows that he is already to deep in his own thoughts to listen to his own. Because men are selfish beings, he thinks to himself, indulgent in his own secret thoughts. Because men tell lies, and hold secrets, he adds in his mind.
They sit together, the glare of the winter breathtaking and yet hauntingly beautiful as they watch the snowstorm blow away any possible dust on the ground. Every particle and flake ushers the wind to continue so they do not helplessly fall onto the ground and melt in vain. It is disgusting, Yao thinks to himself. Dying in so much vain, he adds later on as the snow touches the floor and the earths temperature melt the weak layers of white.
They sit within a small café, and the aroma of cocoa weaves between the silence and the stillness. It is only them that sit there completely still and unmoving as other men and woman laugh and dine. They are not part of the fun today. No… never again.
"Do you remember why we are here?" Yao asks, voice barely a whisper and Arthur thinks it is disgusting and repulsing, because it shows weakness. But that is fine, he thinks once again, because he is willing to compensate for the others shortcomings.
"Do not waste my time with such questions." He responds slowly, and he doesn't know why, but he is agitated and mad and frustrated all at once so his mind is unclear like the snow that once again starts to dance another rhythm.
Frustrating.
"Do you say that because you indeed, don't know?" Yao answers louder this time. He turns his head facing him directly so the blond could see the tired expression. And there is something so sad and maddening to the silently resigned eyes. A method to the beauty of silence falls on them once again. Arthur opens his mouth, lips dry and parched because he doesn't know what to say. And even though he doesn't know what to say—what the right thing to say is, he finds an answer anyway.
"What of it?" He say's, because he really doesn't know. Because through the cold streets it only suddenly occurred to him like an idea that came to late for the party. "And what about you?" He asks cautiously. He is stepping on a eggshells and he is dancing between wires as he asks, but his hand is suddenly aggravated so he tends to that first.
"I…know why we are here." The older man says hesitantly. He shifts his position, straightening his posture even though his head remains tilted to the side. His locks fall to the side, overlapping black against white skin.
In reality he does not know, but he blames it on the snow outside. Blaming is easy and fun and even though it is wrong he could care less.
"Right, of course." Arthur responds stiffly, he does not believe the man but he chooses to. The man believes his words, and he believes his. He, Arthur, also blames it on the snow because why else would they drink expensive tea when they should be searching for jobs and careers?
He doesn't know the answer. He forgot.
That was the problem. He keeps on forgetting.
Now he remembers.
"The Doctor is lying I tell you." He adds quickly, grasping onto the concept before he forgets it again. It is difficult and he struggles in vain. Much like the snow, Yao thinks with a hint of a smug smile.
"Please do not remind me," Yao jokes, because he knows he needs to be reminded or else he forgets.
"—And do not start that again, Arthur."
"What was that blasted concept? Amnesia? Alzheimers? Dementia? Nonsense!" The blond shakes his head, he is more mad then frustrated now. The wind must sympathize with him because it whips snow and ice and hail. It showers his anger on the world because that is only fair he reminds himself. He should not be suffering, he thinks.
"Arthur…"
"Rubbish! Pure rubbish I tell you my dear Yao! All of it just rubbish!"
"Arthu-"
"I simply have a bad memory. And you to. How inconceivable! Them bloody dolts…"
"Arthur!"
He stops. Everyone stops. They all stop. And in that moment between a frozen time and a seamless hybrid of seconds, they exchange a meaningful stare. And then time moves and they sit down, and they are silent, and they are no longer friends even though they still do not bother to leave. It's the tea that makes them want to stay they reassure themselves even when they forget seconds later.
They remain silent.
This is not a dream, they remind themselves.
You will not wake up, they remind themselves.
You will not forget, they remind themselves.
And they chant those phrases over and over again, burning it into there diminishing memory. And they pray to something—anything in hopes of remembering because time loses all meaning when you cannot remember anything. So they sit together, tea cold, fingers burning hot.
It is January and they have months time left.
They do not want to believe anything that happens as of right now.
They do not believe this is happening.
And by pure coincidence they forget the rest and remember only that.
They do not believe they are forgetting.
"How fast?
"Slowly."