The Eyes of a Poet
The Life of Arthur Kirkland
Rating: M
Synopsis: Arthur Kirkland's life and trials. There is simple beauty in life.
England x Hungary / UkHun / EngHun
(some FrUK)
Human AU
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I do not own Hetalia.
Arthur Kirkland came into the world on the night of a festival. His mother, a tall red-headed woman with crooked teeth was ushering his two older brothers into the child's tent. The grass was lusciously green this time of summer and sweet streaks of music laced the air. She felt her water burst and rushed over to her husband. Her husband, a man whom Arthur would both adore and admire, blustered in alarm as she screeched. A dusty old maid with youthful eyes led the screaming woman into another tent. Several hours later, Arthur squirmed, screaming, into the world.
By the time the squirming baby bathed in lukewarm water, a crowd had gathered at the lip of the tent, peering in interest. Two young girls, freckle faced and loud, watched in absolute amazement. "Look at 'im! En't 'e the cutest thing you ever laid yer eyes on?" One said and squeezed the other's arm. The other one squinted, "'e's a boy, en't 'e?"
The next few years blurred together. Arthur learned to walk and talk and dress himself, among other necessary acts. When he was five years old, it became clear that Arthur had a flare for books and fantasy. He would, on sunny days, venture into the nearby woods. Clambering onto rocks he loudly proclaimed himself king. He dashed around madly, uprooting sprites and spirits of the forest. In the gnarled old tree trunks he saw beautiful woodland faeries; in the lake he saw mermaid's tails flash briefly. Then, on days when rain fell in a thick curtain, he would curl up in the corner of room and read. He consumed books hungrily, drinking in words as though they were water. By the time he was seven, he could read at a sixth grade level. The teachers were baffled when they learnt he had already read The Chronicles of Narnia several times over. They were hesitant to allow him access to Lord of The Rings and suggested he begin The Hobbit first. "Oh but I already read it, three times." He would argue and grow flustered.
Despite having the soul of a poet and the ability to pour forth beautiful words, he still had the temper of a badger. Waking him early in the morning was something his mother did with an air of authority and a thick deafness whenever insults were flung at her from the barrows of the covers.
Upon Arthur's tenth birthday he was gifted a fountain pen. Previously Arthur would scrape pencils, crayons, markers, and colored pencils down to the nub. Stories dripped out of them and piled higher and higher in his room. He never had a flare for mathematics. His father, a banker, found a parchment of sums homework coated over with detailed plots and character outlines. His mother, whom his father blamed for the artistic air, would only chuckle and feel pride shine within her. So when Arthur peeled the wrappers from his pen, he burst into tears of joy. He leaped towards his mother and embraced her. He impatiently ripped open the other presents, finding books and CDs. He reached the final present, unlabeled. Arthur picked up the smooth, boxy object, he cast a suspicious look at his mother. "Mum, who is this from?" He asked.
She grinned, shrugging. "A kind woman brought it over, sayin' 'er son wanted you to 'ave it."
Arthur cocked his brow, which was very hairy and often messy. He slipped the present away from its outer shell and saw a leather-bound notebook. The pages were blank but lined. Arthur plucked up his new pen and placed it against the first page. Without a word and glance to his parents and family, he unfurled words and formed worlds.
After nearly a half hour of relatives quietly murmuring to one another, they decided that Arthur would not wake any time soon from his writing stupor and left for food.
Arthur filled that book and two others like it in three year's time. At thirteen, Arthur finally met the bearer of his gift. It was a young French boy who separated his time here and in Paris. The boy was of divine beauty, even at a young age. Hardly a blemish spotted his pale skin, his golden hair flowed like silk below his chin, and his clear eyes seemed naïve and yet searched one's very soul. Arthur was beginning his first year at a private academy, having been accepted due to his remarkable talents in the English language. Arthur was entirely elated with coming, knowing full well his parents could not have paid for it out of their meek bank accounts and that his father had to do some nudging in order for Arthur to be permitted. The day he was permitted included a dusty professor visiting his home and inspecting Arthur. He ordered Arthur to write an essay and read aloud from Shakespeare. Arthur thought he did so marvelously and apparently so did the professor. Arthur noticed this particular man and waved to him briefly, before spotting the French boy. He walked over, mystified by the angelic figure sitting at the fountain, reading Alexander Dumas.
"'Ello." Arthur said and said besides him, putting his suitcase between his legs.
"'Ello Arthur Kirkland," the boy muttered shyly, casting his eyes towards Arthur.
"How do you know my name?" Arthur started, frowning.
"I should know my neighbor's name. I did give you that notebook," the boy replied, touching the bag at his side. He slipped a ribbon into his book and set it on his lap daintily.
"Oh, thanks for that." Arthur replied daftly, "and who are you?"
"Francis Bonnefoy."
"What are you doing at this school."
"Learning," Francis's English, though grammatically correct, was thick with an accent.
"Oh I very well know that," Arthur began feeling annoyed, "But what are you? A math genius?"
Francis shook his head. "No, I know English well enough to be invited." He left it at that, for a mousy professor, possibly the director of the private boy's academy, was ushering them in. Francis was lost into the crowd. Arthur attempted to follow, but was shoved aside by boisterous upper classmen.
Arthur's room was small, with four-poster beds the color of mahogany. The owner of the opposite bed was a reserved Spaniard who spoke broken English and spent his time reading history texts. The room was split in the middle, a desk on either side, and a tall mirror acting as the border. Arthur watched himself grow up in the reflection, seeing blemishes fade in and out of his face, his hair grow longer and longer until the maid begged him to cut it. Arthur's classes were all downstairs and the middle of the day was a lunch time. Arthur ate in the cafeteria besides the French boy and quiet Spaniard. The Spaniard's name was Antonio and he proved to be very friendly and have a warm smile that seemed to disappear once a history text was opened.
As time went on, their friendship strengthened alongside Antonio's English. They shared their science classes and otherwise left for their strengths, Francis left for art, Arthur for English, and Antonio for history.
There was also a young maid, the only female in the school, who would sneak candies to Arthur.
At night, specifically when the dark world outside roared with rain, Arthur would watch Antonio read from his books for several minutes before turning to his own personal library. One night, when heavy white clumps danced upon a frozen wind outside their framed window, Arthur asked why Antonio read so much history.
"I like it," He said, jotting down a note.
"But you don't need to read it. I'm pretty sure we already covered the Silk Road."
"I want to know more about it. Why do you like reading and writing so much?" Antonio retorted, though no trace of malice lined his face.
Arthur thus was mollified.
Arthur spent a total of five years at Saint James's Private Academy for Boys, though his summers were reserved for visiting his family and weekends cruising the city, taking trips, and calling his mother. On Arthur's final day, after bidding everyone a farewell, he was approached by Francis. Francis had grown from the shy, soft young boy into a well-toned man, with a shadow on his chin. The French man, who spoke nearly perfect English, confessed his love for Arthur.
Arthur stared in awe, unsure whether to be flattered or alarmed. Francis poured words of romance, mixing in various French phrases, and detailing how long exactly he'd loved Arthur. He told Arthur that when he noticed him for the first time, at eight years old, creeping into the forest, that he instantly fell in absolute love, drowning in a tidal wave of affection. As a silent way of telling it, he sent Arthur a notebook, having noticed how Arthur looked towards the moon with a poet's eyes.
"Oh, Francis…" Arthur choked out, watching Francis's eyes gleam with silent desperation. "Are you about to ask my hand in marriage?" He joked hoarsely.
"If you return my feelings." Francis's expression erupted into sudden embarrassment. "I—I mean I'm sorry if I impose anything!"
Arthur touched Francis's shoulder and said, "Francis, don't be embarrassed, please. I don't want to hurt you… But, I don't return your feelings." His grip tightened, Francis remained still, "I cannot see a lover in you, and I know that in your eyes I appear perfect and love makes us foolish—but you felt these feelings when you were a kid! And most of these feelings pulsed inside your youthful body, a body that does not know what is correct or not until it tries and makes mistakes. Though I am impressed that you loved me for as long as you did. Yet, in your eyes that seemed to peel away all my outer layers and stare directly into the innermost me, I do not see someone whom I love. Of course I do love you, as a great and closest friend, but you have to understand… That I don't…" Arthur faltered, and kissed Francis. He didn't know why he did it, up there alone in his room where his suitcase, half packed, lay in the corner. His lips brushed against Francis's. Before he knew he was doing it, he had submitted himself to Francis, allowed his clothing to be shed and gently fingers to prod his skin. He felt Francis's hot breath and made small sounds he never expected to make.
As Francis and Arthur made love on Antonio's bed, speak of the Devil, Antonio opened the door. He was laughing loudly and waving off a group of boys whom he knew. He entered the room and stopped dead. His laugh fell cold and stale to the floor. He stared at Francis's and Arthur's gleaming bodies, illuminated by the dim sunlight peeking in through the drawn curtains.
The two, still entwined in the other's touches, froze still. Antonio's face flushed and he ran out, crying "I knew it!"
Francis pulled away and dressed. He found himself unable to look at Arthur's emerald eyes. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his back towards Arthur.
Arthur shook his head, "no, it's fine," he buttoned up his shirt and slipped on his clothing, chasing after Antonio, "I SWEAR, IF YOUR OPEN YOUR BLOODY MOUTH AND ONE BLOODY WORD ABOUT THIS LEAKS OUT I WILL KILL YOU!" He hollered.
Francis chuckled to himself. Though it was a hallow sound, for he knew the eyes that stared at him as he made gentle love did not return his feelings. He knew it was never to be, that Arthur did not belong to him, even though he did comply.
Arthur and Antonio returned, Antonio winked at Francis who blushed. The Spaniard and Brit packed their belongings as Francis waited on the balcony, an unused stretch of space with a single plastic chair at the corner. He lit a cigarette, the blue smoke curling around his nose and cheeks as he stared at the shifting mass of boys hollering good-byes beneath.
When the bus leading to York pulled up for Arthur and several other boys, he turned and waved at Francis and Antonio, who awaited the airport bus. The two waved back, knowing that the relationship between them would hold strong, even if Arthur fell away like a frail leaf.
Arthur's next few years were spent in college, riding on a scholarship that did not pay for his room. So he was broke for most days, living quietly in a cold room and living off of noodles and books. He grew very fond of books that described extravagant meals and beautiful homes.
Yet, Arthur emerged ready to teach English at any school offered him. He taught English at a high school in Darrowby until moving to America, where he would do so as a professor. At first, he was quite reluctant. His father had passed away two years prior due to a cardiac arrest and his mother with graying hair looked forward to his and his brother's visits. When he broke the news, her tired eyes grazed over him. "Do what you must, but I do want some grandchildren," she said softly, touching his elbow. He smiled and hugged her. He wasn't much taller than his mother and so she could lean her chin on his shoulder. "Oh, if your father could see how far you've come." He pulled away. Silver tears, like pearls, rolled down her cheeks softly. She kissed his cheek, "Farewell, my son."
He boarded the plane to America three weeks later. Beside him sat a blonde woman. Her eyes were bright and blue and her lips small and pink. She was very talkative, a French accent dancing on her lips painfully reminded him of Francis. He wondered what had happened to him.
"Hello," Arthur said, putting his book, Angel's Final Words, (a novel by a small writer with excellent prose but a habit of writing for too long) on his lap.
"'Ello!" She said cheerfully, "Heading to America are you?" She slid off her shoes.
"Well inevitably, seeing as I am on this plane."
"What do you plan to do?"
"To teach, you?"
"Oh, no, I live in Belgium and work as a jewelry store owner, but I am going to see a close friend who now lives there. To surprise her!"
Arthur grinned, "That sounds wonderful."
And so, during the loquacious flight, he learned that she used to live with her cousin in the Netherlands after her mother passed away for some time, and then moved back to Belgium to open up her own store. Her friend was one she came acquainted with while trying to sell her a necklace. It was a woman from Hungary who loved travel and found work in America, the same state Arthur was going to find work in.
"How pleasant." Arthur said and dozed off, watching the curled white clouds streak a shimmering, chilly sea beneath them.
Several days later, Arthur's new coworkers offered to take him to a nearby café at night. Arthur hadn't been in London often, and never in a city with blue, towering skyscrapers that rendered the stars invisible. The blues and oranges and red poured onto the cars as Arthur watched from the backseat. His three coworkers sat around him, asking him questions.
"So, England eh?" then one would imitate a British accent that Arthur tried hard not to grimace at. "What brings you here?" "Weather too bad?" the jokes were juggled along, punctuated by sharp laughter. Arthur soon found himself joining in.
That night, Arthur saw the love of his life. He owed it to the Belgian woman on the plane. He spotted her sitting at a corner table and was drawn to the woman she spoke with. The strange woman had curled brown hair flowing down like silk, curling under her shin and looping around her shoulders. She wore common jeans and a white jacket, and her eyes were wise and deep, mysterious. She spoke in rumbling tones and stirred her drink, eating in small pieces and listening eagerly to the Belgian.
"Who is that?" A coworker caught Arthur's intense staring.
"I don't know, but I think I love her," Arthur gasped.
The waitress walked over and took their orders, Arthur told them without really knowing what he said. One man besides him, an Ernest, nudged him. "Go on, man! Fish like that don't always swim so close to your hook."
Arthur, as if in trance, walked up towards the table. His eyes like saucers. "Um, hello, I believe we met on the plane?" Arthur asked the blonde one.
She nodded, "and this is my friend, Elizaveta."
Arthur looked at the Hungarian again, relieved after having to keep his gaze away.
The woman smiled and held out a hand. He shook it loosely and she chuckled. "And you are?"
"Arthur Kirkland." He breathed and gently pressed a kiss to the hand he nearly forgot still lay in his own.
She blushed despite herself. "Oh, are you married?" Arthur dared ask, feeling his heart would shatter if she said yes. As if the word would propel itself into the crack and split it open.
"No, I was just surprised, it's been a while since I've seen Europe."
He nodded. They spoke until his meal arrived, exchanging phone numbers and shyly saying goodbye.
He returned to the table and ate the triangular sandwich quietly.
The next day, when Arthur had dismissed his final class before lunch, he picked up his cellphone and dialed Elizaveta's number, which he had memorized by heart.
"Hello?" She picked up.
"Hello—It's Arthur—Are you free right now?"
"To come over?"
"No, to talk, it's my lunch hour."
"Oh to talk I'm free. But shouldn't you eat? I just hated it when teachers crunched on an apple and taught at the same time."
"Why should I need food when I can feast upon your delicious words?"
"A poet? Ha, I knew it." He thought she rolled her eyes, "What did you want to say?"
"Why don't I invite you on a date?"
"It's your fourth day here, isn't it?"
"Well, yes, I'm in an apartment, but maybe a walk during this evening around the park?"
"Sounds good." She said. "Well, bye for now, until tonight."
"Bye." And he hung up.
The date went by with Arthur and Elizaveta walking, talking, until the streetlamps flickered to life.
Arthur walked Elizaveta home and stood at her front door, smiling. "Well, it was nice talking with you."
She leaned down and kissed him gently, "we should do it again." Arthur nodded goofily.
So they did. They had a plethora of dates, one nearly each day. They called each other during lunch hour, when they couldn't sleep, and sometimes just to say good morning. They learned of each other's pasts, Arthur calmly leaving out his dalliance with Francis in the dorm room. So she told him of her youth in Hungary, of her varied journeys across Europe on trains. Her parents were nearly frightened to death the first time, when she left for Romania, but soon grew used to her sudden absences. She worked as a designer for architecture and oftentimes advertisements. She divvied up her free time between music and books. She found his back-story fascinating and often inquired Arthur to repeat certain events, such as his birth as his mother told it. She begged him to detail the building, from the vines that curled around the outside of it to the cellar everyone presumed as haunted.
That spring, when pollen fluttering across the world like falling stars, Arthur proposed to her. She burst into joyfully tears and kissed him. Their marriage took place quietly and calmly at the end of that spring.
Arthur then undressed for another person for the first time since his unexpected event with Francis all those years ago. Elizaveta shed her clothing and revealed soft skin and a body Arthur would memorize. He touched her delicately; afraid she would shatter and rob him of his love. She moved beneath him, planting kisses along his neck and face. They made love twice in their new home that day. As young love goes, they repeated the event nearly every day. After some time Elizaveta announced to Arthur that she was pregnant. He scooped her into his arms and called his mother.
She flew in very suddenly and absolutely adored Elizaveta. She spoke with Elizaveta solely, after having consolidated Arthur. The streaks of red that remained in her hair stood out against silver, her frail hands touched Elizaveta's swelling stomach.
Twins were born, a boy and girl. The boy had dark features and large eyebrows, his name was Akos, eagle. The girl was named Alice. The two grew up with Arthur and Elizaveta's heavy, but flexible thumb. Akos was blind. Alice, a frail, skinny girl with pale skin and nearly transparent hair helped him along. Despite his disability, Akos proved to be gifted in music. His fingers found the keys and strings, sending colorful, powerful music through the air. It flooded the house. Alice, however, was unable to play even the piano. The notes were disjointed and charred, despite Akos's vain attempts to heal them. In their childhood, Arthur often cast his enchantments of fantasy to them. Alice was absolutely smitten with it and Akos listened patiently, like a doctor.
Alice fell in love with a boy from school. She often spoke of him in frilly tones to her mother, who listened patiently and kept the secret away from Arthur.
That didn't matter, for Arthur's own secrets gnawed inside him. His entrails seemed to twist whenever the memory of those clear French eyes aroused in his mind. It was often. He seemed to see Francis and Antonio, ghosts of his childhood, in crowds and in his students' faces. He sent letters and tried to call, but no one answered. Francis seemed to drop from the face of the earth. Arthur did, though, eventually dig up Antonio's number.
"Hello?" Arthur whispered into the phone, afraid the opportunity would break if he spoke too loudly.
"Hello?" A deep voice, but still Antonio's, answered.
"It's Arthur Kirkland, remember me? From Saint James's?"
Elizaveta, who was cooking dinner and occasionally helping Alice with Algebra homework (the twins were fourteen), peered curiously at Arthur. Arthur was on the couch, leaning into the home phone and picking at the doily strewn on the table.
"Dios Mios!" Antonio cried, "Arthur? Is that really you? It's been ages, ages! Over twenty years."
"Oh, yeah, it has I guess."
"What happened to you?"
Arthur explained his lifestyle, admitting that he now lived in America and had a wife and kids.
"Oh, oh wow."
"And you?"
"I live in Barcelona, I'm a history major and I work at a museum."
"Didn't see that coming. Married?"
"Sadly, no. I've been with several woman, but they all left. Eesh, these women," Antonio laughed.
"What happened to Francis?"
"Francis?" Antonio's voice cracked. Arthur's heart began to race. Alice was watching him now, brushing away fair strands from her face. Her eyes were brown.
"Did something happen?"
"Not that I know. Last I saw him was a year ago. He moved from Paris to Normandy and caput, that's all I know."
"Oh."
"Yeah, sorry man."
"How was he when you were speaking with him last?"
"He was good. A little shaky. He'd recovered from a brief affair with the bottle. He was doing some police work. He told me he wanted to be a painter and move to another part of France to do it."
"You're an awful liar."
"But a good historian. Listen, it's late and I want some sleep. Call some other time," Antonio said hurriedly and hung up.
Arthur set the phone down and stared out the window. The street was filled with children playing basketball and several parents watching over magazines.
Alice asked; "You okay, dad?"
Arthur shrugged, "I don't know."
Arthur's mother came down the stairs, having Akos gently help her down. She was slightly hunched over and quickly losing her hearing. The last streak of red had slipped away with time, carrying with it her youth. She smiled at Arthur, "Who were you talking to, dear?"
Arthur stared at the ground, "Antonio."
"Oh, your old school friend?"
"Yes, mum, him."
"What happened to the other one? Francis?"
"Aye, mum, I don't know." He stood and kissed Elizaveta's cheek and briefly hugged his mother. "I'm out for a walk to think things over."
He slipped out the door, a gush of cold autumn wind pushing in.
Akos gently had the elderly woman sit down.
Elizaveta exchanged a glance with Alice. Alice shrugged and piled her papers together. She stood and left to her room.
Arthur continued down the walkway, as it curled around the street. He walked numbly, unsure of where he was going and why. He thought nothing, because a static flooded his mind. He reached the park he and Elizaveta came their first date. He sat down on the bench and looked towards the sky. Pink clouds, lined with deep orange against the horizon filled the rim of the sky. The rest above him was a gentle purple, throbbing with the remains of sunlight. He could see his breath and his nose felt icy. Memories of Francis's confession and how his body rocked with the movement filled his mind. He remembered Antonio and Francis, youthful and cheery, waving him goodbye as his bus pulled away, leaving behind five years of his life and a place that had become a second home. He recalled glancing back only once, catching pieces of the old school between branches of trees. Yet, his mind was clogged with the future, the past became stale footprints he thought unimportant, and yet as he aged, white hairs appearing in various places and wrinkles forming by his eyes, he realized how precious the past was. He realized how easily he had fallen away from his friends, becoming no more but a shadow in their minds. Perhaps they recalled him fondly, perhaps not. Arthur felt guilty and covered his face with his hands.
He did not return home until well after dark. His mother and children were already sleeping, but Elizaveta remained curled on the couch. Her hair back in a loose bun and a book in her hands. Her reading glasses slipped down her nose, she pushed them back up with her forefinger.
"You took a while," She said gently to Arthur, looking up. She knew that when she raised her voice, he would too. He would erupt in rage and threaten to raise his fist, but she knew he never would. Still, it scared her. He slumped down beside her. She pulled his hands into hers, warming them on, "Cold as a popsicle."
"I'm sorry," he muttered. His eyes were red and puffed up, his eyes misty.
"Why are you sad? What did he say?"
He shrugged, "Nothing… He just… Well, I feel like I've left them behind, took them for granted."
She kissed his cheek. "Don't feel that way."
"It's worse because one of my close friends, Francis, you remember?"
"The French boy who was the nurse's favorite?" Elizaveta recalled from his tales.
"Yes, we made love on the last day of school after he confessed his love."
"Oh." She managed, feeling a sudden burst of emotion. She felt jealousy at a man she didn't know, rage for not being told, sadness and shame for feeling those feelings, and most of all curiosity.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. It was burning in me and I was afraid to tell you because of how you would react. I didn't love him, he was not my lover."
"Do you love him now? Now that you can't have him?" She was surprised by the sourness of her voice.
"I don't know, but I really do love you." He said and kissed her.
Any harsh reply melted with the kiss. He pushed a hand up her shirt and touched her tender skin. The phone rang and Arthur pulled away. He looked at Elizaveta who reached over her head and answered.
"Hello? No, I'm Elizaveta Kirkland… Hm, oh here's Arthur." She handed him the phone. He sat up and grunted hello.
"Hi," Antonio said, "Is now a good time?"
"Yeah." Arthur muttered, playing with Elizaveta's hair.
She batted at him and listened.
"Well," Antonio began and cleared his throat, "I guess you deserve the truth. Truth is this, I did tell you most of it. He did live in Paris and then move to Normandy. When he was in Paris and drinking heavily, as he did so often, he came across a young woman. She, too, was drunk, and he did as they do. Two months later, when he had sobered up, she came hysterically telling him she was pregnant. He decided, for whatever reason, to move to Normandy with her to live as a painter. I talked to him less than a year ago, but he told me to keep it confidential. I shouldn't be telling you this, but I guess he would want you to know. The reason I suppose I didn't tell was because he died two months ago. The girl had a miscarriage that took her life and he destroyed whatever was left of his lungs with alcohol."
Arthur couldn't answer. Words felt like cement in his throat.
"I'm sorry, good night." Antonio said and hung up.
Arthur dropped the phone and heavy tears poured down his cheeks. He relayed the story to Elizaveta and she listened, kissing his tears away. "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm so sorry."
Though the pain never lessened, it grew more bearable. The children grew up. Alice got over her crush and, when she was seventeen, found a new boy. He was lanky and big-nosed, but kind and had a good sense of humor, at least, that's what Alice told her father.
Elizaveta watched, wondering how close Arthur was to erupting with rage. To her surprise, he did not. He sighed and asked to meet the boy.
Alice's description proved true. The boy held Alice's hand gently, like one may hold a fragile twig. Arthur approved coldly, watching suspiciously.
Akos, on the other hand, told his family he was homosexual. He had his head bowed, awaiting blows that did not come. Elizaveta hugged him and Arthur kissed his head. Akos later came by with a blonde, tall boy who had experience with his little sister's blindness. Arthur looked at Elizaveta, who smiled and approved.
The children moved out with their respective spouses not long after.
The night the house was silent from children, Elizaveta wept. She clung to Arthur and shed tears upon his shoulder. Muttering something about birds and nests. Arthur patted her back and they watched a cheesy comedy on the television until Elizaveta ceased weeping. Arthur looked her over. She had aged, and yet all he saw was timeless beauty. Her hair was graying and her cheeks began to sag. He kissed her nose and she held his hand. She observed the same features in him. His eyes, deep emerald wells of timeless wisdom from reading too many books, were surrounded by age and laugh lines. His hair was thinning and turning silver. His mother had died the previous year, the second time Elizaveta saw him weep so hard. Neither knew that Arthur had stepped upon the plank of death.
Two years later he was diagnosed with terminal disease. Elizaveta felt sorrow snag to her heart and she knew it would only get heavier as it fed on time.
Arthur approached the last days of his life, with Elizaveta having to help him up in the mornings and comfort him constantly. He had retired and their children visited more often now. One night, as he watched the snow sprinkle down, Christmas lights peering through the white, he told Elizaveta that he was the most unfortunately fortunate man in the world.
"Why's that?" Elizaveta asked, kissing his forehead.
"Well, I die in the most beautiful woman's arms, I lived a good long life, I made great friends, I had regrets, and I don't have to be a smelly old man. But I still have to break your heart."
"Don't worry about me." She said softly. The words fluttered to him and landed on his ears life a fallen snowflake.
"I love you, Elizaveta."
"I love you too, Arthur."
The light melted out of his eyes and he died in her arms. She didn't weep until the funeral, telling the viewers of his life.
Antonio walked up to her afterwards. She brushed her hair behind an ear, she had cut it short, and looked at him. "Funny, this is the first time I meet you." She said gently.
"He found a beautiful wife, didn't he?"
She blushed, "Oh?"
"What's funnier," he said, sighing, "Is that I loved him too. I didn't know I like men until I met him, and he's the only one I ever did love."
"Did you ever get married?" She asked, sitting down on the fold-up chairs, watching the faceless grave diggers plunge what was once Arthur into the dirt. Bleak mist filled the air, the gloomy sky hung low, as though bending. The grass was remarkably green, emerald as Arthur's eyes.
"Yes, actually. She couldn't come, though, but she understood why I came."
Elizaveta's shoulders drooped. Tears slid down her cheeks and her vision grew blurry. "I'm sorry she choked out."
"Don't be. His story may have come to an end, but somewhere someone else's is just beginning."
"I sometimes wish I was still walking with him in that park, listening to him tell me about Saint James's and his whole life before that. We were still young then. Oh, youth dies away like a mayfly. Why ever do children long to grow up so quickly?"
"We always want what we don't have, and we are best at giving away what we most want."
"Where did that second part come from?" Elizaveta felt mildly insulted. She felt as though Antonio was just opening cans of pre-made metaphors.
"Well, think about it." He picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles gently. "I should be off, then. Call if you need anything."
Elizaveta did think about it, and she noticed how those who wished for kindness always shined with nice words. And the loneliest were friendliest.
She moved in with Alice, helping take care of the baby girl they had. She visited Akos periodically. They always welcomed her into a house smelling of delicacies.
When Elizaveta laid down after telling the eleven year old girl stories, she knew this would be her final night. There was no proof for it, but the understanding caressed her understandingly and she nodded. So it goes.
The ten year old girl, named Susan in honor of Arthur's mother, knocked gently.
"Come in," Elizaveta said, looking towards the small frame of the red-headed girl.
"Grandma," she whispered, "tell me about granddad."
Elizaveta sat up and patted her side. She told the story starting from when Arthur walked towards her in the stuffy, dark café with wide eyes and a red face and asked if he knew Emma (who visited only twice again in the past years). She left out certain parts and reached the point when Alice introduced Susan's father to Arthur.
"You should get to sleep, dear." Elizaveta murmured. The girl nodded and stood, her night gown tumbling back down to her knees. She smiled and said goodnight.
In the dim hours of early morning, Elizaveta woke, knowing it was her time to go. She smiled meekly and closed her eyes, accepting death, just as she and Arthur accepted the lamplights turning on as a message that the date had ended. Of course, there was no next date to look forwards to, but so it goes, so it is.