a/n: Jeez, my urges to write come at the weirdest of times. Seriously, it's 12:30 over here as I'm starting this. o_o
Uh anyway, I turned fourteen today, so I thought I'd write a birthday fic for myself...from myself.
Lastly, despite the fact that the title is actually pretty close to Something Beautiful, the storylines are, in no way, related. c:
/unedited
Something Brighter
For Matthew, what started out as what he thought was love morphed into something quite the opposite: A metaphoric beast that reared its ugly head whenever he tried to confront it. On the other hand, he was sure that for Alfred, it never was love to begin with. Perhaps that beast had been there, dormant, all along, and Matthew was the naive fool who didn't see it as he passed the point of no return.
He remembers the first time they went on a date: Alfred insisted on taking him out to the seaside, but then it rained five minutes after their arrived. They ended up staying in Alfred's car in the parking lot, huddled together under a small blanket.
It wasn't exactly how Matthew imagined spending his Friday night, but he was with Alfred, and that was all that mattered.
Their relationship began on that day, approximately three years ago. Matthew isn't sure when it started to deteriorate, and he would give anything to know the reason.
(Some part of him believes that if he can fix it, then maybe Alfred will love him again.)
The forecast for this July day promised clear skies, but when Matthew looks outside, there are only gray clouds harboring the horizon. For a few seconds, he closes his eyes and wonders what it would be like to dance under the rain.
What would it be like to have the weight just washed away from your shoulders?
He tugs the curtains closed, blocking the sight. The room darkens, only to light up again when he turns on the lamp. The apartment is silent, save for the distant sound of Alfred's fingers typing on the keyboard.
Working, no doubt.
Chatting with someone else, and maybe even flirting? Possibly.
With the way the past year has been, he wouldn't be surprised.
The bruise on his cheek throbs.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and when he takes it out, he sees that it's a text from his older brother Francis. It's written in French and full of congratulations and well wishes; he smiles humorlessly before tucking it away.
He doesn't know how long he stands there, outside of Alfred's study. Or, it used to be a study - recently, it's become Alfred's bedroom. The main one, where they normally slept together in, has been untouched for weeks.
Matthew, unable to stand being the only one on the wide mattress, sleeps on the couch.
Alfred sleeps in the study.
"...I'm going out," Matthew announces suddenly.
The clacking of the keyboard stops. He can imagine Alfred glancing back in his seat to look at the closed door.
He holds his breath, waiting for a response.
(For some reason, he thinks that maybe on this day, Alfred would at least make an effort.)
Nothing comes.
So he storms over to the coat rack, practically rips his hoodie from one of its hooks, rushes out the door, and almost slams it shut hard enough to rattle the walls.
He doesn't see the way Alfred turns around again, expression a combination of regret and worry.
He doesn't bother taking the car - Alfred would only yell at him later - and travels on foot. The city is a maze of great sights and putrid smells; for the life of him, Matthew can't remember why they chose to move here.
His feet lead him to a bridge.
The murky waters below are calm, churning slightly. Matthew feels almost nauseated as he looks down over the rail. He's always been afraid of heights, but at the same time, he welcomes the feeling. It makes him feel...human again.
"Not planning to jump, are you?"
The voice startles him so badly that he almost does fall forward and into the water. Matthew turns sharply towards the source of the heavily accented words, coming face-to-face with a sandy-haired man, staring at him critically with emerald eyes.
"Of course not," he retorts. He means for it to sound snappish, but it comes out weak.
"I was passing by, and I thought you looked familiar." The man shrugs. "That, and this city has an average of three deaths per month via bridge jumping."
"Wasn't planning on raising that number," Matthew mutters. He flicks a small piece of debris from the ledge and watches it disappear downwards, hurtling into the water.
He feels the man come closer until he's only about a foot away, propping his arms against the railing, looking out. "Are you Matthew Williams, by any chance?" he asks in a voice that suggested he was being anything but casual.
Matthew gives him a sideways glance, wary. "If I am?"
"I went to school with you," the man says. "Was in your English class for the whole four years we were in high school. You had the best taste in books, in my opinion."
Despite himself, Matthew cracks a smile. "I think I remember you," he says musingly. "Arthur, is it? We read Shakespeare together."
The man turns to him and kind of smirks. "The one and only."
They settle into a blanket of silence after that. Then, as Matthew pulls away from the edge of the bridge, they both begin simultaneously:
"I've lost track of time, I should get home-"
"I had some sort of an infatuation with you back then-"
Matthew, upon hearing the other's words, falters. "Wh-What?"
"You're still with that Alfred Jones?" Arthur says instead, as if he hadn't said anything a few seconds ago.
He feels the Englishman's gaze on the evident bruise on his cheek. Matthew turns away in a half-hearted attempt to hide it. "Yes," he replies, voice sounding slightly blank. "Living with him, in fact."
There's another brief silence.
"I see."
Then Arthur pulls away from the edge as well, dusting dirt off of his hands. "Well, I have an appointment, which I'm now rather late for." He smiles, looking amused at himself. Matthew does not smile back. "I'll be taking my leave. It was nice reconciling with you, Matthew."
The younger man gives a soft, almost imperceptible nod. His gaze is transfixed on the river below. He hears Arthur start walking away, and then:
"Oh, and love?"
He finds that he doesn't mind the endearment. He glances back at Arthur.
The Englishman smiles, sincere. "Happy birthday."
. . .
The next day, two hours after Alfred leaves for work, Matthew hears the doorbell ring. After he opens the door with minimal caution, holding his tender arm carefully to his chest, he crouches down at the bouquet of roses sitting on the welcome mat.
There's a note tucked inside.
He reads the neat handwriting:
For whenever you decide to finally open your eyes.
On the back, there's an address.
Somehow, he knows where it would lead him.
. . .
It doesn't take too long, admittedly. Matthew picks up the crimson red flowers and leans his cheek against the soft petals. It sends warmth throughout his skin.
Within the half hour, he has his bags packed with the things he's deemed important enough to bring with him.
Not too long after that, he's loaded his things into the backseat of the car and is fitting the keys into the ignition. As the engine roars to life, he sets the bouquet of roses beside him, on the passenger's seat.
He maneuvers the car out of the driveway and finds that he's smiling his first genuine smile in months. His chest feels lighter, as if a burden has been lifted away.
Suddenly, the bruise on his cheek and his injured arm don't hurt so much:
He's on his way to a new life.