What Little Kindess I Can Spare
Characters: Peter/Fort Roughs and Arthur Kirkland/England, AU-ish?
Rating: K
He knew what he was giving up on the day that social service came, for him to sign the papers. But to Arthur, who had been nineteen at the time, he couldn't have cared less. Five years later, and, he's starting to learn and regret the things that he missed. AU setting. Nothing but fluff.
((A small drabble written on request for someone))
The phone wakes him.
Arthur Kirkland sits up groggily at the shrill dinging noise of his Nokia phone besides him, hair mussed and eyes sleepy. Without looking at the Caller ID (as if he'd be able to read it, though his half lidded eyes,) fighting to close again but having to answer.
"Kirkland," he groans. "What is it, Alfred?"
In his half-asleep mind, he can only assume it's Alfred. The only person he could imagine calling him at this time of the night (or early morning, most likely, as he could see the dawn creeping up at the horizon), would be the American perhaps due to another scary movie, or just to tease him or taunt him.
What he does get, however, is a scared, hesitant little voice.
"S—sir?"
Arthur's eyes snapped awake, and suddenly he pulled himself up, back cracking as he bit back on his lip. His son, little Peter, his son, was calling him. Peter never called—as the expense to call him from Scandinavia was far too great for his caretakers to allow him to do it on a daily basis, and Peter would never trouble Arthur otherwise—so a call from him alone would send the Englishman into a panic.
"P—Pete?" he swallowed, voice hush. Peter was a timid child, easily scared and if Arthur wasn't careful, there would be a flurry of apologies headed his way. Arthur hated that, especially since it was a habit that the boy couldn't seem to bite in the nub and he felt he was partially to blame for the boy's inferiority complex.
Not hearing an answer, and half thinking that he was dreaming, Arthur repeated himself.
"Pete? Peter, lad, what—"
"I had a scary dream."
He nearly exhaled in relief at the boy's voice in return. So he wasn't dreaming, after all. Still, that didn't solve the problem at hand. Straightening up, he pushes the covers away before raking a hand through his hair, swerving from the comfort of his bed. Feet touched the cold floor and he hissed slightly, before pulling away completely from the mattress and walking towards the door, phone nestled between the crook of his neck and the side of his face.
"Ah," he answered, walking through the hallways, hand outstretched for the light switch. Finding it, he flicks it on before scratching at the back of his head, adjusting the phone so he could hold it proper. He had never been good at handling Peter—perhaps that's why he gave up the child in the first place—but right now, his problems weren't important. What was important was Peter himself. Taking a deep breath, he adds awkwardly. "—what about, then?"
"I dreamed that you died."
The Englishman freezes mid scratch, before listening closely to the child. Peter's voice was firm, though wavering. He could nearly hear the tears streaking down the little blond's face. Arthur was at a loss as to what to say, but he had to say something. So, gulping down a thick breath of air, he swallows.
"—are you alright?"
He hates that his voice quivers. Something about the way Peter said it made Arthur feel something heavy fill the pit of his stomach.
Lead, maybe.
Or guilt.
However, Peter answers.
"Yes si—father. I'm okay. I was just scared and I wanted to call you. Is—is that okay?"
Arthur traces the hallway walls as he heads to the kitchen, eyes catching a glimpse at the black and white, yellowing photos—of a soft-eyed, scowling young man with a infant in his arms; of a toddler smiling wide, clinging to someone's pant leg. And then, the coloured photos start to blur in with the black and white; of a little blond curled up and sleeping in another man's lap; of the first picture after Peter lost a tooth—the tooth had been mailed to him, along with the photo—of a tree house that Peter built all by himself.
None of those had Arthur in them. Of Peter growing up, of him laughing and crying and getting angry and experiencing everything the world had to offer.
Arthur had missed that.
He claimed that the photos, for him, were enough.
When he got to the end of the hall, he adjusted the phone again, eyes softer now. He was fully awake, and dawn was creeping up on him.
"That's perfectly fine. Tell you what, I don't have any meetings today…nor do I have any tomorrow. How about I hop on a plane to Florence, and we stay together? Would you like that, Peter? To see me in the flesh, instead of on the phone?"
"I—"
The answer took a long time to come. Arthur continued to stare at the last photograph in the hallway as he waited—a hastily taken picture of a little boy, barely two or tree, sleeping as he curled up in a blue blanket, thumb firm in his mouth.
That was the night before Arthur had abandoned him and sent him to Italy to live with a family friend without so much of a goodbye.
He had regretted it. But it was too late for him to take the child back, not when Peter stuttered and cried and was afraid every time Arthur tried to be kind.
This was what little kindness he could give.
"—yes, Arth—father," Peter finally answered, after an eternity.
"Please. I—I need you."