title: The Melancholy of Arthur Kirkland
author: musiclover3
author's note: After receiving various reviews and comments about writing a sequel to Alfred by the Stars, I finally decided that I would. The idea for this one-shot was always at the back of my mind, but I never really considered the possibility of actually writing and publishing it for very long. However, because of all of the positive feedback I've gotten, and the fact that this idea just wouldn't disappear, I decided to go ahead and go for it. This will show various reactions to Alfred's death, but will mainly center on Arthur. Unlike the first story, this one will be told in third person.
So I can't promise it will make you cry. (Plus, the last time I wrote an angsty story like this, it had been raining three days in a row, and I had read a bundle of tragedy fics. We'll see what happens. If I manage to actually make you cry, that just shows how awesome I am; even more awesome than Prussia- not that I'm usually not.)
...Is my ego showing?
ratings/warnings: T for Character Death. Again.
dedication: To Nova Mirage, who I think of every time I look at the stars.
playlist: Your Song by Elton John. I often imagine Arthur creating this song for Alfred. It helps that the singer is British too.
And, you know what? You can listen to Everything's Alright by Laura Shigihara again. That can be Arthur and Alfred's theme song.
(Oh, and scratch what I said before- it's actually raining right now.)
(Not that it's going to change anything. This isn't going to be all that sad.)
summary: A long time ago, there was a boy named Alfred and a boy named Arthur. Then, there was a boy named Francis and a girl named Charlotte. Eventually, there was only Arthur.
to the moon
through the stars
there we'll find a place to be
It was raining.
A long time ago, Arthur Kirkland would have enjoyed the sight of the rain fogging up the London skies and falling asleep on his house windows. He would have smiled contently, curled up near the fireside like those stereotypical British folk always have done on the television, and have fallen asleep with a book in his lap, listening to the rain go on.
But that was a long time ago.
He used to be able to see golden hair and sky-filled eyes whenever he looked out at the rain, because the boy with those clearly said looks would have always been there at his door, casting a clear ray of sunshine through the gray fog of the evening. He would have smiled bashfully, and Arthur would have hastily brought him in- but not too hastily, for he would have started to take advantage of Arthur's kindness if he were to show such affection.
He also had happened to be Arthur's best friend.
He was dead now.
"He told us not to tell you," they would say over and over, their distraught and sympathetic faces etched permanently into his mind. "He'd known for a while how much time he had left- he made us promise not to tell you." The words were constantly repeating over and over in his mind, like a broken record player. (And he could remember how much Alfred had so loved those old things, and how he would put on music from the 1930s and make Arthur dance around with him in the solitude of his basement, "They Can't Take That Away from Me.")
It was like a hazy memory that would occasionally appear in his mind, like a fogged up mirror after a long shower, or a repetitive dream that he would always forget right when he woke up. It was a good dream, a good memory.
"Dude, when did you learn how to dance?"
"I've always known how, you git. You just assumed I didn't."
"Haha, I guess there are just some things I'll never know about you, Artie. I guess I'll just have to stick around long enough to figure them all out."
He never did stick around.
"He told me to give you this."
The cold feeling of the tape recorder numbed Arthur's palm, and he could barely register the pitiful gaze Matthew threw at him before he spoke again, "He recorded that a few months ago," he continued, his voice quieter than usual, probably due to the fact that he had sobbed hours before that moment in time. "He told me to give it to you if... if anything happened." He was clearly having a hard time speaking, choking heavily on his words. Arthur didn't notice. "I don't know what he said in it. He never told me... It was always meant just for you." In the back of his mind, Arthur imagined that Matthew would have felt bitter at that fact, because he was Alfred's twin brother, no matter how it might have seemed to others, no matter how it might have seemed to the two of them, and they were closer than life and death themselves.
But Matthew just seemed tired.
"He loved you a lot." Matthew's voice seemed to come from far away, echoing dully in Arthur's mind. He didn't reply. "Alfred did. He would always talk about you when he got home; even after we had moved away, and you two had gotten into that fight, he still wouldn't stop talking about you." The slight itch of annoyance broke through Matthew's tone of voice, revealing just what he had thought at the time of these talks. "He really missed you."
"I've missed you. We haven't seen each other in what- five years? That's a long time to be away from your best friend."
"Best friend? I don't see anyone here."
His heart hurt all of a sudden. He started to wonder why it felt like it was cracking in the middle.
He felt Matthew squeeze his shoulder gently, as if that would solve all of the problems in the world- as if that would somehow bring back Alfred.
"He wouldn't want you to be sad," Matthew said softly, his hand still on his shoulder. He looked a lot like Alfred, too much like Alfred, and it was starting to hurt Arthur more than he would have ever liked to admit. "He wouldn't want any of us to be sad. You know Alfred- he was always smiling. He was always trying to get you to smile too."
"But I never did." Arthur managed to get the words of out his throat and into the air somehow, and it was as if the cold London air had suddenly gotten even colder. A light breeze blew through their coats. "I never smiled."
"You did." Matthew looked at him, somehow truly seeing him for the first time, and Arthur realized that, even though he and his brother looked the same, they weren't the same people. They weren't really alike at all, and yet, every time Arthur looked at Matthew, he saw Alfred. "You always smiled when you were with him."
That was the last time they ever spoke to each other, and it was the last time Arthur ever saw Alfred.
There was coffee, humid air, and harmonious French music; Arthur hated it.
He should have known that it would be foolish to meet with his worst enemy since childhood, in a cafe that said worst enemy practically owned, in his own country, his own turf.
Back then, hundreds of years ago, he could have had him beheaded there.
"Please don't look so ill-tempered, Arthur." Francis's thick accent leaked through his English words, and Arthur knew that, somehow, he was drawing out his name when speaking it just so he could irritate the native Englishman. "I only brought you here to chat."
"Please," Arthur scoffed, his green eyes fixed on his reflection in the hot brown fluid that had been poured into the pastel-colored cup clutched tightly in his hands. He hated coffee, he hated happiness, and he hated Francis.
Alfred had once loved all three.
"I just wanted to see how you were doing," Francis continued, as if Arthur had not even spoken. His tone was the perfect example of nonchalance, the expression on his face giving none of his hidden feelings away.
He made no move to say exactly why he would feel the need to check up on his worst enemy.
Arthur didn't say it either.
"Fine," he replied tersely, his British accent thickening his tone. Alfred had always thought it funny.
Francis thought the same.
The Frenchman clicked his tongue disapprovingly, as if he were dealing with a naughty child who had just thrown his box of crayons at another naughty child, or someone who had stuck his middle finger out at someone when he was just a young boy in elementary school.
Arthur had been both.
"You don't seem fine," Francis stated bluntly, his eyebrows scrunching together. Somehow, the young man seemed to be able to look good anywhere he went, in any sort of setting, whether it be out in the rain with no umbrella, or at a humid cafe in a thick coat and red scarf. He looked perfectly at ease everywhere he went.
France was like Alfred in that way- they both seemed to be able to blend into their settings as if they had always been a part of them.
"Well, I am," Arthur replied curtly, finally pushing away the pastel-colored cup that held his murky reflection in its depths. "I'm perfectly fine."
He told himself that again and again, and it turned out to be a lie each and every time.
"You're not." Francis's tone suddenly became firm, and Arthur startled, growing uneasy at his companion's sudden change of tone. "You're not fine and you know it, Arthur."
He hated that about the Frenchman- he had always been able to look past Arthur's carefully placed walls. He had always been able to see past his grumpy, hard exterior, and see everything beneath it- all of the hidden emotions Arthur had always tried so hard to hide.
Alfred had been able to do that too.
"I'm fine," Arthur repeated, his accent growing thicker as his heart pounded loudly in his chest, feeling as if it would break into pieces at any moment. "I'm fine." His heart seemed to beat louder in his ears, and he felt as if he had swallowed it whole, like it was trying to break in half right in the middle of his throat.
Francis's face softened.
All of a sudden, in that cafe, with the smell of France and rain in the air, Arthur suddenly couldn't see Alfred anymore.
He wasn't sure yet if that was a good thing or not.
"I hate roses."
Francis laughed, still holding out the red rose he had carefully taken from his garden, waiting patiently for the red-faced Englishman to accept it.
"I realize that, mon ami," he replied, his calm smile growing larger at the almost horrified expression on his companion's face as he heard the title he had been addressed by. "Just take it."
"I won't," Arthur replied stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest. The cold feeling of nostalgia suddenly bloomed in his chest, encompassing his heart in its tight grasp. It was so strange, because he could see similar conversations that resembled the one he was in at that moment, except with him and Alfred.
It had always been Alfred and Arthur. Arthur and Alfred.
Somehow, between the Alfreds and the Arthurs, his worst enemy had found a way to add in a Francis as well.
"Come on now, don't be so stubborn, Arthur," Francis said playfully, his cerulean eyes twinkling. They were cerulean, like calm seas. Alfred's were bright blue, like the sky. "Think of it as a peace treaty- an end to our foolish feud."
"I wouldn't call it foolish," Arthur grumbled, looking away. In the back of his mind, he was afraid- not because he feared Francis would leave him the same way Alfred had, but because he was frightened of the possibility that he could possibly care for another person, just as much as he had cared for Alfred.
It seemed like treason somehow, to love and care for someone as much has he had for Alfred; maybe even more so. It seemed as if he were betraying all of the years spent with him, through the arguments and the splits and the times spent looking at the stars.
Sometimes, when he looked in Francis's eyes, he saw stars.
Francis smiled gently, his eyes illuminated in the picturesque French skies. "Shall we start over again? Je m'appelle Francois."
He twirled the rose in his hands, and held it out once again to the young man before him.
Arthur stared at the rose.
"My name is Arthur."
He took it.
"Do you mind if I sit here?"
Arthur unconsciously stuffed the rose he had held in his hands back into his black coat, as if he were afraid someone would try to take it from him, or deface the meaning of it; how he had come to get it.
It was raining once again in London.
He cleared his throat, awkwardly sliding over to make room on the cold bench he was sitting on. The black roof that covered his head did not block out the loud sound of the rain beating down just a foot away from his location under the bus stop, and yet he found it quite easy to hear the words that had been directed at him just a few moments before.
"Of course," he replied as polite as he could under the circumstances.
A relieved sigh came from beside him, and he could feel a tall presence move to sit next to him. "Merci."
He almost choked.
He turned his head to face the person next to him, startled at the fact that the stranger had spoken French, and in London of all places.
The stranger was a young woman, to Arthur's surprise. She looked to be about his age, with short curly hair the color of the sun, and eyes as green as grass. He looked at her, and was reminded of the numerous chalk drawings he would make with the other young children at his school. They would consist of several images, the ones most often appearing being the sun, grass, stars, and the sea.
He couldn't get away from it all.
"It's raining pretty hard, isn't it?" Her voice sounded pleasant, warming Arthur from his chest down to his toes. She had a slight accent that he couldn't place, and yet he knew that she wasn't French.
"It is," Arthur agreed after a short pause, finally able to get the words out of his throat. The lightning illuminated his polished shoes; he could see her reflection in them.
She chuckled softly, amused at something he knew that he would never be able to understand.
"I'm sorry- I didn't introduce myself. You must find it strange for a complete stranger to just appear out of nowhere and decide to keep you company until the bus comes along- and an obvious foreigner of all people." She laughed a little, and Arthur could see light reflecting against her hair. "I'm Charlotte."
He liked the name.
"Arthur," he replied, holding out his hand hesitantly, as if he worried that that was the wrong thing to do- he hadn't tried to properly speak to someone for a long time.
She shook it firmly, and her hand felt warm against his frigid ones. He had to restrain himself from tightening his grip on hers. "A pleasure to meet you, Arthur."
He saw her every day on his way home from then on, and he would find out new things about her during each meeting, like how she was from Belgium but had moved to London to prove to her brother that she could live on her own, or how she had once fallen in love with a Spaniard a few summers ago, only to realize that he wasn't the one she was meant for- her heart was too big for him to fill.
He told her about Francis, about his job, about his hobbies- but he never told her about Alfred.
But, in the back of his mind, he had a feeling that he would have liked her.
The rain always gently poured.
Somehow, when he had gotten home after these little meetings, it had seemed more empty.
He traced his finger along the cold glass of his living room window, the raindrops drawing a swirling pattern against his reflection. He could see, somehow, a hazy memory occurring just outside of his house, through the window, of two boys who were always meant to be best friends and would always stay best friends, trying to improve their skill on drawing stars, laughing every time the rain would wash their stars away.
Arthur wasn't laughing anymore.
"I've always been alone," he thought to himself. The boys started to fade away. "I like being alone."
I like being alone, I like being alone, I like being alone-
He didn't, really.
He listened to the recording; Alfred's voice filled his ears, and his heart started to beat rapidly against his chest, as if it were going to jump out and run away from him.
"Hey, Arthur, if you're listening to this, then that means I'm dead..."
His blood ran cold. His heart pinched his chest.
He had always been prepared- he had always known that he was going to die.
Arthur wanted to do many things to him, preferably kick and scream at him, because how could he not have told him-
How long had he known that he was dying?
"...You're kind of my hero..."
Back then, Arthur would have scoffed at those words, because they were coming from Alfred F. Jones of all people, who was the hero, the guy who would become friends with anyone and could see behind everyone's tightly placed masks.
And he was saying that he of all people was his hero?
For so long, he had been denying the fact that the two of them were friends. He had never stopped doing so; everyone knew that they were close as friends could be, but it had never truly been acknowledged by Arthur himself. He would insult and hit Alfred constantly, while the latter would just laugh and take it all with a smile on his face, as if he knew that beneath all of that grumpiness and hate and bitterness, Arthur really did love him; he just had a strange way of showing it.
Arthur had always taken that for granted.
"...You'll show them pictures of us, smiling and laughing, pointing at me and telling them that that's your best friend in the whole wide world..."
He had always hated it when Alfred would try to find him a girlfriend. He would point out random girls in the hallway, nudging him and saying, "She looks pretty cute- what about her?" And Arthur would always just smack his head with whatever book he was reading and tell him how stupid he was.
He remembered Charlotte, and wondered how she could ever replace Alfred.
He wasn't sure if his heart was big enough to fit the both of them.
"...Live a happy life for me."
For the first time in his life, Arthur Kirkland's heart broke in half.
"You should smile more, Arthur."
The rain beat heavily against the slippery pavement, the lights coming from the cars driving past them lighting up Charlotte's face in a way that only Charlotte could make look beautiful.
"So I've been told," he said dryly, reaching his hand under his jacket to place over his heart, wondering if it would start to break again.
"You really should," Charlotte insisted, not seeming at all put off by his attitude. In actuality, she seemed even more determined to get him to do as she suggested. "I've never seen you smile before."
"I don't do so very often," he replied after a slight pause, feeling his heartbeat quicken. "There aren't many who are able to get me to do so."
"Smiling makes you live longer," she retorted with a pout.
"You should smile more, Artie. It'll make you live longer."
"I don't like to smile anymore," he replied quietly, his words ringing loudly through the strong pouring of the rain. "I never really did."
He expected her to lash out at him, or at least continue to insist doggedly that that was not true, and go on with her quest to get him to smile.
She did none of those things.
He felt a warm hand envelop his cold ones, and he suddenly remembered the feeling of the cold tape recorder as it had been pressed into his hands those many months ago, the frigidness so contrasting to the warmth that Alfred had always been able to transfer.
Charlotte was warm too.
He noticed a certain warmth in everyone he had met so far. Alfred held it in his smile, Charlotte held it in her hands, and Francis held it in his eyes.
Arthur didn't have any.
Unconsciously, he found himself squeezing her hand back, hoping that perhaps her warmth could transfer to him as well.
"I loved a girl once, you know."
Arthur looked up from his place at the kitchen table, clearly irritated at having been disrupted from his reading. "Excuse me?"
Francis made eye contact with him, his eyes seeming to look right through him, as if seeing something far away. "A long time ago, I loved a girl."
Arthur scoffed. "You've 'loved' a great many girls, Francis."
He smiled, an almost bitter tone to it. "I have, haven't I? But this girl was different."
Arthur sighed, reluctantly setting down his novel. He would never have admitted it, but he was just the slightest bit curious as to what his friend would say. "Go on."
"I had known her since childhood; we were childhood friends," Francis started, a wistful tone to his voice. "We did everything together. We were practically inseparable." He smiled, and Arthur felt a sudden burst of something sad in his chest. "We thought we loved each other, you know. I made a promise to her, that we would get married the moment we were old enough."
"But you never did," Arthur interrupted slowly.
"Non, I never did," he confirmed, laughing a little heartbreaking laugh. "I wanted to, though- I really, really did."
"Then what happened?" Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat, his head starting to hurt.
"She was always such a beautiful girl, you know," Francis said softly, his eyes twinkling, and Arthur could tell that he was seeing the girl in his mind's eye right at that moment. His eyes had never twinkled that bright before- it was as if a million stars had suddenly appeared in the middle of the day. "She was kind as well, but also very shy." He chuckled lowly, running his hand through his blonde hair. "If we had not been childhood friends, I wonder if I would have ever had the chance to love her. She was the exact opposite of me- I often wonder if it would have changed things between us." Francis traced his finger against the wood of the table, as if drawing the scene in his head. "I never got the chance to marry her."
"What happened?" Arthur managed to ask, dread starting to swallow up his heart.
Francis looked up at his companion, a smile that he had never before seen on his face appearing. "I made some mistakes." He swallowed thickly, his eyes haunted. "I took her for granted... I always thought that she would stay with me no matter what I did." He shook his head, his blonde curls going to cover his eyes. "I didn't know what real love was at the time."
"What are you suggesting?" Arthur asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Francis smiled sadly, as if he had seen all of what the world had to offer and hadn't loved any of it. "You should say your last goodbyes to Alfred. You want him to know how much you loved him, right?"
It was clear to Arthur what he was suggesting.
If you love someone enough, you need to let them go.
"He would want you to be happy," Francis whispered, his eyes suddenly resembling the sky and everything in between.
But he wasn't Alfred.
He never would be.
Arthur whispered, "I know."
Dear Alfred,
There are many things I would like to say to you at the moment. I'd like to insult you, hit you, yell at you; the things I had always done.
But I won't. I can't.
Did you think that not telling me about your situation would have made things okay, Alfred? Did you think that it would have made the outcome hurt less?
It didn't. I'm going to be blunt with you on this: It made it worse.
You're an absolute idiot if you think that that recording you addressed to me would make things hurt any less. Could you not have had the decency to tell all of those things to my face? To give me just a sliver of your respect and do that for me?
You've brought me absolute pain and suffering, you bloke, and I often wonder why I'm best friends with you in the first place.
I miss you.
I know that that seems strange to say after I just spent the beginning part of this letter scolding you, but I feel as if it's finally the appropriate time to say it. I miss you, you git, and I utterly hate you for being such a complete fool.
You were always telling me to smile, but did you realize that you were the whole reason I smiled at all? How did you think that I would react when I realized what you had done?
Did you tell me to make peace with Francis because you knew we would become friends?
How ironic- about a year ago, I would have never even considered becoming friends with that French frog, nevermind even talking to him on a regular basis. Did you suddenly become psychic by the time you made that recording?
I can't believe you did that, by the way. Who knew you were so sentimental?
It's interesting how we both cherished the same exact memories, from the first time we met, to the time we started over five years after your departure- but maybe it was a departure on both of our sides. I didn't do much to try to patch up our friendship; I didn't really do anything at all.
I did care for you, though, and I did cherish the friendship we shared.
You knew that, though, didn't you? You knew all along.
There's not much I can say in this letter that you don't already know.
Everyone misses you.
I met a girl, I suppose I should mention; You'd be horrified if I didn't. Her name is Charlotte, and she's from Belgium. She reminds me a lot of you actually.
And I know you're probably smiling idiotically from where you are, but please restrain yourself from the time being.
Everything is alright.
I'm still honestly trying to cope with this situation. After all, look at me; I'm writing a letter to you, after you've already died, after it's already too late to do anything about us. I'm actually pouring out my feelings into this, and you must realize that that is a large feat, coming from me.
Yes, I just made a joke.
I'm sure you're plenty awed up there.
I hope you're happy where you are now, Alfred. I hope you're smiling and laughing and are the happiest you've ever been. That's all I could ever hope for, really.
I'll try my best to be happy down here.
So, will you do me a favor, Alfred?
Be happy for me.
Arthur could see lights dancing across the floor of his dimly lit kitchen, and, in between the circles of light, he could see a Charlotte, a Francis, and an Alfred.
For the first time since he had gone back to London, the sun broke through the clouds.
He would go star gazing later that night.
close your eyes
all these wonders
in the dark we saw them shine
you and me