They are not close anymore. They were. But now they aren't. The physical distance became emotional, and the long calls became missed calls which became two-worded texts. They do not talk anymore. They did. But now they don't. The memories and laughs got lost between miles and cities, and the love and passion got misplaced in phone lines and emails.
"Now here's the trick..."
Arthur was a mess. In a way, he still is. The pieces he gave to Alfred will never be returned and he is disgusted in how irrevocable his actions were. There will be no going back. He cannot forgive nor forget this. The pain in his chest will always be there, the dark stain on the snow-white table cloth of his mind will not wash out; it may fade. It may become so barely recognisable that to everyone else it's gone, but for Arthur, it will always be there.
It will always hurt.
"Now here's the trick..."
It's icy cold as he leaves work. The rain has stopped pouring, but froze on the streets as a slippery reminder.
The air is thick and cool, a lush swampy as it beats itself into Arthur's lungs. He pulls up the collar on his coat, and huffs the filtered oxygen more freely.
"Now here's the trick..."
He is only twenty three. He still attends university, though in a few weeks he won't. He'll be thrust out into the real world with a few battle scars and an education he'll forever be indebted to.
He doesn't know what he'll do then. Still work at the book store? Take the degree and go apply anywhere- everywhere? His mind races off, the pavement slapping against his feet in an odd sort of rebellion. The sound echoes down the street, and Arthur feels less alone.
"Now here's the trick..."
His apartment is only a few blocks away from the bookstore. It is only a few minutes, keeping his head down, and in a blink he'd be there.
The sun has long since set, the sky is a dark blue and no stars light it up. There are no stars in the city. There are no stars in Arthur's eyes anymore.
Finally, he reaches home. He strips off his tweed trousers, his warm sweater vest, and his woe. They lay cluttered around his room like someone else's skin, unfamiliar and fascinating.
"First close your eyes..."
He starts the kettle, making it heavy in his hands with water. He places it on a gas stove, watching the little flame flicker. An unnameable emotion rushes through him, and before he knows it, his finger is taunting the flicker of light. Burning and sizzling. Four minutes. Each second of misery is a new discovery. No, no, I'm fine. Look how much more I can break.
He pulls out his finger a new man, and saves it with cold water, steam rising in tuffs from his curious digit.
"First close your eyes..."
No one says anything when he shows up with a charred finger. Only hand him band-aids and Neosporin. He accepts them all with a miserable grin.
School is always the same. He drifts out of his seat and into a cloud, soft and firm under him. Tickles from the whiskers of Flying Mint Bunny and a slap from a hook.
He just grins and grins. Eating it all, absorbing everything he can while it still lasts.
"First close your eyes..."
Kiku asks if it hurts. Arthur is still grinning, and shakes his head no. Francis kisses it better, taking Arthur's hand and peppering it with sloppy, open-mouthed confessions of love. Arthur pulls it away with a grimace. "Don't touch me," he spits.
Work is always different. He doesn't drift off, the smile is real. Two people are in when his shift starts. They are busy looking, so he flips open his notebook and gets to work. He is a writer.
He is writing Alfred a letter, he will never mail it, of course. But it helps. He wonders why it still hurts. It's been four years.
"First close your eyes..."
But years don't mean anything. They are shallow and worthless. Just like Arthur. No, he is fine. He is brave. He is facing the world alone, and he isn't a sobbing mess. He doesn't cry at all anymore.
He doesn't like the feeling of being so alone and used in that way, and so he will never go back.
It was just a first love. A first, and a last. Because there will be no more of that. He cannot afford to lose even more of himself to someone else. He can barely cover the already present holes.
"Take a deep breath..."
They aren't noticeable from the outside. That is the blessing. Or the curse. You pick, now here's the trick... Arthur drops his notebook and screams. A real, bloodcurdling, jaw dropping scream. It comes from his soul, from his pain. From his desperation. He cannot do this anymore.
"Take a deep breath..."
The customers whip their heads around frighteningly fast. They rush over and find a man on the ground, clutching his chest, clawing at his skin. He wants it off, off, off. The pressure is too much and he can't stand it.
"Are you okay?" She has long, honey brown hair and grass green eyes.
"Why, yes, I'm quite alright." Arthur straightens his shirt, picks himself up, and leaves. The notebook will stay on the ground, in a week, the trash can; in a month, the landfill.
"Take a deep breath..."
He takes three days off of university and two days off of work to nurse himself back to health.
He does this by drinking tea like it is hard alcohol and buying a new notebook. Arthur promises himself he won't mention Alfred by name in it once.
It's challenging at first, and when he wakes up in the mornings, the pillows are wet with tears. He cries in his sleep- a new side-affect.
"Take a deep, deep breath..."
But he still wonders. Yes, that's it. What happened to his first love? He was so innocent and small. Only fifteen.
Alfred. With his wispy blond hair and sky eyes. Don't think about it. Don't regret anymore. Don't remorse over the past. The milk is spilt, be a man and wipe it up. Don't waste tears.
Don't, don't, don't. Think about it.
Alfred. With his large, gleaming smiles. And soft kisses. And warm hands.
"And finally..."
Arthur is a pathetic mass of sobs and snot on Tuesday. On Wednesday he is violent and everything is smashed to pieces and the walls are scarred. On Thursday he is very quiet and very calm.
He doesn't know which person he likes best. He doesn't know which one is Arthur. Maybe they all are, he's allowed to have emotions, you know. Don't pity him.
"And finally..."
School on Friday is nice. It is informative and he jots down notes like crazy. He doesn't get distracted by old friends. He doesn't sit on the clouds and grin.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Everyone asks. He just nods and nods. His head starts to hurt.
He hasn't relapsed in four years, either. He knows where he can get it. He knows what to do. But he doesn't. He is fine.
"And finally..."
Alfred called. Alfred called last Sunday. He didn't answer it; there was no voice mail. He knows, though. He knows where to get it and what to do. Keep your eyes closed- deep breaths. And finally...
"Let go."
AN: Just trying a new writing style, feedback is always appreciated :) Thanks for reading