Hi, folks! :) Glad the reaction to the first chapter was positive; I've never spoken to anyone with agoraphobia to my knowledge, so please correct me if you see something funny here. It'll be interesting to do more research for this story!
Please continue to read and enjoy!
~*oOo*~
The hot water isn't really doing much to alleviate the throbbing at the base of his skull.
Scowling darkly, Arthur inches back under the showerhead, closing his eyes as his hair steadily soaks, wincing at the impact the stream of water makes, droplets bouncing off of his aching forehead and scalp. Resigned, he slowly sinks to a sitting position in the tub, inhaling the steamy air and wondering when the aspirins are going to take effect.
If they'll help at all, even. Probably not. This hangover is probably going to take much of today to get over, and even by this evening he'll likely still be feeling ready to vomit his guts out. Wine hangovers are the worst—he's not sure what inspired him to buy that vintage bottle of French whatever-it-was. Boredom, perhaps, or the desire to seem a bit more cultured to himself. But he doesn't really get the appeal of wine—plenty of people remark that they can get a very distinct flavor from the stuff, but the only thing Arthur really picks up is something vaguely fruity and the taste of the smell of wood chips. Next time, he'll just buy something strong and simple, less likely to linger in his system.
If he ever drinks again, that is. A third of a container of mouthwash and his mouth still tastes terrible. Arthur makes a face as he groggily picks up a bottle and squirts its contents onto his hair.
A second later, he realizes he accidentally reached for the body wash rather than the shampoo and curses.
Fifteen minutes later, he unenthusiastically turns the water off and drags himself out, drying off before trudging out into his bedroom, wandering into his wardrobe to see what he'll wear today. Scotch is curled up on the foot of his bed, and Arthur envies him as he wearily tries to tie his bow tie on neatly (just because he lives alone is no validation to dress like a slob in his book), stares at his reflection in the mirror, deadpanned. Sleeping through today would be heavenly, but he does have work to do.
With a sigh, he stumbles off to the kitchen where the smell of burnt toast is waiting for him. He pulls out the steaming black bits of what vaguely resembles bread and now are more likely to be recognized as charcoal from the toaster, spreads generous amounts of orange marmalade on them. The smoke alarm in his kitchen is going off now—he looks up and sees that his eggs are a muddy yellow, wrinkled mess plastered to the pan on the stove. Without much preamble he grabs the pan and proceeds to start scraping off the smoldering eggs with a fork onto a plate.
The kettle starts to whistle before long, and Arthur quickly pulls that off too—it's very lucky he hasn't yet found a way to burn water, though if something's wrong with his cooking, he hasn't quite registered it yet. A tea bag of Earl Grey sinks into his waiting cup, and he waits for the clear water to turn murky. Scotch wanders in just as Arthur settles down to eat, slightly squashed face grumpy. He never did like mornings either.
Arthur smiles while chewing on a mouthful of crunchy eggs, bends down to pat the orange and white cat. Scotch flitters away from Arthur's touch towards his bowl, meowing expectantly.
With a dry snort, Arthur wipes his mouth on the napkin waiting on his lap (more force of habit than anything else) and stiffly stands up to oblige him. "I'm coming. Coming, you dear, silly git. Just give me a moment."
He opens a can of quality cat food—only the best for his Scotch—and mixes it with a bit of milk and some crushed vitamins Scotch won't swallow on his own. Once the sloppish, tuna-smelling mixture has been lowered to the ground, the cat immediately starts eating, and Arthur starts scratching Scotch behind the ears. Mealtimes are usually safe to touch the cat, because Scotch is too preoccupied to try and bat him off. Arthur's a little disappointed when the cat finishes his food so quickly, slinks away.
Food only half-eaten, he nonetheless scrapes the rest of his breakfast into the garbage, though his tea looks like its begun to settle so he takes it with him to the living room, where his office is.
Sinks down at his chair, turns on his computer. Pulls up the document he knows that they're expecting at least by the end of the day. Arthur leans back in his swivel chair, cracks his intertwined fingers. With any luck, he'll be finished by early afternoon, and he can finish that short story he's been working on for some time now. Without preamble he scans the PDF folder until he gets back to his place, and starts typing. The reassuring click-clack of fingers on keys fills the room, accompanied by the soft humming of the monitors. Somewhere, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Scotch fussily knead a pillow and turn around a few times before lying down to sleep. Arthur's glad; he's laid out several large and comfortable pillows around the house so that the cat never need look for a good place to nap.
He turns on a light—it's too dark in here. Hasn't pulled apart the curtains to see what sort of day it is outside. Takes a sip of tea, because his headache is still a prominent, fat boulder in his aching head. Starts to type again.
After awhile, just when Arthur's headache is beginning to wane ever so slightly and he's picking up some speed now on his editing, the sound of a truck blasting its horn makes him grimace and clutch his sore head. Outside, someone starts laughing. The burly sound of a man shouting, and another of one chuckling. Voices, lots of voices, loud voices. Disturbed from his slumber, Scotch opens one irritated green eyes and scrambles out of the room. Arthur wrenches open a drawer and throws on headphones, opens a window for Pachelbel's Canon, turns it up.
But even with the mild, gentle music spilling into his ears, there are a great number of men chattering outside, calling out. And much to his horror, squeaks and squeals and loud THUDS began to accompany the sound. Good Lord, what are they doing out there? Arthur prays it's not another construction project on their road—hadn't they already done the like just a year and a half ago? He remembers the nightmarish weeks the men had been here with their noisynoisynoisy equipment, had only ever been able to get any work done at nights and on Sundays. The idea that there might be jackhammers makes Arthur's hands claw through his hair in distress.
But maybe he's just overreacting. He stares sullenly at his screen and waits for the noises to recede. But they don't. In the midst of this, someone is still laughing, a terribly booming, obnoxious laugh which somehow is carrying through several walls of foundation and brick and plaster to Arthur's poor ears! Arthur grits his teeth and, after ten minutes of this, irritably slams his fingers down on the keyboard, making a juncture of gibberish appear on the document before he rips the headphones off and at last decides to take a look.
He tentatively approaches the curtain and slowly pulls the heavy drape aside, peeks out. To his relief, there aren't any cement mixers or men in hard hats standing around, though there is a large Uhaul in his next door neighbor's driveway. Arthur's brow creases just a little. Did Mrs. O'Neil decide to move? She'd been in the neighborhood ever since Arthur had moved in some years ago.
The UHaul is relatively small—only a few men are trudging in and out of it, though one blurry figure is zipping out of the carrier with an armload of boxes before rushing into the house and scurrying back out again for more. He doesn't seem to need any help. Arthur watches the strong and speedy little figure with some amusement, some envy. Well, hopefully he was being paid his due…that's what those men were for, anyhow.
His eyes wander to the furniture being carried in and out. Wonders if a young family might have moved in, hopes that isn't the case. For the most part, this neighborhood is occupied by quiet retirees and Arthur would much rather his peace not be disturbed.
The noise is sure to settle by this afternoon.
~*oOo*~
But just two hours later, when the noise has at last settled somewhat and Arthur breaks for a scone (and another ibuprofen tablet), there comes a loud hammering at his front door. Bewildered, the man stands up from his work, wracking his mind and trying to remember if he's ordered anything recently. The answer is no, and besides, it's a Sunday. Not the milkman, who knows by now to leave the bottles indoor anyhow.
Trying to ignore the vapid fluttering in his stomach, he hastily sits down and tries to get back to work, but the THUD, THUD, THUDDING doesn't go away, from either his door or his heart. After two minutes of this, Arthur throws his headphones to the ground and strides out of his living room, fuzzy caterpillar-like eyebrows marked in an definite scowl.
But the green eyes beneath them are still lit with anxiety.
When he reluctantly comes into the anteroom, he sees the door. Closes his eyes. "Yes? Yes, what is it?" he barks, voice booming in the empty hall. He hopes it makes him sound powerful and intimidating. "What is it, what is it?"
The thumping at the door at last ceases when the stranger hears his voice, and Arthur can vaguely make out a shape through the opaque glass at the door.
"Hi!" It exclaims—he exclaims. A man, very likely a young one, judging by the sound of the voice. Confused, Arthur uncomfortably shifts from one foot to the other, keeping a safe distance away from the other end of the room. Maybe it's just a wrong address or something—it's happened before.
"What is it?" Arthur calls out again warily, irritably wondering if the visitor had read the painstakingly obvious sign next to his door that said 'No Solicitors.' "What do you want?"
A pause. "Uh, to say hello." Arthur heard a faint, nervous chuckle. "So, um, hello. Hola. Bonjour. Konni—oh, forget it, my name's Alfred F. Jones, and I just moved into the house next door. So I thought I'd go around introducing myself!"
Arthur blinks, a little taken aback. Wasn't it the custom for neighbors to come introducing themselves to the new member of their flock, perhaps armed with Jello salad or casseroles? Not that Arthur was inclined to do anything of the sort for too many reasons, but it's a new one on him.
"I thought Mrs. O'Neil owned the house next door?" he asks curiously. He'd liked her, even when she'd stopped coming.
"Who's she?" Alfred asked.
"The woman who owned the house next door, for bloody's sake."
"Uh, actually a couple called the Robinsons rented me the place, so I think you'd have to talk to them about any other owners," Alfred replied uncertainly, and the conversation took a brief, awkward halt. "A-Anyhow, I'm new to this town, so I was wondering if you'd like to uh, maybe hang out sometime? Maybe you could show me the sights?"
Huh, boy. The painful pulsing in his head starts up again, and Arthur leans his forehead against the cool wood of the door frame, inhaling quietly. He wonders if it's worth the trouble of explaining his condition to Alfred. But that would be a long, painful, and ultimately unnecessary stretch of time, since Arthur has already decided that he will never hear from his neighbor ever again.
"Find a map," Arthur says dryly. "I'm afraid I wouldn't be of much use to you."
"Aw. Well, that's okay. Anyhoo, just wanted to confirm some things via neighborly responsibilities."
Arthur blanches from the other side of the door in confusion. Neighborly what?
But Alfred is already speaking again: "Number one, do you mind loud music? My old neighbors used to yell a lot and cuss me out in Italian whenever I turned up my stereo. Well, one of them did, crabby guy, though his bro was real nice and an awesome cook."
Bewildered Arthur just stares at the floor, slightly agape. Alfred's speaking to him as if they were both college-age roommates, instead of people who just so happened to live in the same patch of land. He wonders how old Alfred is, resists the urge to hurry to the sitting room window so that he can get a better look at him.
But maybe this was all the norm these days. Maybe it had always been typical. At any rate, Arthur supposes he can appreciate Alfred's asking.
"I doubt you'll blast it so loud I can hear it," he returns stiffly, with a hint of dark humor. "But I'd appreciate it if you kept the sound always to a minor deafening. I am very busy." If worst came to worst, Arthur wasn't above cranking up classical music obscenely high, in case Alfred happened to be a nightmare of a neighbor who always hosted loud parties with revolting and obnoxious music.
"Um…cool…." Alfred continues, voice still muffled. "So I think we'll be fine there. Number two, I'll try to keep my fridge well stocked, so if you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar or an egg or something, you're good and golden."
"That's very thoughtful of you, but—"
"Number three, if you wanna grab a drink or something sometime, that'd be awesome!" Alfred exclaims, and Arthur rolls his eyes in disgust. Oh, God. He's one of those people, a drunken, rowdy frat boy, no doubt. Again, he wonders just how young Alfred is, feels very, very old. "Haven't checked out the bars round this place yet. So, you know, maybe if you—"
Arthur sniffs. "The telephone directory would be a nice place to start. The internet too. Well, it's really been corking talking to you, but as it is I'm very busy at the moment. Thank you for stopping by!" Please don't come over ever again.
"I—" Alfred stutters, sounding a little taken aback, maybe a little hurt even. When was the last time Arthur Kirkland hurt anybody? "Uh, cool, man, I underst—"
"Welcome to the neighborhood, Alfred!" Arthur says merrily, his voice rising unnaturally high as he ducks inside of his house again, prays that his new neighbor can't see his shadow through the glass the way Arthur can see Alfred's.
After a moment, he hears footsteps receding from Arthur's walk, and he closes his eyes with some relief, opens the anteroom door and sits down on one of the steps, elbows on his knees, cupping his face with his hands.
He'd been beyond rude and he knows it, but it's better this way. Alfred will settle down soon, meet some chaps down at the pub, maybe a nice girl if he isn't married already. He likely is, even if the U-Haul had been a small one. Cheerful and friendly people like Alfred-what's-his-face-Jones aren't allowed to stay single. Society would never stand for it.
Something orange and white zips past his knees, and he catches Scotch hurrying past his master to the waiting pet door. A second later, Arthur blinks, thinks to snatch the cat up and drag him back to the living room, but it's too late; with a flash of his short tail, the cat heads outside, the little door flapping behind him. Sunshine and a hint of greenery. The door flies back. A snatch of light. Wood. The door keeps wobbling tantalizingly—last chance, last chance it seems to be saying before at last lying still.
Arthur looks at it for a moment. Hopes Alfred is too busy organizing his things to notice the shorthair wandering through his yard. He hates the idea of sharing the cat with anyone, but how would he ever know anyway?
He turns and heads back to his office corner, the confined space seeming to enclose him in a hug, and Arthur scoots in his swivel chair as he again begins to work, painstakingly checking every word for some alternation.
~*oOo*~
At least his new chapter's raking in the reviews. Arthur looks at his email page again, smiling broadly when he sees that he has another review alert. Hastily clicks on it, sucks in a breath with pleasure when he sees that it's another long, gushing review, though to his consternation there are spelling and punctuation errors in it. The reviewers he tended to respond to with their errors tended not to respond back, or review his work anymore, but how else would they learn?
He reads the review, waits for another one. Wishes he had something to do in the meantime. It's early evening now, and he supposes he ought to make dinner soon.
Shtonk. Shtonk. Shtonk, donk, donk.
Oh, splendid. Strange sounds are coming from outside again. With a frown, Arthur reluctantly turns off his computer and heads to his bookshelf, wondering if he can find something interesting enough to make the time pass for awhile. He already gave his place a good scrubbing yesterday, so he'll have to find something else.
Arthur goes over his treasured books, disappointed when nothing really piques his interest.
Shtonk. Shtonk. Shtonk.
Maybe he can turn on the TV, find something that isn't one long nature special after another—
Shtonk. Shtonk. Shtonk.
Now he realizes what that sound is; it's the sound of a basketball thrumming against cement. Arthur is a little disarmed at the fact that he didn't recognize it at first. Had it really been such a long time? He'd never been good at the sport because he was short, but the students at the university where he used to work—
Arthur quickly shakes his head. Wishes Scotch would hurry up and come home. He timidly creeps to the window, taking hold of the curtain.
Well, even if the two wouldn't be speaking to each other, they would be living in fairly close proximity. Arthur supposes that he might as well get a good look at Alfred now, considering he'll be calling the man in all likelihood to complain about loud noise, if he doesn't call the police to handle it instead.
He pulls back the curtains—
And wishes he hadn't.
A crop of honeydew gold hair is glinting in the lazy afternoon sunshine, sweat twinkling on a lightly flushed, lovely face. The carelessly tousled hair is flying as Alfred hurls his basketball into the hoop, letting out a loud whoop as if he'd actually scored a point in a game. He turns, and again there's that pleased face, soft and pleasant and cheeks rosy and bursting with good health, and his eyes—
Merry and blue, so blue, bluer than anything Arthur has seen for a long, long time. He can compare them to various precious stones, or to the ocean, or to the sky, but while the bright blue is impeccably glorious, it's what they contain that makes Arthur Kirkland swallow heavily, his mouth extremely dry, sweat beading on his own brow.
So vigorous. So determined and so happy—Arthur worried that he might have ruined Alfred's day, but it appears his neighbor has already forgotten. The eyes make him look like a child at play, but the body was anything but childlike. Though not grotesquely muscular like some weirdoes Arthur had seen on television, Alfred's body is nonetheless like a bloody bodybuilder's—
Alfred stops zigzagging around the empty drive like an idiot, wipes at his wet brow, and slowly—oh, god, oh, god, he's not really not really going to oh lord yes he is peeling the shirt off his torso, off the Adonisian body so beautifully and perfectly sculpted and Arthur leans forward, his forehead accidentally bumping against the glass with a loud thunk. Startled, Alfred looks up but Arthur is already ducking away from the curtain, clutching his sore forehead and cursing so wretchedly it's a wonder his tongue doesn't burst into flames.
Good God, why is the universe so set and determined that he be in pain today?
Grumbling, Arthur cautiously peeks back out, and Alfred has gone back to jumping and blocking and twisting around imaginary opponents, smiling a large and stupid smile with both his eyes and his mouth—Arthur wonders when he'd last seen both.
Decides he doesn't want to think about it and goes back to ogling Alfred, watching him grab a nearby water bottle and simply dunk it all over himself, laughing. Then, it's back to dribbling the ball, shoots, scores, and now Alfred's miming doing a guitar solo on his knees. Self-absorbed idiot. Arthur can't help but smile, though. It's strangely adorable in its own sexy way. Or maybe sexy in an adorable fashion. He can't decide which one it is.
When his legs start to hurt from standing, he grabs a chair and watches for a long time. The sun slowly starts to creep back towards the West, and soon the sunshine is gone. Still, it's kind of sort of still light out, and Alfred keeps dribbling, keeps dunking, keeps doing ridiculous little dances whenever the ball swishes in. But after awhile, the ball rolls towards the grass, and Alfred tucks it underneath his arm, panting considerably. With a dazzling smile, he wanders back towards his garage and heads inside. Arthur watches, feeling strangely hollow.
At last, when it is very dark outside and he determines that Alfred is not going to come back, he slowly lets the curtain fall back. A strange blankness washes over him, and he quietly stares at his hands, not at all sure what to do with himself now.
Scotch somewhere is mewing impatiently for his dinner. Without thinking about it Arthur gets up and trudges to the kitchen, proceeding to open the usual can and cutting his finger when recalling that smile in the dark.
Alfred probably thought he was a surly old man. And Arthur knew that he was perverted as well for looking as long as he did.
But his new neighbor was, well, Arthur was a master of the English language but beyond nonsensical jabbering the only two words that he can come up with were 'bright' and 'nice.' Bright and nice people did not associate with people who would rather be burned alive than leave their households. Or if they did, they were one of those people who visited despite the fact that they were bored to death, impatient with people who had a stutter and liked to read poetry.
There's no point in getting hung up over it. Bright and nice people belong with other bright and nice people; circle molds do not fit in the triangle hollow, regardless of how hard you try.
And the odds of Alfred belonging to the 1/10th of society Arthur belongs to, well…
Instead of making supper, Arthur pulls out a flask from the cabinet and a cup. Considers mixing it with coffee or juice or something of the sort, but instead puts the cup away and takes a swig from the bottle.
No more drinking, his ass.
~*oOo*~
Early the next morning, a faint rapping sound steals its way into Arthur's house again. Brow wrinkling, still underneath the covers, the man shimmies deeper into the warmth, willing the nose to go away.
But soon, words accompany the din.
"Hey." Knock. "Hey." Knock. "Hey."
There'd better be some sort of emergency or detrimental crisis going on. Most unwillingly, Arthur crawls out of bed and makes his way to the anteroom, torn between anticipation and downright murderous intent. It was nice that Alfred felt that he could come back and talk to Arthur, but did it have to be six in the morning?
"Stop saying 'hey,'" Arthur mutters bitterly, hating the world and every occupant in it, most especially the one who had knocked at his chamber door "Hay is for horses."
A split second of silence, and then a laugh.
"Oh! I totally get it! You made a joke!" Alfred chuckles appreciatively, and Arthur softens just a mite, wrapping his bathroom more tightly around his cold body. "Good one, dude."
"May I ask you what in the blasted world you're doing, knocking at my door so early in the morning?" Arthur snaps, wishing he didn't sound quite so peevish. But he was exhausted. "I have quite a bit of work I needed to do today. I want to sleep."
"On a beautiful morning like this one?" Alfred asks, and Arthur could only imagine the dumbfounded look in those stupid, beautiful blue pools. "Autumn's out and singing and crap. Iggy, sleep when you're dead!"
"Maybe you WILL in a few minutes if you don't—"
"So Iggy, I was wondering if ya wanted to come jogging with me." Alfred asks cheerfully. "It's a little while 'fore school starts, but I think that we can get a good mile or so in if we hurry—"
Arthur yawns. "I'm not interested." For so many, many reasons. He has the strangest notion that he can hear his neighbor pouting.
"Aw, c'mon Iggy, I know it sucks when you start out, but after awhile it feels amazing." He urged. "Great way to start your morning. I don't mind waiting if you want to change into—"
This is the last straw.
"Go away!" Arthur all but screams, his temper getting the better of him. "Just go away and let me sleep, you rotten git!"
Arthur claps a hand over his mouth, eyes widening. He tries to stammer out an apology, but there is already the sound of feet racing away from him, down the path and into the road and there can't be going out beyond the door, beyond safety, because if he does he will die, but if he lets Alfred go without an apology he will also die—
He lets out a shuddering moan, claps his hands to his chest. It's so tight. It's so tight and he can't breathe. Holding his front like he's about to be sick—and he just very well might be—he rushes into the living room, shoulder smacking into the doorframe along the way. Arthur staggers to the window and shoves the curtains apart.
That was, Arthur Kirkland thinks as he watches Alfred sprint away from the cul-de-sac like a mad deer, the last time he ever saw Alfred F Jones approach his doorstep.
~*oOo*~
