Act II: When Fate Casts Its Shadow


It's never too late for a new beginning. But never put off for later, what can be done now.

Time is infinite, and time is finite.


Movie Set, Yellowstone, Mid October

Alfred F. Jones, Hollywood poster boy extraordinaire, was bouncing up and down, not even bothering to give a halfhearted attempt to appear professional. His inner fanboy had revealed itself, and nothing would hold him back.

"Holy mother of God!" Alfred indiscreetly whisper-yelled at Arthur. "That's Kiku Honda! The Kiku Honda! I can't believe I'm actually standing on the same set as Kiku Honda! He's right there!" Alfred's arm was wildly waving around, following the director's every moment. The director in question was currently engaged in a discussion with a cameraman and pretending he was unaware of his lead actor's blatant admiration for him.

Arthur, who was sitting in a fancy monogrammed chair, simply pressed his temples and groaned. "Do realize that you are giving me quite the headache." Alfred's hands had settled on the armrest of Arthur's personalized chair; thus, every motion was felt quite strongly by Arthur. Not to mention how queasy Arthur had been feeling ever since landing in America. Certainly the endless meetings and steady stream of paperwork didn't help. For all his indifference towards Hollywood and his own book, Arthur was very much involved every step of the way.

Alfred looked down at his companion, who was moments away from cradling his throbbing skull, and frowned. "Artie, you sure this is normal? I really don't think jet lag should be this bad."

Arthur tsked. "Nonsense, I am simply prone to motion sickness. The long drive here was not kind to my head. It's nothing more than a mere cold." He nudged Alfred's arms off his chair, then proceeded to set a hand on each armrest. With some effort, Arthur pushed himself up into a standing position. "I will be resting in your trailer. Stop making a fool of yourself and go become acquainted with Mr. Lurkrath. I am expecting great things from you."

Of course, as the author and screenplay writer Arthur had his own trailer. But Alfred's had a radiator, something Arthur cherished during the chilly fall months.

Standing by the now vacated chair, Alfred watched as Arthur slowly made his way to the trailer. His hand was vigorously rubbing his head.

Now alone, Alfred wandered aimlessly around set. Kiku Honda was busy, surrounded by a myriad of cameramen and costume designers and makeup artists. Alfred would follow Arthur's advice and introduce himself later.

Alfred pulled his hood over his head and shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. Brittle leaves and dried grass announced his every step. Around him, in every corner of the set a producer, a composer, cameramen, sound technicians, people were working to construct the set, putting up the green screens, working to make their contribution to Arthur's story. An empty feeling rose inside his chest when he realized how useless he was. As the original author and the writer of the screenplay, Arthur was expected to arrive to supervise the building of the set, as well as smooth over any rough scenes.

Alfred's arrival had not been expected for another month.

He looked down as his feet, clad in dirty, worn converse sneakers, as they trampled upon the landscape.

In the nearby distance, Alfred could hear the buzz of countless conversations between all the people working on the set, working to propel Alfred into yet more stardom. Alfred was overcome by shame as he realized how little credit others were given for their equally important roles in making his movies a success.

Braginski was certainly not impressed when Alfred announced his intention to head to Yellowstone and arrive on set ahead of schedule instead of practicing and memorizing his lines with his costars in Los Angeles. "You will only be a disturbance to the others," he had said.

Certainly he needed the practise, though Arthur now refused to give any feedback until Alfred could give a "halfway decent portrayal". Alfred had made little progress since his fight with Arthur, thought not for lack of trying. Kiran D. Lurkrath was simply too complex of a character for Alfred to unravel, and Arthur gave no additional hints as to how Kiran should be seen.

The buzz of people, of progress, had lowered until Alfred could no longer hear anything other than the sound of his own two feet. He had reached an alcove, an open field, and he was standing in the centre.

Looking around at the flat plain, Alfred was suddenly hit by a wave of inspiration. Here he was, alone in an alcove, surrounded by nothing but emptiness. Feeling nothing but emptiness, a hole inside his chest. Exactly how Kiran D. Lurkrath felt for his entire life. Alfred's eyes brightened, realizing how he should portray Kiran, how Arthur intended Kiran to be perceived.

No one was there and Alfred didn't have his script with him, but that didn't stop him from leaping headfirst into character. He was no longer Alfred F. Jones; Alfred Jones had been replaced by Kiran D. Lurkrath.

Alfred couldn't remember every scene, and certainly not the majority of his lines, but he was in acting subspace and each word, expression, movement came naturally. He was no longer simply portraying Kiran, he had become Kiran.

Most of the scenes were improvised, once Alfred had run through nearly half the story. He didn't notice; he was still riding the high of acting, the rush of adrenaline he had been craving for years. A release that every one of his previous movies failed to achieve.

Alfred only came back down to earth at the sound of applause.

A short few metres away, Kiku Honda had joined Alfred in the field. He had not seen all of Alfred's impromptu performance, but he had witnessed enough to be sure his casting of Alfred was the correct choice.

Alfred was speechless, cheeks flushed with the adrenaline coursing through his veins and the recognition that it was his idol who was standing before him, applauding his acting.

"Forgive me for interrupting," Kiku Honda said, approaching Alfred. "You are very talented, Mr. Jones. I admit I had my doubts when you were cast, but you have proven me wrong. I hope you will give an equally invested performance when the cameras are on."

For a moment, Alfred was speechless. His hands moved on their own, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie.

A minute passed before Alfred regain his ability to speak. "Er, wow! Thanks! You're like, my God. I've always wanted to work with you and I'm super honoured to have this opportunity." He stuck his hand out.

Kiku Honda reciprocated the handshake with a strong grip. With a wry smile, he said, "I am certainly glad I have made the right choice in casting you."


How long has it been since I felt something other than pain? My life is a curse, living is but a dream. How difficult it is, to have everything in the appearance and nothing in the reality.

I am but an actor in my life, living how I wish to be seen.

I am empty.


Soft, muffled snores came from inside Alfred's trailer. Arthur was still sleeping when Alfred returned, still riding the waves of elation brought on by Kiku Honda's praise. The heat was blasted to its highest setting, so high Alfred worried Arthur would overheat in his sleep. Beads of sweat dotted Arthur's forehead, confirming Alfred's suspicions.

As quietly as he could, Alfred turned the dial so the space was no longer a sauna and gathered fresh clothes. For the third night in a row, Arthur had taken over Alfred's bed which left Alfred to retaliate the only way he could: by welcoming himself into Arthur's bed.

Alfred had just turned the latch of the trailer door, prepared to step out, he heard the blankets shift and turned towards the source of the sound.

"Alfred?" Arthur slurred, eyes blinking blearily, still heavy with sleep.

Releasing the door latch, Alfred moved back to kneel beside Arthur. "Hey, you okay? You've been pretty out of it lately. Anything bothering you?"

Eyes still clouded over with sleep, Arthur shook his head. His voice was shaky, but in spite of his obvious illness, Arthur's grouchiness did not fail to make an appearance. "Fine. I'm fine. You Americans worry too much." Arthur shifted his blankets and sniffed. "Is it morning?"

Shaking his head, Alfred answered. "Nope. It's just after twelve. After midnight."

Arthur moved to get up but was stopped by Alfred. "What are you doing? You should go back to sleep."

Weakly, Arthur put up a small fight. "Nonsense, I will sleep just fine in my own trailer."

"Artie, you're obviously sick. You're not going anywhere." Alfred refused to budge.

As Arthur struggled, the moonlight shone a stripe across Arthur's face. The patch of light hit a patch under his ear, directly beneath his jawbone. A raised patch of skin was clearly visible, and it did not fail to escape Alfred's notice.

"Stop." Alfred's tone was hard and Arthur ceased his struggles. Gently, Alfred raised a hand and brushed Arthur's jaw line, over the protruding lump. Softly, he said, "What's this?"

"Hmm?"

"This lump on your neck. It's hard. What is it? Does it hurt?"

In the dim lighting Alfred couldn't see Arthur's skin, initially flushed with fever, lose all colour.

Arthur's gaze dropped and his muscles relaxed. "Must be an allergy. My skin is rather sensitive. It's quite bothersome, but no, it does not hurt."

Alfred bought Arthur's lie and left soon after. Unfortunately, Arthur knew all too well what the lump meant. After all, he spent his childhood covered in them.

Tick, tock, his time was running out.

In England, his doctors had attacked his cancerous cells with radiation and chemo and surgeries; they threw their entire arsenal at him year after year but he had finally given up a year ago.

That he had gone a year without a relapse, especially as he had stopped his drugs and treatments cold turkey, was a small miracle. But Arthur had been the miracle boy for long enough.

He was tired.

Turning to face the trailer wall, Arthur closed his eyes and tried to banish all thoughts of death. His headache was beginning to return, full force. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes before sliding across his face.

Months ago, lumps in his abdomen had appeared just before Alfred stumbled upon his shop. Back then, Arthur didn't care. He had prepared for that moment. He had made peace with his fate.

Except he didn't.

The signs were all there, popping up whenever and wherever and Arthur had ignored it because it didn't matter. No one was close to him anymore. He made his peace with his family, with Francis, with the few friends he had, and prepared to live a peaceful rest of his life.

Alfred had changed his plans, but at the worst possible time.

Tick, tock, time was out.


Tick, tock, tick, tock.

What is time but a ticking bomb?

Tick, tock, tick, tock.


It was evident to Alfred and everyone in the nearby vicinity that Arthur had not had a good night's rest. Arthur's usual grouchy demeanour had stepped aside, leaving a sniffling, red nosed and miserable author who was almost agreeable in his place.

A strong gust of wind blew a handful of shrivelled leaves into Arthur's lap. They settled on a thick stack of papers.

"I really think you should take a break," Alfred said, leaning over the back of Arthur's monogrammed chair as the writer was going over the filming schedule.

Brushing the stray leaves off his lap, Arthur wrapped his woolen jacket tighter around his body. "You should be rehearsing. Kiku has said good things about you, but you have yet to impress me." Arthur brushed off Alfred's suggestion, stubbornly forcing his body even further past its limits.

"Ha ha!" Alfred laughed. "I hate you tell you this, but you'll have to wait until filming starts. You'll be blown away for sure, but I can't have anyone else seeing my amazing abilities yet."

Dried leaves and brittle twigs crunched as Alfred loudly stepped to stand in front of Arthur. Gently, Alfred tugged the stack of papers out of Arthur's grasp,

"Come on," Alfred prompted, "Your job was done months ago. The script and everything is perfect, and you know it. Francis even threatened to beat me if you didn't stop micromanaging. Let's go exploring! Remember when we used to do that in Portland? There are some nice towns nearby and they have tons of moose things and I want to get something for my brother!"

Before Arthur could voice his dissent, Alfred had whisked Arthur to his feet and was half carrying Arthur to his rented car.

On the highway, it didn't take long for Arthur's head to loll to the side, his eyes to slip shut, and his thoughts to drift off to dreamland.

Glancing to the right, Alfred smirked victoriously.

Arthur was far too stubborn to listen to anyone, or care about his own well being. Alfred, however, had a heart big enough to care for the both of them.

For a few more minutes, Alfred drove along the deserted rural road before pulling up on the shoulder. After yanking the key out of the ignition, Alfred reached across the console, carefully across Arthur's body as to not disturb the sleeping man, and opened the glove compartment to pull out his script for the movie.

Sometimes, Alfred impressed himself with his genius.


Fate plays games with us, taunts us, makes us think the impossible is possible.

Fate is cruel, and no one wins the game of fate.

Everyone who tries ends up dead.


There were two weeks until filming officially began and Arthur had finally realized the crew was actually decently competent without his directions. Even by his ridiculously high standards.

The air was chilling, winds growing in intensity, sunlight waning; Arthur could feel his strength dwindling. His appetite was gone, and what little he ate always resulted in indigestion. Constant heartburn plagued him day and night and Arthur found himself longing for the familiar white, sterile walls of the hospital, for the constant beeping of machines and countless tubes poking in and out of his body. He detested the hospital, for all the overbearing nurses and reminder of what he would never have, but having spent three quarters of his life a permanent resident made it a home.

And that very thought troubled Arthur deeply.

Arthur hated how the hospital brought him such comfort. He couldn't deny he often found himself longing to be drugged and mindless, if only so he would be out of this pain.

But the determination to make the most of his days was stronger than his pain.

His time was running out.

Yet, here he was trapped inside a little box, not unlike a hospital, in great pain, unable to go out as he pleased. He was a prisoner in his own life.

With a pen in his hand, Arthur wrote all of his thoughts. Shaky letters were left in the trail of Arthur's hand. What he wrote from here on would never be seen again by his eyes; it would only invoke resentment, seeing how his once beautiful penmanship had deteriorated to the level of a child.

As a child, no matter how sick he was, Arthur had always been able to maintain a steady hand. Hours upon hours of recording every last excruciating detail of the treatment, of the pain of being unable to play with other children, the loneliness of having only the four hospital walls as company. His writing was beautiful, and he knew it. Once Francis had made an off handed remark about how Arthur could have been a typographer if the situation was different. Writing was what gave Arthur a sense of normality, but now that, too, was gone.

And Arthur didn't really know what he would do if he couldn't write.

As dense as Alfred was, Arthur knew it wouldn't be long before he would no longer be able to hide his weakness.

For several days now - Arthur didn't know how many, only that it was too many - a vicious throbbing persisted in his abdomen. He could feel lumps hardening under his skin, stretching the yellowed jaundice skin under his jaw and over his torso. Alfred was under the impression that Arthur was suffering from a particularly persistent cold, but Arthur knew he couldn't keep deceiving Alfred for much longer. Arthur hadn't left Alfred's trailer in over a week; he couldn't muster up the energy to drag himself out from under the heap of blankets.

"Hey Artie!" Alfred's voice called from outside the trailer. "Feeling better? My hands are kinda busy right now so could you open the latch?"

Could he?

He couldn't, and Arthur knew he couldn't, but that did not stop him from kicking away the blankets. Grunting, Arthur slowly forced his body into an upright position. His organs twisted inside him; they did not approve of the sudden movement. Arthur had barely taken two steps before he was overcome by excruciating pain in his abdomen and collapsed.

From outside, Alfred heard the crash of Arthur's body hitting the ground. Without a second thought, Alfred threw the two trays loaded with food to the side and burst into the cramped little space.

On the ground, curled in the fetal position, lay Arthur, just barely conscious and in so much pain.

"Arthur!" Alfred cried. "Hey! Someone call an ambulance! Where's the on set medic?"

Alfred didn't know what to do, other than to sit on the floor of a trailer with the most important person in his life nearly lifeless in his arms.

Outside the trailer, overturned trays had spewed their contents all over the ground.


All that time I had taken for granted...

Why didn't you ever tell me?


It didn't take long for Alfred to decide he hated hospitals.

He hated the permanent stench of antiseptic and death and of cleanliness and how white everything was. It was everything he hated, colourless, lifeless, heartless.

He also hated that Arthur had been dying for the entire three months of their relationship and somehow, somehow he never noticed. The jaundice yellow skin, lack of appetite, constant lack of energy...

...Stomach cancer, tumours, and a high fever brought on and worsened by Arthur's incessant workaholic habits.

And the cherry on top were the ulcers that came as a result of poor appetite and stress.

Alfred had noticed how Arthur had been out of it, had not been himself ever since they left England. Alfred had summed it up to an especially bad case of homesickness, but it was really just a bad case of sickness. Period.

Now, as he sat beside Arthur's sleeping figure, Alfred decided that he really, really hated hospitals.

Also that he was this close to punching the hell out of that stupid beeping machine displaying Arthur's heart beats. And ripping out that stupid goddamned bag of sugar water and painkillers and antibiotics that Arthur was hooked up to. And snapping the feed tube right in two so he would never have to think about how Arthur was so malnourished again. And the catheter could go too, until Alfred actually took a look at the thin plastic that led to a certain organ between Arthur's legs. The catheter could stay. For now. But Alfred would definitely maybe give Arthur an impressive black eye as soon as he waked up for putting him through this. And since he was on a one way path of destruction, he might as well squeeze the cancer out of every single tumour, lump, organ, and cell in Arthur's body.

But that would all be counter productive because at some point, in the short time Alfred had spent with Arthur, Arthur had become someone who dominated Alfred's life. And Alfred had come to the startling conclusion that he didn't really know how to go on with his life without Arthur around to keep him on the right track.

Alfred sighed. Arthur needed to hurry up and wake up; he had a lot of explaining to do.


Dreams are telling of a person's inner turmoils.

My reality is a dream.

Someday, I will lose the distinction between dreams and reality.

And that is fucking terrifying.


Two days later, Alfred returned to the hospital after having a 24 hour ban placed on him for being disruptive.

(It wasn't technically his fault that the stupid machine just couldn't stop its annoying incessant beeping.)

(Likewise, it wasn't his fault that the nurse just happened to walk in on him about to drive his fist into Arthur's heart monitor.)

Arthur was awake now, finally, but he was preoccupied. Someone Alfred did not recognize had taken over Alfred's chair beside Arthur's bed.

A lanky, redheaded figure was deep in conversation with Arthur.

"What are you planning to do now?" The redhead had a thick Scottish accent. His posture, though slouched and casual, emitted a menacing presence.

Arthur, now awake and alert, was looking much better though still far from appearing healthy. "There's not much I can do. Look at me," Arthur laughed bitterly. The sound unsettled Alfred. "Involving myself in this film was a mistake from the start. Take me home, Alastair. The clock is ticking, and I owe a great many people apologies."

"Aye, starting with me. What on earth were you thinking? You cut yourself off from all of us and then end up in America with some pretty boy actor? You hate that book and end up working yourself to death for it? I don't understand you."

"Alastair, please stop. I'm tired. Take me home."

All too late, Alfred abashedly realized he had been eavesdropping on what was probably a private conversation.

Before he could slip away and pretend he had never been there, Arthur's redheaded visitor saw him. "We have here a little spy, I see."

From his position lying down on the bed, Arthur couldn't see Alfred, and he made no effort to shift his position to include Alfred in his line of sight. Instead, he closed his eyes and said, "I am tired. Please let me rest."

Before leaving, Alastair patted Arthur's cheek. "You've fought hard."

On his way out, Alastair pulled Alfred in line with him, not giving Alfred the chance to see if Arthur was alright for himself.

"So," he said, thick Glasgow accent dripping off his words, "you're the pretty face who kidnapped my brother."

"Er, I'm sorry?" Alfred stumbled to keep up with Alastair's long gait.

Without releasing his hold on Alfred's wrist, Alastair said, "This is a conversation better had over a hot drink. We have much to talk about." The pair did not exchange another word until they were seated in the corner of a coffee shop.

Sitting across from Alfred, Alastair extended a hand to Alfred. "Alastair Kirkland. If you didn't already realize, I'm Arthur's big brother."

Warily, Alfred reciprocated the handshake. "I, uh, didn't realize he had any siblings. He never talked about himself very much. And sorry for spying on you guys like that. That was a dick move."

Waving a hand, Alastair brushed off Alfred's apology. "Don't worry that wee little mind of yours too much. From what I hear, we all owe you a lot more than a few drinks. You know, after the last round of treatment, Arthur just shut everyone out. Packed a bag and left. No medicine, no warning, just a note and a will. Didn't even tell us where he was going, only that he was waiting to die and would leave us a ring once in a while. Damned little brat, always making everyone worry for him."

Alfred vaguely registered the vibrant green eyes both Kirkland brothers shared. "So what exactly does this have to do with me?"

Alastair laughed, an empty laugh that never reached his eyes. His eyes remained fixed on Alfred, dead serious and more than a little intimidating. "Why, it has everything to do with you. I barely have the damndest idea where my baby brother has been in the past year but you've brought him back. He wants to go home. Home! He hasn't wanted to go home in nearly a decade! I don't know what you've done to Arthur, but I like it."

"Wait, so what exactly did I do?"

Sighing, Alastair ran a hand through his hair. "You are someone who never knew Arthur wasn't well and you gave him a few months of normality. Something we never would have been able to give him. He's never had that, you know."

Outside, through the window, the sun was preparing to set. The end of another day. "So what happens now?"

"I will taking Arthur back home once the hospital releases him, and your life will move on as it always has."


Some conversations are never meant to be easy, but those are the ones most important. The ones that must be had.

Stop delaying.


It would be another day before Alfred could have a much needed conversation with a certain author.

Foregoing all niceties, Alfred greeted Arthur with a confrontation. "You have a lot of explaining to do."

A nod. "You would be correct."

Taking a seat beside Arthur, Alfred said, "Start from the beginning. How long have you had cancer?" A couple of scrunched up tissues dotted with stark, red drops of blood sat on the table by Arthur's head. Pointedly, Alfred avoided looking in that general direction.

"Since I was a child. I believe I was four at the time." It was robotic, how their conversations progressed. Angry questions and monotonous answers. It made Alfred feel distant, like they were strangers, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You didn't need to know."

"Did you think I didn't deserve to know?"

"Would it have changed anything? The fact is, I am going to die and you can't change anything."

"Does our friendship mean anything to you?"

Sighing, Arthur looked past Alfred, fixated on a spot on the white walls. His glassy eyes were not entirely focussed, glazed over and staring blankly at the wall. "Our friendship meant everything. Means everything. But the progression of time is not so easily changed."

The wall was blank, but Arthur's eyes remained fixated on that one spot, just above Alfred's ear. The glassiness of Arthur's eyes made Alfred feel as though he was being looked through, and a shiver ran down his spine.

"You know now that I've been sick for a very long time now," Arthur said. "I was diagnosed with a form of stomach cancer when I was four. Gastrointestinal stromal tumour. Did you know," Arthur chuckled bitterly, "that there are only twenty children in the United Kingdom who are diagnosed with this every year? At first it was benign but then it wasn't. I don't remember very much of what happened, it was all a blur, but I had a scan of some sort and I lit up and everywhere was cancerous. I'm just a walking mass of cancer that occasionally turns out for short periods of time. But it always came back. And it's back again."

Not once did he look at Alfred.

Alfred had a lot of questions, so many words he wanted to say, questions to ask, a couple accusations jumbled in as well. But he kept silent. Right now was Arthur's time; Alfred could wait.

Grasping Arthur's cold hands with his own, Alfred warmed cold, yellowed fists with his own sweaty palms. "You should know, I'm going to be going to England with you."

Arthur's gaze flickered, but didn't budge from that spot on the wall. "You are being ridiculous. You have a job to do here."

"Only because of you," Alfred said, with a soft smile on his face.

Arthur's expression didn't change, but he finally looked away from the wall, at his and Alfred's entangled fingers.

His fingers weren't so cold anymore, slowly warming up from Alfred's touch.


Whether or not rules were meant to be broken will, in itself, remain a paradox for the entirely of civilization.

That will do nothing to stop rules from being broken anyway.


"Jones, filming start tomorrow. You are not leaving this set, are we clear?"

As it turned out, time was not in Alfred's favour.

In a small conference room, Alfred sat across from Braginski, who was standing. With balled fists and heavy breathing, Alfred glared at his manager. "Crystal. Unfortunately, I will have to inform you that I will be seeing Arthur off and nothing you do will stop me."

Braginski glared back, violet eyes narrowed and dangerously flashing black. "Perhaps it is time, then, for you to invest in a dictionary. I do not believe that is what clarity means in the English language."

"Yeah, it isn't, but you can't stop me from going. It's not like I'm hopping back over the pond or something. All I want is a couple hours to say goodbye to a friend and I'll be back. Really, you're being unreasonable here."

With a loud crack, Braginski slammed his palms face down onto the table separating the two feuding men. A smile rested on his face, but his glare was steadily fixed on Alfred. "Given that you just recently took an unannounced and unapproved three month foray with Mr. Kirkland, I am sure you have had more than enough vacation time. It is time for you to pull your weight and get some work done. Mr. Kirkland can wait until after filming ends. You need to stop wasting the time and energy of everyone working on this film and put in your fair share of work. You are responsible for bringing Mr. Kirkland's creations to life and I am sure he would care for the his legacy far more than a mere goodbye from a spoiled actor."

"And I beg to differ." Having reached the end of his line, Alfred gave up on any hope of negotiating with his manager. Ivan Braginski was only mildly sociopathic, but attempting to explain the multifaceted dynamic of Alfred's relationship with Arthur to Braginski really was not worth the effort. Forcefully pushing his chair back from the table, Alfred stood. He pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and made wide strides out the door. "Tell the crew to start the table reading with the cave scenes since Kiran isn't in any of them. I'll be about half an hour late."

No doubt, Braginski was seething, and would grill Alfred to the bone for this stunt. But, Alfred also knew that filming started tomorrow and never would Braginski ever lay a hand on him. Alfred had to be in tip top shape for the make up artists, and absolutely nothing could happen to him during filming. Not even the slightest scratch.

So, it was with utter and complete confidence that Alfred strode out the makeshift meeting room.

After all, he had an impatient and grouchy Englishman waiting for him.


Permanent is an idea, but is in itself a fallacious one.

Nothing is permanent.


Three people of varying figures stood in a rigid line in front of the security check at Yellowstone's airport. Yellowstone's airport was never a particularly busy place, and people only sparsely passed through the security gates.

"Well," Alastair cleared his throat, "I'll go through first. Give you lads some time to speak. Don't take too long though, the flight leaves in forty minutes." And he stepped past the gates, removing his boots and lifting his bag onto the conveyor belt.

Alfred turned towards Arthur, who was already looking up at him.

"Hey," Alfred said, "you going to be okay?"

Now having returned to his medication and looking almost passably healthy, Arthur scoffed. "I hardly even know what happens now. And you, Alfred, should have more important things on your mind. Have you managed an adequate presentation of Kiran yet? I do expect you to give my character justice."

Alfred grinned. "Don't worry a thing, Artie. I got Kiran down pat. Kiku approved too. We got it all under control, you just worry about getting better, yeah?"

"It's rather too late for that," Arthur said, but there was no bitterness to his voice. Resignation was the only emotion there, and Alfred admitted to himself that he was impressed with how poised Arthur was in the face of death. "I'd say, twenty years too late, give or take a couple of decades."

Wanting to bear a strong face, Alfred's grin faltered only slightly. "Make a deal with me, Artie. I will be the best Kiran, better than you could ever imagine, and you live long enough to see the final movie at the premiere. Deal?"

Smiling bitterly, Arthur said, "How very American of you, what with all this optimistic nonsense."

"You know you love it," Alfred said, smiling gently. He raised his arm, setting it on Arthur's shoulder. Even through three layers of clothing, Alfred could feel the bone of Arthur's shoulder. "You'll make it, yeah? You are going to be my date for the official premiere and my date for the Oscars and I'm going to make you so proud, Artie. I'll make sure that you won't ever regret meeting me!"

Arthur's eyes were becoming dangerously wet, a sensation that was occurring more and more often. Especially when Alfred was involved. "Foolish American, how could I ever regret meeting you?"

It was quiet, and there were not many people, but the hustle and bustle native to all airports was a buzz in the background nonetheless. People carrying briefcases, scientific cases, stringing along a line of young children, and young couples navigating their first trip, they all molded into the background. They all became a blur.

But in the centre of it all, Alfred leaned down to wrap Arthur's frail body in his arms, memorizing with his hands the curve of Arthur's spine, the protruding ridges that were his ribs, and the pronounced edges of his shoulder blades. And Arthur leaned in, reciprocating this blatant show of affection. Underneath Arthur's bony fingers was lean muscle and a healthy layer of fat and chub (that Alfred would never admit was there). Alfred was warm and welcoming and so, so comfortable, and Arthur wanted to never leave.

But Arthur had to pull away, when Alfred released his hold. Neither shared a word, only emotions burning through cerulean and emerald lenses. Raising his hands, Alfred cupped Arthur's gaunt face. His fingers gently stroked the ever so slightly sunken in skin.

Alfred grinned good naturedly. "What can I say, we Americans sure are a good catch," and he winked.

In response, Arthur slapped lightly at Alfred's arm, joy and laughter emanating from his gaze.

Alfred said, still holding Arthur's face, "But I will miss you, yeah? You better message me everyday with a picture so I know how you're doing!"

Leaning down, Alfred lightly placed a kiss on Arthur's forehead before Arthur turned away to enter security. Just before Arthur placed his bag on the conveyor belt, he turned around to give Alfred one last look.

Alfred waved wildly and enthusiastically, with his characteristic American optimism. "I could never regret meeting you either, Artie!"

Smiling a rare open mouthed smile, Artie raised his hand to wave back.

Then he passed the gates, joining his brother on the other side.

Alfred stayed where he was, not moving until Arthur and Alastair had entered the terminal and had exited Alfred's line of sight.

Only then, did Alfred turn, and walk away. He left the airport alone.


After me, the deluge shall come.

Only downfall awaits those who dare to dream.

You, darling dearest, shall be my undoing.


Mid November, London:

Alfred, I have arrived in London safely and am currently staying with Alastair. For now, there is no rush to enter inpatient treatment, and I endeavor to enjoy what freedom I have left. How has filming been? I do hope that you are doing my creation justice; I seem to recall a certain premiere date a certain American owes me. Please refrain from causing Kiku too many headaches, and at least try to listen to poor Ivan some of the time. He means well.


Mid November, Yellowstone National Park

Yo, Artie! I'm going to join you as soon as filming ends and we're going to explore all of England! You gotta show me some of your favourite places and I gotta find out for myself if British food is really as bad as everyone says, or if you just can't cook! (I bet it's both though XD) Filming's been pretty boring so far, but Kiku's been happy with the footage we have. There's this one scene that took a lot of shots (like 50 or something) to get down perfect, but I did it in the end! See? I'm being a good, honest man :P Remember, you need to uphold your end of the deal too! P.S: remember to take your meds. P.P.S: I haven't done anything to Braginski that he didn't deserve! P.P.P.S: I miss you xx


Late November, London

Wanker! My cooking is just fine! And how dare you insinuate that I lack the ability to care for my own health! I'll have you know, I have yet to forget a dose! (By accident, that is) And surely you know that I know little more of the city than you? Do remember that my childhood consisted of a rather white and dull room and bloody beeping machines. If your intention was to learn, you may as well hire a trained tour guide. And bullocks, that poor man. What ridiculous antics have you put him through this time?


Late November, Yellowstone National Park

Is that what you think of my plans? I'm hurt, Artie, I thought you had more faith in me than that! Filming's been super hectic since wow, can Kiku ever work. He makes us do 24 hour shifts until he's happy with everything he has and it's pretty tiring, even for a hero like myself. Once we all stayed up for 48 hours straight so he could get that cave scene perfect. It's great though! I don't want to spoil anything for you, but Kiku says I'm doing a better job than he could've ever imagined. Take that, Artie! And ew those tour guides are so snobby. You have to be my tour guide! I refuse to use anyone else! Gotta go now though, break is over! I swear to God that Kiku is running a slave machine here. I'm not complaining though!

I miss you xx


Early December, London

Bloody Americans, you. Truly it is a blessing in disguise that Kiku is able to restrain you. Please don't wreck too much havoc on the set. And give Kiku my regards, will you?

In case I am unable to contact you before the holidays, I wish you a very Merry Christmas, and for the love of God please do not eat yourself sick.


Mid December, Alfred's family farm

Sorry for the late response, Artie! Christmas is coming up so Kiku's really been pushing us since we wanted a Christmas break. What a workaholic, it's like he never takes a break! He's basically a robot with all that work. I've never seen him sit still for more than ten minutes at a time, and I even followed him around all day yesterday! Man, Kiku...what a guy. We're a quarter done filming now though and everyone is happy with what we've got so far! Can't wait until I can see you again! I miss you xx


Mid January, London

Dearest Alfred, have I ever told you how I despise the holidays? There are simply too many nosy people who really only want gossip in this family and I simply cannot stand them. Thankfully I was able to seek refuge with how tired I am. Do take your job seriously Alfred, I expect only the best for my creation. After all, even if I hate the book, it is still my story, my work. I trust you to do me justice, Alfred. You are so, very talented.


Late January, Yellowstone National Park

Woah there Artie, you okay? Have you seen your doctor yet? Should you be that tired?

The movie's doing great though! Kiku says we're basically three quarters done and we're finally getting breaks. Like real breaks long enough that I can take a quick nap or eat a full meal without worrying about time. And everyone says this is gonna be my year and I'm going to win an Oscar! Even Kiku! The Kiku Honda thinks I'm going to get an Oscar! A dream come true! See, nothing to worry about, we got everything all under control!

By the way, ha, ha, very funny. I can act just fine! I don't need no damn kids books to teach me to act! I bet I'm a better actor than the writer of the book ever was! He wishes he was as good as me!

Don't strain yourself worrying about unnecessary things, Artie! Make sure to listen to the doctors and get lots of rest! I miss you xx


Early February, London

Alfred, do concern yourself with more serious matters, such as your portrayal of Kiran. I do hope you have worked hard to bring the best of your ability to the cameras. It is far too soon for you to let the praise get into your head.

I'm glad you enjoyed my gift, though. I most certainly enjoyed myself choosing it out!

One last thing: I miss you too.


Mid February, Yellowstone National Park

Awww, Artie! I knew you missed me! But don't worry cuz I'll be with you again in six weeks! Working with Kiku is just so amazing though! He's just so talented and good with cameras I can't believe I'm actually working with him still! Elizaveta also says hi!

How have you been? I'm really sorry my letters have all been so short but Kiku really works us hard. (You already knew that though XD) How did your last appointment go? I hope you aren't in too much pain...and don't skip any doses!

I also forgot! Happy Valentine's! I hope you like the chocolate I got you! The little bird shapes are just so cute! (And sorry I couldn't help myself. But give me some credit, I only ate one!)

I miss you xx


Late February, London

Elizaveta is a dear, do give her my regards. I do hope your lack of news about Ivan does not mean you have slit his throat and stuffed his body in a wall. Ivan is good for you; he keeps you in line. There is a new cyst growing on my lung but there isn't much that can be done. Dr. Wang believes it to be benign, so don't worry your pretty little head.


Early March, Yellowstone National Park

Only one month until I can join you! We've finally finished filming the movie. There's only some extra filler scenes left to go. And Of course a couple scenes Kiku wants to redo because it wasn't good enough for him.

Braginski is on vacation and I hope his plane crashes a little. Nuff said.

Artie, I hope you aren't doing too badly. Remember, you can't leave me dateless for the grand premier!

I'm joining the producers meeting today so I'll have to cut this short. See you in a month!

I miss you xx


Mid March, London

I eagerly await your arrival then, Alfred, dear. I am doing as well as can be expected. Don't shirk on your duties to my story!


How tiring it is, to wait, and wait, and wait, and wait.

Patience truly is the most virtuous of humanities' traits.


Early April, London Heathrow Airport

Alfred stepped into the open human sea of London's Heathrow Airport. Having wrestled his bag from the carousel, he now stood in the middle of the crowd where he was jostled endlessly by impatient businessmen and eager travellers.

Standing on his toes, Alfred looked around, skimming the crowd for a sleek, blond head. Francis would be picking him up. Alastair was in Scotland, visiting extended family, and Arthur, for obvious reasons, wasn't permitted to drive anymore.

Before he boarded his flight in New York, Arthur had called Alfred, saying Francis would meet him at Heathrow, and that the frog would stand out like a sore thumb.

Sure enough, Francis was leaning rather suavely against a column mere metres away from Alfred, easily within hearing distance. But Francis said nothing, watching Alfred with a bemused expression, as Alfred scanned the crowded hall in the wrong direction.

A lady then rammed through the crowd with a cart full of luggage, and embarrassed teenagers scrambling behind her. In her trail was further chaos and a string of colourful words and angry muttering. Alfred himself, having been so immersed in his search for a certain Frenchman, had been oblivious to the commotions surrounding him until a pair of arms forcefully shoved Alfred into Francis' column.

Seconds after Alfred crashed into the column, the lady's cart rammed its way straight through where Alfred had been standing moments earlier. For Alfred's part, he was now unceremoniously flattened against a marble pillar, even though the crowd had begun to resume moving again.

For his part, Francis had simply stepped to the side when Alfred hurdled his way and was now standing right beside Alfred. Looking at the crowd, Francis said, "Bonjour, Alfred. It took you long enough to find me. Tell me, do you always make such a grand appearance?"

"Francis?"

"Yes, I believe that is my name." Leaning down, Francis picked up Alfred's fallen suitcases and propped them against Alfred's side.

"Uh..." Alfred wrapped his hand around the handle of his larger case. "Have you been here the entire time?"

Francis gave Alfred a wry smile. "You aren't the most aware person in the universe, are you? I suppose that can be overlooked, since you are quite a fine face for Arthur's story. Ah, the poor dear, he's been so restless lately. He's quick the prickly Englishman, isn't he?"

Francis grabbed Alfred's backpack off the ground and slung it over his shoulder. He headed for the exit, leaving Alfred scrambling to keep up with Francis' pace.

"Arthur's not that prickly," Alfred argued, huffing as he tried to navigate his massive suitcase and keep up with Francis. "I mean I guess he's not the easiest person to get along with, but he's a marshmallow at heart."

Though Alfred couldn't see, Francis arched an eyebrow. "Oh? A marshmallow? That is a rather interesting metaphor, Alfred."

"You can never go wrong with comparing things to food!" Alfred defend himself.

"Hmm, you may have a point. You are a good influence, Alfred. We expect great things from you."

Alfred opened his mouth to question what Francis meant, but was promptly cut off by a troop of students on a school trip. Francis did not notice, or did not care, leaving Alfred to fight his way through the pack before he lost sight of Francis.


Never will a door remain open forever, but never will it remain closed.

Doors are by definitions are gateway to the unknown. Embrace them.


Underneath a blanket, Arthur laid on the couch, staring into space.

He wasn't tired, yet, but absolutely elated. And conserving all his energy for Alfred because filming for the movie had finally ended.

And Arthur was shamelessly excited to reunite with Alfred.

When the doorbell rang, Arthur jumped off the couch, letting the blanket fall to a heap on the ground.

He swung open the door and threw himself at Alfred.

"Woah there," Alfred did not expect Arthur to have quite so much energy and had to take a step back from the force of Arthur's embrace. "Hey Artie," Alfred said, smiling gently and rubbing Arthur's back. Arthur was no better from when Alfred had last seen him, with the cancerous lumps still lining his jaw, but Arthur was no one worse and Alfred took that as a blessing in itself. "Looks like someone really missed me."

Arthur buried his face in the crook of Alfred's neck, inhaling the grassy scent of Alfred's cologne. His voice was muffled by Alfred's collarbone, "You have no idea."


((Angrily screams because chapter is too short))

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thank you so much for reading~~^^