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A/N: I love The Scripts. Obviosuly my fav song is the man who can't be moved, and when I listen to it I always, without fail, think of Al and Arthur. Usually ends up being depressing but yeah :p
So this is a songfic, I guess? A more meaningful one at least. Tell me if its sappy, won't you, these are my own personal views mixed in too. I love an au where Artie drifts away from Alfred and Al is being all selfless for love and ah
Babies 3
If you guys want a second part with Arthur for this, lemme know. R+Rs pls :D
Much love. 3
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A diminutive smile graced his features, twisted subtly with traces of pain; fragmented distress and despair.
Alfred stood at the corner of the street, one minuscule area within the urban depths of New York City, with a large rucksack by his side, a photograph in his pocket and a nostalgic expression upon his face.
He'd been here many times in the past, alone and with his boyfriend. An old shop, traditional and worn with age. He remembered distinctly one day with his love, awaiting the opening of the shop, they had counted the cracks in the window corners and the chips on the wood.
Their first meeting had been here. Alfred bumped straight into him. The next day he saw him again inside the shop. It meant a lot to him, so in turn it meant a lot to Alfred.
They kept bumping into each other. Fate, Alfred once called it when he was helping his love pick out a particular hardback book.
Their first kiss had been here, underneath the very lamppost that Alfred leant against, during the bitter winter months, nearing Christmas. How could he possibly forget a memory that he held so dear? Many other kisses and embraces and gestures had been shared here; passionate and chaste, loving and hateful, friendly and sincere.
Alfred had brought his beloved Arthur here every anniversary for five years, with a bigger gift every annual event. Arthur only loved him more each time.
But he drifted further away each time. Eventually, Alfred had lost all means of contact with his partner.
Eventually, Arthur moved back to England.
Eventually, Arthur had gotten a new boyfriend to wrap around his arm.
Eventually, Arthur seemed to have forgotten Alfred.
But Alfred still adored every tiny thing about Arthur, his Arthur, his beautiful Englishman. He was going to get him back, and he knew this was the only way how.
He set down his bag and sat against the post, smiling at nothing in particular. Surely his cerulean eyes would have dimmed in misery after recalling memories he wished to be stowed away until he could recount them with Arthur. They were memories to be shared.
Alfred wasn't sure how long he had stayed there for. Days, weeks, a month or two maybe. He slept in his cobalt sleeping bag, and clutched a photograph when he was in the waking world. He searched the streets around him every second, for a glimpse of that particular head of sandy blonde hair, for that particular set of emerald eyes, for that particular man that he would not lose.
If Alfred could choose between loving Arthur and breathing, he would choose his last breath to tell Arthur he loved him. He'd catch a grenade for him, love him for a thousand years, never find someone like him again, everything ever mentioned in those cheesy love songs they secretly adored. Alfred would die for Arthur, and he hoped he knew that.
And so, to make sure that his only love knew he would always remain and kill for him, he would wait here until he could finally breathe 'I love you.'
One day, a chirpy all-American sweetheart couple had strolled leisurely past, commenting on how the amount of homeless people was increasing. Alfred's smile did not falter; he knew he was here for a reason so much more significant, he knew that and the couple didn't.
He shrugged to himself. "I know it makes no sense, but what else can I do?"
The next day, someone had offered him money. A few pennies, then a few tens of dollars. Alfred still smiled.
"I'm not broke," he said sincerely. "I'm just a broken hearted man."
Another day, a police car had halted at the bend in the curb of the road, directly in front of him. The policeman had bluntly ordered him to move, to pack up and find somewhere else to wallow in self pity. If it wasn't for his motive, Alfred probably would have shifted. But no. When Alfred simply shook his head, the cop persisted.
"Son, you can't stay here." he muttered.
Alfred offered his perfect smile. "There"s someone I'm waitin' for, sir. If it's a day or a month or a year, I'm standing my ground even if it rains or snows 'cause if he changes his mind, this is the first place he's gonna go."
And what Alfred thought was a good three months into his endeavour, a shiny black limo had pulled up by his side, out of which came a loud and bustling camera crew. A woman with a prim and proper appearance strode right up to Alfred and thrust a large microphone into his face. Cameras were aimed at him, and a small crowd began to develop.
"Sir, you've been attracting attention all over since a journalist caught you talking to an officer of the law. Did you ever think you'd gain national fame as the man who can't be moved?"
Alfred stared at the microphone incredulously before turning his perfect megawatt smile on the cameras, addressing whoever would be watching him that very moment.
"No, ma'am. I ain't doin' it for fame, nothin' like that. Call it a, uh, selfless protest or somethin' fancy and such. I'm just trying to prove a point to someone I love a whole lot."
The mass of people around him grew obscenely, some asking loudly why he was doing what he was doing, for how long, for who he was resorting to drastic measures. Alfred politely turned down the questions, settling on his answer of doing it for love.
It was sappy, he knew, but maybe if had gained as much fame as everyone whispered about, then perchance Arthur had seen it on the news. He was in America after all, and so Alfred held on tightly, passionately, stubbornly to that last inkling of hope that he had.
Arthur meant so much to him.
So much that, when Alfred was rid of the growing audiences to his actions and had laid down in his sleeping bag, during rain and snow like he promised, it physically, emotionally pained him to have such an empty space in his heart where Arthur should be.
He knew he was not doing himself any good. The bitter winter zephyr, the sweltering summer luminescence, through any kind of weather, Alfred's health dropped to dangerously low points. He did all he could to manage, but the effects of the days and nights were nothing compared to how his heart burned and wrenched in need for the one he loved.
Even if he could only see him for a split-second, face to face, a glimpse in the mass New York crowds, he would feel anew, revitalised with the raw energy to get up and move. Just to glance at him on the one old photograph Alfred had was enough to pour the life back into him.
He would stay on this corner, until the fateful day that Arthur himself, a godsend in the form of a stuffy and lovable Briton, would walk the very street that Alfred was situated at. He would stay until he could seek out his new boyfriend to tell him, order him to look after Arthur.
He would tell the person to make everything perfect, make every detail right, make Arthur cast genuine smiles his way and make him remember when they have fun. He would tell the person to make Arthur remember how he could be looked at, touched, thought about and spoke about, remember how he could be loved that makes him feel like the most precious thing on the face of the Earth, throughout the entire everlasting universe.
Because he was.
He wanted Arthur to be happy, with or without him. Alfred constantly put Arthur's entire existence before his own. Whoever the Englishman was with, he should feel wanted and loved, and Alfred would provide that love. He'd be there when Arthur broke down, when he was depressed and upset, a shoulder to cry on, a diary to share his innermost thoughts with, a being he could share an embrace with, an embrace that promised he would always be there, even if he did not need it.
Even if he couldn't be with Arthur, he would find his new partner and make him vow that he provided the same kind of attention; no matter how much Arthur chastised himself, endlessly, he would constantly tell him, whisper to him, cry to him that he deserved it.
To Alfred, Arthur was everything. If he had memorised the lines to Shakespeare's romantic sonnets and poems and plays, he would recite every last syllable. If he could write a masterpiece, he would pen his deepest thoughts. If he could just utilise a silly and random bunch of words, he would do so to tell Arthur how special he was, how significant he was, and how stupid he was for not believing all of the praise he received.
Yes, Arthur was everything. Arthur could swear at Alfred, he could curse him and insult him, and even beat him black and blue, yet Alfred would always come back and make sure he was okay. If he killed him with the most logical and meaningful excuse, hell, Alfred would still love him.
Love isn't just something you can blow the flame from. Some of them ignite and flicker for a while, and vanish of their own accord. A candle flame or a little matchstick.
Others ignite and roar proudly, before they're swept away in a millisecond by the elements. Sort of like a wildfire, lasting long but nevertheless disappearing with time.
Alfred smiled, looking at the photo he had of Arthur, faded and dirtied by the harsh nature of being outside on the street for so long.
And sometimes, love ignites and stays ignited forever. Alfred couldn't place an appropriate example for this type of love, because it was just so rare. Maybe unconventional. Maybe he was being silly again.
He could ramble on and on about his stupid and often childish theories, but in all truth, he just loved Arthur.
Yes, he decided as he continued looking into his photograph of his self-proclaimed soul mate, he would remain on this street, through thick and thin, until he saw Arthur.
Then he would tell him in one breath that he loved him.
Because he did.