Crooked

I exhaled as I got home, hating the taste of the alcohol on my mouth, but I downed it anyway, for it was one of the few things to comfort me these days. I shrugged off my jacket as I stumbled in through the front door, not minding it as it crumpled on the floor behind me. So what if it gets creased? I haven't got anyone to impress at home. Not that I don't have someone at home, because I do, but that person gave up on my appearances long ago. They realised that my stubborn cowlick could never be tamed, that my wearing of clothes that had not yet been ironed shouldn't bother being fussed with, that my nature of not always trying to look appealing couldn't be changed.

I felt for the banister in the dark, slowly making my way up the stairs when I found the polished wood. I slid my hand all along it on the way up, feeling content with the acquaintance I felt with the small crevices and bumps on the otherwise smooth wood. This place was somewhat of a dump, to be honest, but it was home for me. For us. We look past the peeling paint and the mould in the bottom corner of the living room and the chipped wood on the skirting boards and see before us a palace with only us as its residents. Or, at least we used to. We can't see anything anymore, apart from the increasing lines of stress and weariness in our faces as we gaze into the cracked bathroom mirror.

At the top of the stairs, I followed the yellow streak of light forming a yellow brick road to our bedroom. Of course, this yellow brick road wasn't going to lead me to a magical land with brainless scarecrows, heartless tin men and cowardly lions, but it would lead me to lean in the doorway and survey him, lying on the bed, his back to me and his gaze directed on the window, although there was nothing to see anymore due to the charcoal dark – nothing but the chalky stars and the moon.

I shuffled into the room, and even as I crawled onto the bed and made the mattress sink slightly, still he did not stir. I knew he had heard me though, and I knew he wasn't ignoring me – he just hasn't greeted me in a long while, so why start now?

I lay down gently behind him until we were in a sort of spooning position and draped an arm over his waist, which was slimming in our current circumstances. Even he had not made jokes about me being fat for a while, because there was none on me either. I greeted him though, with a lone kiss to his dusty blonde head of hair. I inhaled his familiar scent as I did – that of various blends of tea.

"You've been drinking again." he says. There is nothing to his voice – no mirth, no concern, no anger, no sadness. He was just stating a fact.

"Did you miss me?" I try to joke, insinuating that he'd rather I be with him than alcohol. He just shrugs in my grasp though, and it reminds me that it's been so long since I've heard him laugh.

"It's just that I was doing some cleaning earlier," he said, "and I ended up fishing out an old bottle of wine. I thought that it might be nice to open and share it."

I nodded, "Yeah, let loose a little." We did really needed to do some letting loose. We had both been roving around the streets lately, to the point of exhaustion, and to the extent where we were both starting to know this city like the back of our hands. He used to think I was exhausted from work when I came home. I used to think the same for him, until we both met at the dole office. Then he knew. I knew. We knew. Now he would stop massaging my shoulders when I collapsed back onto the bed after "work", and no longer would he croon in my ear about how well I was doing for the both of us.

Lies to feed the both of us were fed no more.

We sat up, and I watched as he pulled the bottle out of the bedside cupboard. I watched as he used his teeth to yank the cork off. I used to tell him that his imperfect teeth were beautiful for their individuality whenever he grew jealous of my pearly white rows. Now though I don't have the time or effort to delve into toothy poetry. They're crooked, and that is that.

I take a glass from him, and he pours the wine into it with such determination. I remember when I used to laugh at his thick furrowed brows as he did his best to do everything perfectly, because he was like that. He is like that. And I would tell him that he was perfect and reverse the phrase to "Perfect does as perfect is", just for him, and he would laugh too and say it didn't make sense. But it did, although I wonder if he'll ever know that.

I take a sip of the wine as he turns back to the bedside table, to the record player (he insisted on such a contraption rather than a CD player, and who was I to refuse him?), and turns the music on. I smile. The wine tastes nice, but that's not the reason for my upturned lips.

"This song?" I ask, and I am willing to fool myself and bet that I saw his own lips twitch upwards. He surely nodded though.

"We have memories with it."

That we did. We had danced to this on our first date. We had both been a little tipsy, and when this song had hummed throughout the pub, and we had concurred that it was a good song, we had giddily gotten up, tripped our way to the dance floor, giggling, full of mirth, and swayed clumsily and spun one another dangerously. It had been good fun. I simply nodded too, although I'm not sure he saw when he was looking so intently at the wine he sloshed around in circles in his glass. Round and round it goes, like the ever-growing madness in my head, and I wonder if it will ever end.

Pass me that lovely little gun,
My dear, my darling one.

I notice that he hasn't called me dear or darling for a while. Being British, specifically English, he used to always call me such affections. I wonder what has stopped him. Maybe it is the same reason I don't whisper pet names in his ear now – because it doesn't feel appropriate anymore. Nothing we used to do does, and that wipes the meek smile from my face. Just because it is no longer called for, doesn't mean we should just leave behind all that made us laugh and smile – all that made him flash those crooked teeth.

"Arthur."

He turns to me, cocking his head, "Yes?" Now there is emotion to his voice – curiosity, apprehension. It's as if he's expecting something, and it pains me, because I don't know what that something is, and whether he wants it or is dreading it.

I shake my head, "Nothing." I just haven't had his name roll off my tongue in a long while. When one is burdened, one is forced to push those precious things to the back of their mind – even if they used to embrace them all the time. I myself used to treasure that name – I whispered it, I yelled it, I screamed it, I wrote it in my neatly wonky handwriting and admired each syllable and every letter. Now I only thought about it when I looked at the man himself and noted him down as Arthur: that man I loved once upon a time.

But did I still?

I couldn't be sure as I looked at him over my wine glass. He was still staring into the pool of red liquid, as if it were a crimson mirror reflecting him, and he was frowning at his own frown, like he had forgotten how to do otherwise.

"I don't think it's poisonous, you know." I say, and he jolts out of it and looks at me in alarm and confusion, and his smile is a trick of the eye once more when he looks back down to the glass.

"I know." he nods, then looks back up at me again, and I am relieved that he's actually looking at me. There are times when he instead averts his gaze to my calloused hands or my cheekbones, which were becoming more and more defined. He always said I had such childish cherub cheeks, and he would pull at them as if agitated with them, but when he saw them looking so mature nowadays he seemed saddened and at loss, and he would almost squint at me as if trying to find something about me that was recogniseable. But now he was looking into my eyes – a part that he would always recognise. He used to tell me that nobody's eyes could shine as brightly as mine, and they were of a blue which outmatched that of the sky. Even now, when they were duller and less vibrant, I was sure that he still saw me in them.

"How did the job search go today?"

I grin lopsidedly at him, "I'm trying. I'm really trying."

He nods. He knows how hard I'm trying. He has seen it in my weatherworn expression alone, and I have seen it in his. We're both trying, and we've stopped the lying. He reaches out for me, and he slips his slim, delicate fingers into my loose grasp. I squeeze my hand shut upon them after a while though, feeling the warmth and the comfort and the long-lost inkling of love. We sit stiffly there for a bit, ignoring the wine despite its nice flavour, and using the music as nought but a background buzz although it was enrapturing, because this was better. His hand in mine, mine holding his, was a gesture from long ago. The last time it had happened, there were tears in our eyes. We were falling, and we were using each other to support ourselves. Despite the tears, we had smiled. We had to encourage one another, or we really would have fallen.

O, children,
Lift up your voice, lift up your voice.
Children,
Rejoice, rejoice.

I placed my half-full glass on the bedside table, and Arthur studied me, confused, as I took his full one and placed it there also.

"Alfred?"

I just winked at him, slowly stepping off the bed, with his hand still in mine. He had no choice but to follow me, although I doubted he wouldn't have anyway. He would always follow me – always be by my side. I suppose that's why I admired him. I always pushed him over the brink, and he constantly called me strings of profanities, and his brow furrowed and his lips become an upside down frown all due to me. I was insufferable, and yet he suffered for me. He reprimanded me for my selfish whims, yet still gave in to them; he cursed my ignorance but saved some breath to teach me; he said I acted the fool, but he would go right ahead and act foolish with me. He was patient, and I suppose that's partly what drew me to him. He didn't have time for me, but he always made sure that he did.

I lead him to a bare part of the floor, and I took his other hand in my grasp too, lifting both of them up to wrap around my shoulders. He still frowned, but his cheeks pinked, and it made me grin slightly. He always got so easily embarrassed. He hadn't been embarrassed recently, but I can't believe I hadn't missed how those snow white cheeks exploded with colour at the simplest gesture or mildest sentence with just so much as a pinch of affection in it. It was endearing. He was endearing – the man who had called me dear, and darling, and love.

Love.

Did I love him?

I placed my hands on his waist, and then I pulled them about in a swaying motion, beginning to step in a tight circle. As always, he followed.

Hey, little train! We are all jumping on
The train that goes to the Kingdom!
We're happy, Ma, we're having fun;
And the train ain't even left the station.

I was sure about it this time – he smiled at me. It was full and beautiful, and it revealed each and every imperfect tooth bursting with individualism. It was such a beautiful smile, for it was genuine. It wasn't forced this time. He wasn't pretending he was alright to my face so that he could safely sob dryly in the corner of the bathroom later. He brought a smile to my own face – his radiance was contagious.

Hey, little train! Wait for me!
I once was blind but now I see!
Have you left a seat for me?
Is that such a stretch of the imagination?

I brought one hand up from his waist to cradle his head, running my fingers through his silky locks, and I leant down to sing quietly in his ear.

"Hey little train! Wait for me! I was held in chains but now I'm free! I'm hanging in there, don't you see? In this process of elimination."

I felt him rest his head in my chest and bring his arms down from my neck to clutch at the back of my shirt material, desperately pulling me towards him. It felt like he never wanted to let go. I found myself hoping for the same. I rested my cheek on the crown of his head and nuzzled there, inhaling the scent of tea, of fresh fallen rain on a summer's day, of something sweet and familiar.

Hey little train! We are all jumping on
The train that goes to the Kingdom!
We're happy, Ma, we're having fun;
And the train ain't even left the station.

"I love you." I heard him murmur into the fabric of my shirt. His voice, not quite melodic but not quite tuneless, resonated throughout the timbres of my bones, and the warmth of his breath remained on my chest – imprinted on my skin. Even though we were jostled in our dance as we were slightly out of rhythm with one another, as we had always been, he still kept well slotted in my arms perfectly – a puzzle piece which had been found after tireless rifling and searching. Yes, I had searched long and hard for this – my crooked-toothed, familiar smelling, admirable support who had healing hands and smiled so radiantly that I didn't even need the sunshine anymore, although I adored how flecks of it in the morning had crept through the window panes and ghosted over his flesh and kissed it warmly, and illuminated his very being.

I half-sobbed, half-laughed as I replied in the highest confidence, "I love you too."

The music had long since stopped, yet we continued to sway there. We felt the warmth cascade down our cheeks, but despite our tears, we were smiling.

Author's notes: Well, I don't think this came out too bad. I tried to keep their scenario vague, but I still hope you guys know what's going on. The happenings of this though are inspired by three things:
1. The Script - For The First Time
2. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - O, Children
3. Romantic/friendly dancing scenes (E.g. The dance between Harry and Hermione in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows)
Although this is for pleasure, I also wrote it for my dear friend, pie1313, who has been working hard for her exams. I'm proud of her efforts, and thought she deserved this. Of course, she wanted something fluffy, and this isn't very fluffy. But it's sadly happy, or happily sad, or whatever you want to call it, and I hope she, and all of you, like it.
Critique is welcomed, comments are appreciated!
Thank you and enjoy!

Disclaimer: Alfred and Arthur belong to Hidekaz Himaruya, and O, Children belongs to Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

AnorexicWalrus~