There are days when Arthur physically, bear to get out of bed. His twig limbs cannot bear the strain of his too-small, too-narrow body. His skin, if it leaves the protection of his blankets, might be too thin to defend his hollow bones from the weather. It could wash off like paint, or freeze and crack in the frost.
His false smirk and bravado are the only things keeping him from collapsing in on himself.
He wears clothes that are too big, and lines those frigid green eyes with black - he hides behind his bad-boy facade, and does not plan to come out. Arthur forces himself out of bed, even though he can feel bones creak like old floorboards. He has learned to ignore the fierce growling of his stomach, and fish a cigarette or two from his pocket. He has learned to shut up and take what he has, because he deserves it - doesn't he?
(He does.)
It's six am. He needs this job, he needs this job, he needs this job. To keep this thin roof over his head and these paper walls between him and the streets, he needs this job. He needs this job and his minimum wage for his canned soup and packaged food. He needs to get up and light his morning Marlboro, exhale smoke in the dim light and get dressed.
So he does. And looks in the mirror, cracked and grimy. He frowns at the man who stares back, this ugly man with his ugly bones and ugly skin and ugly everything. This man has ribs like knives, poking and cutting at the skin that cover them. He has elbows and knees that stick out, awkward, painful-looking. He has cheekbones that you could cut yourself on, over those pale, drawn cheeks. His eyes are dead as he pulls a tiny brush over his lids, a dramatic line of black rimming the long eyelashes.
His clothes today are more or less the same. Baggy black jeans. Baggy black sweatshirt, swallowing his reedy body and creating the illusion of normalcy. "Hello," he whispers to the man who looks back at him in the mirror.
And then he goes to work, where he is not judged, not talked to, where everyone is merely a commodity. He has nothing to do but talk - "Thank you very much", "Have a nice day" - and corral sugar and cream and coffee into cups.
He does not get funny looks as he boards the train to the coffeeshop. People have places to be, things to do. Better things than to stare at a skeleton boy like a carnival sideshow.
When he arrives, it is already his shift. He clocks in, pale hands trembling, and stands behind the counter. Of course, the morning rush is here, harried businesspeople and laid-back hipsters ordering cup after cup of coffee to keep the blood in their veins running.
Arthur has a cup himself, when the business lulls. Black. Zero-calorie. Bitter. Hard to swallow. He drinks so much in a day that he imagines this is what his blood must taste like.
He sees her during his break, and tries to place her. Is she a businesswoman, pencil skirts and pumps and extra shots of espresso? No.
Is she a hipster, scarf and beanie and organic roast beans? No.
Is she a young girl, skinny jeans and swaggering attitude and vanilla milkshake? No.
She looks to be about twenty, her hair gold, her skin summer-tanned, with a sketchpad in her lap and a funny look in her eyes.
(The sketchpad throws him off, but he is fairly sure she is not a hipster.)
He waits for her to come to the counter, and notices that she wears relaxed jeans, a soft-looking shirt. She looks soft and nice and sweet - maybe she'll ask him for something to eat, something like a slice of cake or a cookie. He can only hope.
She walks up, of course, her shoes making soft taps on the shiny floor. Arthur can see his ugly reflection in her large eyes; blue iris, liquid black pupil. "Hey!" she greets him, and her voice is as sweet as he imagined she was - but there's obviously a kick to her, like a shot of espresso. She asks for a cappuccino, with extra milk.
Milk is poured and folded into coffee, and handed over.
(Arthur is particularly careful with her order.)
He notices her staring, and shifts on his feet, floorboard-bones creaking. "I'm sorry." he says, raising an eyebrow in an attempt to look nonchalant. What he feels is self-conscious, and nervous.
"Nah, it's okay. Thanks." the cappuccino girl says, shaking her head and taking her cup back to her table. Arthur forces himself not to look at her, and instead focuses on his current cup of coffee. But from the corner of his eye, he can see that she is glancing up at him. He can hear the scratch of her pencil on her paper, the soft humming she makes along to the jazz music piping into the cafe. When his shift ends, he clocks out, and leaves - but the girl sticks in his mind. Why did she stare? Didn't she have something to do besides stare at a skeleton boy like a carnival sideshow?
As he goes to bed with nothing but coffee in his stomach, he forces himself not to think of her before sleep.
But of course, he does.
The next day, Arthur feels his skeleton body almost break with the effort of standing up. But he still does, because he needs this job, needs this job, needs this job - she might be there, she might be there, she might be there.
Somehow, it is the second thought that propels him to the subway station, to the cafe.
He serves his morning businesspeople, giving bold winks to the pretty ones, putting smiley-faces on the hipsters' cups. It is his bravado that keeps him together at the seams.
When Cappuccino Girl enters, she is carrying her sketchbook again. It is tucked under her arm, and a set of pencils clinks in her backpack.
She orders her cappuccino, and stares.
He pretends not to notice.
And then it is back to her table, humming and sketching and glancing at him.
This continues on for a week, and Arthur does not think of much else than Cappuccino Girl and whatever she is working on.
When she comes in the next Monday, she orders her cappuccino, but does not sketch. She sits at her table until his shift is over, and then approaches him with her sketchbook in hand, looking so excited she might burst.
(Arthur feels the same, but wills it not to show.)
"Hey," she says, smiling. "I'm Amelia."
He freezes, skeleton form still. "Arthur."
"Arthur." she repeats, and it sounds so nice in her mouth, in her voice, so sweet -
"Sorry if I seemed crazy to you." she laughs. You don't seem crazy, you seem perfectly fine, Arthur thinks, but says nothing.
"I'm an art student at the university nearby," Amelia explains. "I guess I kinda made you into a project."
She turns her sketchbook to face him, and his too-fragile, too-cold heart stops.
It's like the man he sees every morning in the mirror, but this girl has rendered him differently.
She has kept his sharp cheekbones and rimmed eyes.
She has kept his thin lips and his thick bangs.
She has colored him gold and black, stark color, stark contrast.
And to his surprise, she has made him beautiful.