Cadence of the Spring

-Chapter Two-

A/N: I'm happy to see that some people are interested in this! We'll start getting a little deeper into the plot now—hopefully I'll get a little more length on this for you guys. Enjoy!

For those of you wondering about Arthur's behavior in the beginning of this…it's due to the fact that people outside of the city will pose like such when they don't feel like sitting. Thus, crouching. I didn't want to confuse anyone, so this was really a just-in-case-I-did-so-on-accident note.

Also, the song Arthur is singing is from a poem I wrote a long time ago…I loved the titled and decided to use it for my story. Originally, the title was going to be Our Journey. I change things a lot, as you can tell.

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"I'll be going to a party for a few hours," Alfred says, while fastening his tie. It has been no more than a day since he has encountered Arthur, who now crouches, on the tips of his toes, hunched over on the edge of the living room's sofa, staring up at the large flat-screen television, which has its volume turned down to a tone the man can tolerate (his ears are sensitive, supposedly, to anything above 14).

"Parties," Arthur shakes his head, looking about the room. He hops from the sofa and onto the coffee table, landing with only a faint thud, crouched over once again like a cat or feral beast. "I don't see why you'd spend your night in such a way."

"Hey! Get off the damn table!" Alfred swats at Arthur until the man growls and hops back onto the sofa, crouching over himself in the very same manner he had before he'd jumped the gap. The Slayers receives a green glare from the man, but he scoffs, brushing a hand through his hair to sweep it back and behind his ears. "How I spend my nights is none of your business."

His guest jumps from the table, onto the floor, straightens up, and tugs at the collar of Alfred's clean-cut suit. "What is this you're wearing? Don't most people wear casual clothes to parties?"

"It's not a party like you'd see out on the streets." Alfred pushes Arthur away, until he has forced the slightly shorter male onto the sofa, getting him to at least sit properly on it. "This one's for people who have money."

"Oh, so it's an uptight party."

"Arthur!" Alfred snaps. "Seriously! Why are you asking me all these questions?!"

"Why don't you ask yourself these kinds of questions?" Arthur's tone is questioning, serious. He has turned the questions towards Alfred as he has always managed to do.

Alfred turns on his heel, grits his teeth in anger. Behind him, Arthur continues to stare right through him, into his empty soul, empty mind and empty heart. But Arthur seems to see something, as his gaze does not falter. He sees little planted seeds from his words last night, the seeds he planted with his prodding. A smirk appears on the guest's face. "You know, I don't need your stress right now. What I need is for you to cooperate."

"Fine. What do you need from me, Alfred?"

"I need you to lock the door after me. Only answer it if it's me at the door—you'll know because of the Voice Recognition button to the left of the door. Don't leave the apartment, and don't jump off of the balcony if you go out there, alright?"

Arthur glares at him. "I'm not stupid!"

Alfred's grin is malicious. "Sure."

"J-Just…just go!"

And Alfred does so. He slams the door, but does not walk down the hall until he hears a distinct click of the lock, smiles to himself for no reason at all, and strolls to Elevator Five, enjoys the short ride down the main lobby, and walks the long distance to the host's home. The streets are crowded, but the people of his city clear the way for such a man, the man that killed the beast yesterday and gave them wonderful reason to have a bonfire. Bonfires in this city are colorful, as they add chemicals to convince crowds to watch the beast burn, braving the putrid smell of a dying creature filled with toxins in order to stare dumbly at the pretty colors consuming blackened flesh.

Alfred himself had never been to a bonfire. He never had the time to watch his own handiwork being completed, as he was either sleeping or making his way to one such event as this. The owner of the mansion was an old friend, if you could call your friends that. Friend had become a word used to mean, "I speak with that person and force laughter at their bad jokes, simply because I need someone to make me look less lonely, and better my social status through them." It was pathetic, not that society really cared. If it didn't have their name on it, they would not bother with it.

It took nearly half an hour to reach the home of his so-called friend. When he has reached the top of the stairs, Alfred rings the doorbell. A rotund man in a similar suit answers, shakes his hand and forces a grin similar to Alfred's own, and gestures the slayer within. He is friends with Alfred, no doubt, because he is the savior of their city.

Most often Alfred spends his time surrounded by others. There is similar, forced, unhappy laughter throughout the crowds, grating on Alfred's nerves until he drinks down enough to relieve the heaviness pressing down on his skull to crush it open. Then he is truly able to laugh, if only because the alcohol makes things a little funnier. Anyone observing him would not see a difference between him sober and tipsy. He could be thankful for that – it would be a scandal, for the Slayer to get drunk when he has work to do in the morning!

Honestly, he feels as if he's the only one working.

In truth, he really is.

So Alfred tortures himself for a few hours, allows pretty women—whether single or not—to flirt with him and hang on his arm, and for men to tell jokes and be obligated to laugh along with them even if they make him cringe, and lets more women lead him to dance among others, switching partners so quickly his head spins, and to eat terrible food and give his compliments to the chef despite his distaste towards what he had swallowed previously.

People still crowd the lit-up streets as he walks home. They part for him, as usual. Nothing special. But what he does notice is the fact that his glowing face is not grinning down at him from one of the giant building-sized televisions. His image is replaced by a report on the television, and he reads the subtitles due to his inability to hear it over the reckless partying around him. They will not stop, even if he has paused to stare up at the news in abject horror.

"…A man is said to have somehow entered the city, whether through the beast's workings or his own…the man has been reported as having blond hair, green eyes…he is suspect to the recent string of murders in the city…officials stated that his reasoning may be the fact that Survivors are known for their aggressive behavior towards those that chose to live in the cities…if you know anything, please call…"

Alfred rushes home, bangs on the door, and when Arthur has opened it, he grabs his guest by the throat after kicking the door shut, rushes him against the wall, showing his gritted teeth in a display of true anger. Beneath his hand, Arthur's adam's apple jumps, his pulse thrums away, and the distinct sound of a man struggling for air comes to his ears. "What the hell do you think you're doing?! Just who the hell are you?!" He hisses, glares directly into those clear green eyes.

"It's—it's kind of difficult to," Arthur gasps, "to answer when you're ch-choking me!"

His hand slackens. Reluctantly, Alfred lets go of Arthur, who rubs at his neck and glares at him. "Are you going to answer me or not?! What the hell is going on?!"

"I've no clue what you're talking about."

He grabs Arthur's wrist and tugs him over to the television, flips through the channels until he reaches the station that plays the news. It continues to blare the information on this recent allegation, continues its loud, urgent tones to grab the attention of onlookers, who will pay it no mind anyhow. "This."

Arthur's mouth seems to have gone dry. His lips move over soundless words, as if someone has pressed the mute button on his vocal chords. Eventually he forces this out, "I-I haven't done a thing! What motivation do I have to commit such crimes?!" He stands and paces about like a caged animal. "I believe I may be sick…"

"Not on my floor, you won't," Alfred grabs Arthur's wrist and tugs him towards the balcony with the intent of giving him some fresh air. Once they stand outside and the din of nightlife is below them, floating up and into their ears, Alfred shuts the double-doors and turns to face Arthur, who leans over the iron railing to gaze at the congested streets and flashing lights. The building-sized television has gone back to showing advertisements, occasionally flashing Alfred's grinning face. "Tell me the truth." His tone is sharp. Behind his back, he holds a knife.

"What reasoning do I have to lie to you, Alfred?" Arthur turns—a miserable face, sick and tired and worn—to look at Alfred with pity. "I am not one of your kind. As much as you hate me, I do not lie – I would not ever lie, no matter whom it is I speak to. My kind is upfront and honest. We speak only the truth. We are true to our nature and true to ourselves. You have the choice of believing me and letting me live, or not trusting me and killing me here, right now. But what would the second option do for you? It would hollow you out further…or perhaps break you? Maybe you would jump from the balcony afterward. God knows I wouldn't blame you."

"What the hell are you talking about?!" Alfred glares, pulls the knife from behind his back. Slowly, he advances upon his guest. Arthur does not move, does not show any fear at all. "Y-You…you make no sense at all!"

"Because you don't know anything at all. Tell me. Do I make you think?" Arthur's mocking tone does not change his miserable expression. "Do I make you wonder about yourself? My words make no sense because this society has stripped meaning from you. Poor soul. Poor thing! I feel bad for you." His words have weight. They conjure up emotion and suffocate Alfred.

"Sto-st-stop…stop!" Alfred wheezes, shuts his eyes tight. With his hands, he covers his ears in desperation. "Shut up! I don't want to hear it! Shut up, please! Please!" Through the darkness he pulled up to shield himself, he feels calloused hands close around his shoulders. When he opens his eyes, Arthur stands in front of him. Miserable. But he tries nonetheless.

"Calm down, Alfred," his tone is gentle and soothing, like what he wishes his mother had sounded like instead of her harsh, cold voice and icy hands. Arthur's are warm and hold a form of affection in them. They melt the ice around his hollow heart and taps him deep, makes him shiver in a good way. Everything he feels is new, inviting. And he loves it all, savors it and remembers it and refuses to push the good feelings away. The knife clatters to the tiled floor beneath them. Suddenly he feels a weight leave his shoulders. "Why are you so upset? There's nothing here to get you so worked up."

Alfred shakes and leans forward, resting his forehead against Arthur's slim shoulder. The warmth there spreads slowly through his skin. Cold leaves his body, hot fills the void. "I don't know myself anymore." He slides to his knees and shakes like a lost child in an empty world. Arthur follows, still holds his shoulders.

"We can find you, though. Do you want my help? I can help you somehow. This…this shouldn't be forced on you. You have the right to think like a normal human being. Alfred," his tone is still so warm and still so loving. "Alfred, Dear God, how did you live this way for so long?!"

"I don't know." Alfred looks up at Arthur and frowns. "Why are you so upset?"

The smile he receives might as well be a frown. "This is not where I belong. I hate it here. This is…this is not my home." Arthur swallows with difficulty. "These people all make me sick. I just want to go home. But…that can't be helped right now. Come, Alfred. Let me teach you. You'll allow me this, at the very least, so that I may endure this torture with someone intelligent?"

He grabs Arthur's hand and allows himself to be lead inside, closing out the din of nightlife behind the double-doors. They sit down on the sofa in the living room; turn off the television, and turn to face one another. Arthur's legs are folded underneath himself, the backs of his thighs touching the backs of his calves. Alfred sits with his legs stretched out in front of himself. "What can you teach me, anyways?" Alfred's tone has taken on a hint of suspicion.

"At the very least, I can teach you of the world you have forgotten, and the people you think are enemies." Arthur smiles sorrowfully in response to his own words. "I will teach you of the Survivors and the world beyond the walls around your sheltered society of ignorance."

While the night was certainly long, it passed by quickly for Alfred. He did his best to soak in everything Arthur told him, tried to wrap his mind around it. At some point Arthur mentioned trees; tall, green and brown things that grew as the years passed, living on water and carbon dioxide, rooted to the ground. Apparently they were very sturdy. "But what are they there for?" Alfred asked.

"They make the air we breathe, and they shade us from the summer heat." Arthur replied, and continued on despite the confusion evident from Alfred's expression after his quite thorough—yet short—explanation of trees.

He then went on to explain the seasons. Alfred knew the difference between summer and winter—one was hot, and the other was cold. The government in the city would melt the snow and bring out giant heaters to keep the citizens warm during their nocturnal activities. Apparently there were more than just those two!

"In the fall, the leaves from the trees turn red, gold, brown…many colors. They fall off and collect on the ground. Children from villages will leave in the afternoon after dinner to play in them before they go to bed. When I was little, I would always collect them in giant piles and jump into them from the branches of trees. My mother had to pick the crumbled leaves from my hair when I returned," he chuckled at the memory, his expression falling even further after the small bit of happiness had been used.

"What about the others? What's it like out there during the others?"

"Calm down, calm down! I'll get to them in time," Arthur paused before continuing, "Winter is very cold. Most people don't venture out any more than they have to. But it's always very beautiful and silent. A comfortable, full silence. Everything's so white a pure. Most people don't enjoy winter because everything is either dead or hibernating. I've enjoyed it for quite some time, myself. My village hosts horse-drawn sleigh rides. They're perfect for couples, but I always end up going alone. It's not as enjoyable without someone else by your side to view the scenery.

"As for spring, it's my favorite. Right after winter, the snow melts and the world just seems to spring to life! It's all so beautiful. I love it. All the colors of the flowers just seem to pop. And the sounds! Oh, the sounds are splendid! The birds sing all day and the crickets chirp all night…lovely." Arthur sighs and shuts his eyes. "Reminds me of a song my mother used to sing…'Do you hear the cadence of the spring? Can you feel the forest sing? Is the sun up in the sky? Shining there for all to spy? Can you smell the flowers strive? Everything is so alive! Cadence of the spring. Shelter from winter's sting. Cadence of the spring. Men and women sing to the cadence of the spring!'" He smiled slightly in embarrassment after he had finished the small song.

Alfred smiled at him. "You guys sing songs like that? What do you use for background music?" He seemed amazed that anyone would sing such a tune.

"Drums, wooden flutes, guitars, things of that sort…other people will sing as well," Arthur narrowed his eyes. "We don't need computerized sound, or whatever nonsense you all use in the cities, in order to make good music. Everyone's voice is beautiful and accepted as such. There's no such law as singing songs only if your voice is record-worthy!"

"We don't have a law like that!" Alfred laughed with amusement. "See? You don't know our lifestyle, either!"

"Like I need to," Arthur growled in response.

Arthur then went on to tell Alfred what it was like to live outside the city. He told him about his village, how open their lifestyles were, how everyone was generally accepted with open arms, no matter their shape, size, age, color, or background. "Everyone has something to contribute to society. We spend our time with others and have fun while we work."

"And do you guys sleep at night?" Alfred's eyes became wide with his inquisition. This seemed very important to him.

"Yes. We all sleep at night. We thrive under the sun and tire under the moon. When the sun rises, so do we." Arthur watched his facial expression carefully. Alfred looked puzzled.

"Seriously? I thought that was just a rumor…"

"Of course we do! That's how people lived hundreds of years ago! It is how human beings are supposed to live." Arthur huffed. "It's how you live…sort of."

"Only I bet you guys do more humane things, like gathering."

"Sort of," Arthur did not seem happy as he continued; "only we do hunt the beasts. While you Slayers do it to save your city and make a bonfire out of it, we do it so that we don't deplete the natural resources. Natural game is hard to come by, with the voracious appetites of the beasts that roam around."

"Wait, wait, wait," Alfred held a hand up, eyes widened once again, "you mean, you guys hunt these things and eat them?! They're poisonous, though!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes, we do. Yes, every part of a beast is poisonous. However, you can cook the poison out of them…they just end up burnt to a crisp." He grimaced as if the flavor was imprinted on his taste buds permanently. "After a while you forget how terrible it tastes and take what you can get. Truly, the flavor is forgotten when you're thankful for a plentiful meal like a beast can provide."

"Hm. How's the food here compare, though?"

Arthur laughed quietly. "Twice as good, sometimes twice as bad. I'll give your people that—they can make decent food, from what I've tasted during my stay here." And the reminder of his entrapment within the city brings his spirits down to an all-time low. Alfred felt pity swirl in his heart, which he noted he would rather not feel again, if he could avoid it.

"You've barely even stayed here for long!"

"And already, it feels like hell," Arthur croaked, effectively silencing their conversation. "S-Sorry. God, do I hate it here, though. It's all so cold. How do you stand it?"

"I hadn't realized it was cold until you came along," and as if to demonstrate, he had his arms wrapped around himself. Arthur smiled apologetically. "Are you going to explain your people to me, or not?"

"Oh! Of course! I was just getting to that!" Arthur seemed to perk up, which tugged a corner of Alfred's lips up into a smirk. He had been happy to see that he could make the older man forget his woes, if just for a small parcel of time. "Survivors are not barbarians, unlike what the foolish people tell you that take care of the media here. We are people who did not want to let ourselves be taken over by the massive advancements in technology. We decided to live peacefully, happily, like regular people. Our decision came with the beasts' uprising. What dark times…dark times indeed. Tell me: what do you know of the beasts? What were you told about them? How are they supposedly made?"

Alfred took his time to think about this. "We were told that the beasts were created from the hatred of Survivors. They took form as viruses and latched onto the animals, took over their bodies and mutated them."

"Partially correct. It is through the fault of the city, however, that the beasts plague the both of us. When we broke away from the city, the government was not happy. They needed an inventive way to take care of us without sending their men out and thus startling your happy, ignorant city-going party-freaks. So they decided to create a virus that would spread through the living creatures, into the forests, and onto us in order to kill us off. Their experiments, once injected, were released outside the walls. These animals spread it to one another – what the government didn't anticipate was the mutation of these animals. They became so different from what they once were that it was no longer a disease, but a part of their genetics. Because of this, it would not spread to my people, thankfully.

"However, these beasts became a burden on both our societies, as you can see. It seems to make a lifestyle for you, though." Arthur laughed quietly.

"I seem to be the only one in town who does a thing about it. I don't even think the people realize what a threat they can be." Alfred sighed. "Damn it, this is all so unbelievable! I can't see this…how can you? How is it that things have gotten so out of hand?"

"It is when we lose track of the things that are important, when we lose faith in ourselves and trust so easily in people we barely know, becoming shallow and ignorant, that things become the way they are now. Alfred…I hope you have learned something from this all. You will allow me to continue teaching you, correct?" Arthur eyed him hopefully. He could not say no.

"I…guess. I don't know what to think of this all. It's just so much…"

"And I understand that," Arthur placed a hand on his shoulder in an awkward pat of reassurance. "Take your time, Alfred. God knows you'll need it at this point. God knows I have all the time in the world for you to take your time with a decision…so I just beg you to make the right now." Arthur looked outside. Dawn would rise in just three hours—Alfred would never understand how he could tell that just by looking at the horizon. "I believe it is time you went to bed. We've been up almost all night. Come on, now." Arthur helped Alfred to his feet (which, he did not put an honest effort forth on his behalf) and walked back to his host's bedroom with him, escorted into the bed with numerous complaints on his lips, muttered quietly with an angry lilt, while Alfred took the sofa in the room once again.

On his sofa, in his room, Alfred begins to dream of people playing drums and guitars, singing cheerful tunes in the swaying, wild greens and earthen tones of the world outside his own. Held within the walls are empty people, cold men and women, Arthur, and himself. He feels nothing but the fading warmth that his guest supplies to him with the rebirth of knowledge in his mind. It makes his spirit sing, soaring in the sky with the birds like he had dreamed of long ago—it is only children who can dream, as dreams are childish things in the world he grew up in. Outside, however, dreams are as free as people.

On his sofa, in his room, Alfred begins to hope that he may see such a world in his lifetime. The sun comes up and through the windows before he can dwell on his longings. This sun would awaken and sleep many times. It is in the blink of an eye that Alfred realizes it has been half a year—half a year of learning, half a year of listening to sweet quotes of Shakespeare and Socrates and Nabokov, half a year of poetry and literature, of music and beauty and filling that void with the lessons in the sweet, sometimes harsh, accent-heavy voice of Arthur Kirkland, half a year of living in worry for that man, who always seems so sad, so dead and lifeless and not even bothering to cover up his anguish at being trapped, so unlike the others…half a year of triumph and torture and awakening his sleeping mind.

"It was never dead," Arthur whispers one night upon Alfred's asking of how his awareness is coming along, if Arthur had given him new meaning like he had meant to do all along. "It was just sleeping. Hiding from you, really. It had no reason to be used up until now. But look at you now! It is sufficed to say that you are, indeed, an intelligent individual—to an extent." And Arthur had laughed. A hollow laugh that had no meaning, like Alfred had laughed so long ago, like everyone else…only far more miserable than he could remember. A constant awareness that he was miserable. Alfred worries and frets over Arthur in the many long months that Alfred believes he just fades in and out of. Nothing really happens. Nothing but Arthur's lyrical voice lulling him to sleep on the sofa, where he dreams so soundly until the sun wakes him up with its own glorious start. It is upon the third winter, deep in the throng of the biting cold northerners experience, that the events that change both their lives indefinitely, take place.

Alfred F. Jones would remember the day as the start of the warmth throughout his body, and the birth of his irrational fear of blizzards.