Chapter two is here! Hopefully this one is a little happier and a little less painful! Enjoy!
Time is a funny thing, Mattie decides one day as he stands in Arthur's kitchen, looking up at the calendar that hangs on the wall. Every day he wakes up and tells himself that this is the last day, that he never meant to stay this long and that he needs to go. Every day he checks under his bed to make sure his suitcase is still there. He's taken it out so many times that it hasn't even started to gather dust yet. He's opened it, he's even started packing once or twice. But then he hears Arthur calling him for dinner or Alfred tripping up the stairs and he slips the case back under his bed and promises himself: tomorrow. One hundred-odd tomorrows later he's still standing in Arthur's kitchen, and next tomorrow is his seventh birthday.
He shakes his head and looks away from the calendar; it's making him feel strange. As he thinks about these past three—almost four—months, he feels like he should want to go, to have been gone, but as he looks around the room that has become so familiar to him, that desire fades a little bit. Little things around him speak of a house that has now become a home. A mug of his very own on the counter next to Arthur's teapot. Three chairs at the table and a stepladder for reaching the cupboards when he dries the dishes. A mostly-finished crayon drawing of Kumajirou on the counter, two report-cards on the refrigerator, and a small pencil notch labelled "Matthew" on the inside of the doorway, only slightly lower than the one marked "Alfred."
Alfred. Mattie touches the goggles on the top of his head almost without thinking. He never takes them off, except when Arthur makes him, at bath time. They make him feel warm and brave inside. Al said they were for adventurers, for running away, but for some reason they make him want to stay. Sometimes he thinks that maybe that means he should take them off, but he doesn't want to. They remind him of Al. Al who is too loud and too clumsy and too impulsive but somehow reassuring. Al who promised to go with him when he went to find Francis. Al who would drop everything if Mattie said now was the time. Al who is always fighting with Arthur but loves him anyway, and would miss him if he left. Sometimes Mattie feels bad that he doesn't really care how Arthur would feel if he ran away, but on the days when it's all too much and the words "let's go" are on the tip of his tongue, he sees Al running to tell Arthur all about his day—whether Arthur is listening or not—and he swallows the words, straightens his goggles, and tells himself he can wait one more day.
Today, however, he knows he has to stay for Arthur. He knows that Arthur has been working hard so he can take the day off for his birthday tomorrow, and that he has a special day planned, and Mattie is excited for that, in spite of himself. He's also anxious for his birthday to come so that Al will stop shutting him out of their room. Al says he's working on Mattie's birthday present, and more often than not, Mattie opens the door only to have it slammed back in his face. That's why he's standing in the kitchen now, looking at the calendar, and wondering if he really wants to leave...
He shakes himself. Of course he wants to leave. He climbs up on his stool, pulls a blank piece of paper out from under the Kumajirou drawing, selects the prettiest blue crayon he has and begins to draw. After only a moment he takes the piece of paper and crumples it up. He pulls out another, but it follows its predecessor only seconds later. He tries again. Still dissatisfied, he scribbles violently across the whole page, then drops his head into his arms and bursts into tears.
"Hey Mattie, can you tell me how to spell your name again? I forg-What's wrong?"
Al appears in the kitchen doorway. He's got star stickers in his hair and mottled watercolor up to his elbows and all over his t-shirt. He looks like ground zero of an arts and crafts bomb, but when he sees Mattie's tears, he drops the marker in his hand and he's nothing but a little boy who can't bear to watch his brother cry. He rushes to clamber up onto the stool next to Mattie, where he sits perched on the edge of the seat, longing to wrap him in the biggest hug his little arms can manage, but knowing by now that Mattie doesn't want to be touched. So he hovers a few inches from the other boy's heaving shoulders and waits for his sobs to subside a little, even though each teary gasp twists his stomach and makes his chest ache.
"Mattie," he ventures finally.
The only response he gets is a shuddering sniffle.
"Mattie, what's wrong?"
Mattie lifts his head and scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands
"I can't—" he begins, tears springing anew, "I—I can't remember."
"Can't remember what?"
Mattie takes another shuddering breath, but can't find his voice.
"What can't you remember, Mattie?"
Mattie tries a moment more to control himself, but Al's gentle voice undoes him.
"I can't remember what Francis' eyes look like!" he wails, and breaks once more into brokenhearted sobbing.
Al bites his lip and blinks back the tears that threaten at the corners of his own eyes. No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to keep away Mattie's sadness for long. Last week it was the stray dog they saw in the park. The week before that it was the candy that Arthur had brought home for a treat—the same kind Francis used to buy, apparently. In the last weeks of school it was the book the teacher had read aloud where the little boy called his father "Papa." It makes Al angry, but there's nothing he can do. The whole world is full of things that make Mattie sad, and Al can't fight the whole world. Instead he reaches out with a tentative hand to touch Mattie's shoulder, and Mattie doesn't shake him off.
"It's okay Mattie," Al murmurs, "You'll see Francis again one day. We'll find him."
Mattie's tears cease with a small sharp gasp. He looks up suddenly at Al, and his eyes shine with more than tears; they burn with a manic desperation that Al doesn't understand but fears all the same.
"Today," he whispers, "Let's go now."
The words themselves are confident and decisive, but Mattie's voice shakes with an undercurrent of doubt and an overwhelming desire for direction. Even as he speaks, some part of him hopes that Al will forbid him to go. But Al hears only the words—he cannot hear Mattie's unspoken plea for his guidance—and he's paralyzed, standing and watching Mattie walk the edge of a cliff, unable to call him back, unaware that the other boy is just as terrified of falling as he is of losing him. He doesn't know what to say—if there is anything he can say—and when he looks at the goggles perched on top of Mattie's head, he remembers the promise he made on that first night and wonders if he even has the right to ask him to stay.
Okay. The word sits heavy on the tip of his tongue. Okay, let's go.
Time stands still, as if everything hinges on this one moment, and the whole of their tiny world is holding its breath, waiting.
"Alfred, did you remember to put your paints away this—Matthew! What happened?"
Arthur stands in the doorway and the moment has passed. The look of exhaustion overlaid with concern that seems always to haunt his face to one degree or another intensifies as he rushes to Mattie's side and begins to interrogate him. Mattie doesn't understand why after all these months, Arthur still asks him questions. It's not that he doesn't want to answer, but Arthur always asks so many at once that he gets confused and his voice stops working. He doesn't know what Arthur wants to hear, and he doesn't really trust that his guardian can help him anyway, so he forgoes speech and answers what questions he can with a nod or a shake of his head.
"Are you all right?" Nod. "Are you hurt?" Shake. "Do you feel sick?" Shake. "Did Alfred do something?" Vehement shake. "Then what's wrong?" Silence.
"Alfred what happened?"
Despite Mattie's assurance that Al didn't do anything, Arthur's voice still has a slightly accusatory ring to it. Al glowers and clenches his fists, and Mattie hunches his shoulders, folding in on himself a little bit. He wishes he could speak. He wishes he could make Arthur listen. If he could, maybe Al and Arthur wouldn't fight so much. He wonders if they fought like this before he came and made them worry.
"I was trying to help, Arthur," Al insists fiercely, "I was making it better."
Mattie doesn't know that he would go that far. Al hadn't exactly said anything for several minutes before Arthur arrived. But it works. Arthur sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
"I know you were," he assures Al wearily, resting a hand on the boy's head, "I'm sorry."
Al leans into his touch and the sudden peace hurts Mattie just as much as the strife did. Part of him longs to have Arthur's hand rest gently in his hair as it does in Al's, but he knows that if Arthur tried, he would shrink away from his touch, and Arthur wouldn't say anything, only withdraw his hand with another heavy sigh. He feels his eyes begin to swim with tears again and he looks away from the other two, casting around for a means of escape. His gaze falls on the Kumajirou drawing, and he picks it up, stifling his tears and turning back to face Arthur.
"I couldn't get my drawing of Kumajirou right."
He timidly offers the paper for Arthur's consideration. The glance Al throws him is too brief to see the mingled relief and concern it holds. Neither boy is particularly bothered by the relatively harmless lie. It's not the lie that hurts. Arthur takes the drawing with a smile that doesn't quite conceal the relief in his eyes.
"But this is a fine drawing, Matthew," he says with surprise, "What did you think was wrong with it?"
Mattie looks down at his hands. Nothing is wrong with that picture. He's actually quite proud of it.
"He didn't think he had gotten the eyes right." Al speaks up for him, but his voice comes out slightly strained.
Arthur gives him a curious look before examining the picture more closely.
"Well I think they're excellent eyes." His words are warm and reassuring. "They really make it look like Kumajirou. Would you let me hang it on the refrigerator?"
Mattie squeezes his eyes shut against the tears and hugs himself tightly. He can't look at Arthur, but he nods once. Arthur goes to rest his hand briefly on Mattie's head, as he did with Al, but thinks better of it, walks quickly across the room, and fixes the drawing to the refrigerator door with a magnet shaped like a maple leaf.
"There," he says, "We've got our very own art gallery."
Mattie can't quite smile, but he dries his eyes and nods. He's a little bit pleased, in spite of himself, to see his picture hanging there next to his straight-A report card.
It's there again, that strange feeling of being at home. The same feeling he gets when he touches the goggles on the top of his head or sees the lines on the door frame that mark the couple inches he's grown since his arrival. He remembers the times Francis was too busy or too sad to look at his pictures, the golden stars he used to miss getting on his schoolwork in kindergarten because Francis forgot to take him to school, the day Francis suddenly realized that Mattie had grown four or five inches and all his clothes were too small. Arthur never forgets to walk them to the bus stop. Arthur measures them every two weeks, and every two weeks says, "Well look how you've grown!" Arthur hangs Mattie's pictures on the refrigerator. Arthur works long hours every day in his office upstairs, but always comes down to make them dinner every night. Arthur has planned a special day for Mattie's birthday tomorrow, and at least for tomorrow, Mattie needs to stay.
"Alfred, if you haven't put away your paints, I need you to do that before dinner."
Al hops off his stool and the real world resumes its turning. Mattie shakes himself slightly and follows suit. He doesn't see the look Arthur sends after him as he follows Al to the stairs: a sad look, and a helpless one. True, Matthew seems to have calmed down; he isn't crying anymore. But Arthur suspects that this is due more to the boy's own self-control than anything he did. He can't breach the wall Matthew has put up around himself, and Matthew won't take it down. For Arthur, the picture on the refrigerator, the marks on the door frame—these things are so small, almost insignificant. He doesn't know their importance. If he did, perhaps he wouldn't be so hard on himself.
But he doesn't know. Nor does he hear Mattie's murmured words to Al as they climb the stairs together.
"I don't want to go today."
Al feels like the weight of the world has been lifted off of him, but he struggles not to show it as he replies: "That's good. Because if you went today, you wouldn't be able to get my awesome present!"
. . .
Mattie wakes suddenly the next morning when Al jumps on him, shouting, "It's your birthday! It's your birthday!" Apparently Al's normal hesitation to touch, shout at, or otherwise startle Mattie does not apply on birthdays.
"Wake up, wake up, wake up!"
Mattie rubs his eyes and rolls over.
"Wake up, wake up, wake up!"
"Al."
"Wake up, wake up, wake up!"
"Al, I'm awake."
"Wake up, wake up, wake up!"
"Please stop jumping on me," Mattie pleads, but to no avail.
"Wake up, wake up, wake u—"
"Alfred!"
Salvation arrives in the form of Arthur, standing in their bedroom doorway wearing a dressing gown and a stern look. He crosses the room and lifts Al bodily from on top of Mattie and sets him on the floor. He looks down at the miscreant for a long minute, but he can't quite find the words to scold him for his exuberance, so he turns instead to the lump of blanket that is Mattie.
"Are you all right, Matthew?"
Mattie pokes his head out from under the covers, where he took refuge the moment Arthur arrived.
"Yes," he says in a small voice.
Arthur sighs, and his hair is already so mussed from sleeping that when he runs his hand through it, it hardly makes a difference. His eyebrows look even bigger than usual, looming over eyes that squint in the morning light, and Mattie almost wants to laugh.
"All right then. Alfred, please apologize to Matthew for jumping on him, and then you can both come down for breakfast."
Apologies and forgiveness come easily, as neither party is actually hurt or offended, and Al rushes down the stairs to the kitchen, followed a few moments later by Mattie.
Arthur is standing at the island counter whisking pancake batter and looking more relaxed than he has in weeks—maybe even months. His face is free from its usual concerned frown, and without it, it's possible to distinguish his eyebrows from each other. He smiles at the boys in their oversized white t-shirts as they arrive. Al scampers right up to him and peers over the edge of the counter to see what he's doing. Mattie hangs back a little bit, watching from a distance, but the sound of butter sizzling in a pan on the stove and the smell of sausages cooking in another make him unimaginably happy. He pads to the refrigerator, and Arthur turns to see him holding a jug of maple syrup almost as big as his head with a hopeful look in his eyes.
Arthur laughs. "Yes, of course, Matthew, you can have maple syrup."
Al is partial to butter and jam on his pancakes, but when he found out that Mattie preferred maple syrup, he pestered and made a general hullabaloo until Arthur bought some. Mattie never asks Arthur for anything if he can help it. He never asks Al to ask for him either, and whenever Al goes to Arthur on his behalf, his stomach squirms and his face turns red. But he was so pleased when Arthur returned from the store with the syrup that he didn't mind so much that time.
Breakfast proceeds almost free of incident, except for when Alfred stands too close to Arthur while he's cooking the pancakes and he burns his nose peeking over the edge. Arthur scolds and laughs a little bit, Mattie runs for an ice pack, and Al scrunches his face and doesn't cry because he's brave.
After breakfast, Arthur sends them upstairs to get dressed. Al puts on his usual day-time oversized t-shirt and Mattie puts on shorts and his favorite red hoodie, even though it's now July. It's comfortable, and the long sleeves make him feel a bit safer, especially since Arthur told him he shouldn't bring Kumajirou out with them today. Al dons his aviator's cap, Mattie his goggles, and they tumble down the stairs to where Arthur is waiting with the car keys and a grocery tote full of unidentified objects which Al immediately began clamoring to see. Arthur lifts the bag out of reach and shepherds the boys out the door to the car. Al, just a few days shy of his own birthday, begs Arthur to let him sit in the front seat because after all he's almost eight and he's grown so much and please Arthur, just this once. Arthur only points firmly at the back seat where Mattie is already buckled up, and Al reluctantly clambers in.
"All right," Arthur says as he slips into the driver's seat, "It's going to be a bit of a drive, so before we get on the road, I've got something for Matthew. Don't worry, Alfred," he cuts off Al's indignant protest, "You can both enjoy it."
He hands Mattie a brightly wrapped present a little bigger and heavier than an average CD case. Mattie takes it and begins unwrapping it, carefully sliding his finger under each piece of tape and neatly unfolding each crease so as not to rip the paper. Next to him, Al bounces with impatience, but Mattie continues at the same meticulous pace until a perfect square of wrapping paper is sitting on the seat beside him as he examines his birthday gift.
"It's the first Harry Potter book on CD," Arthur explains, "I thought we could listen to it while we're in the car."
Mattie doesn't say anything. He can barely manage a shy smile. But his eyes are shining and he feels that same strange warmth in his chest that his goggles give him. He never told Arthur, of course, but he loves to read. Once when he was in kindergarten, the teacher read them The Velveteen Rabbit, and he loved it so much that she gave him a copy for his very own. He read it constantly—sometimes four or five times a day when Francis was sad and he was alone. He loved to tell himself, time and time again, the story of a shy little toy who was loved so much and so deeply that nothing bad could ever happen to him. He stopped reading it when Francis sent him back to the foster home—he couldn't quite bring himself to throw it away—and instead found a fanciful escape in The Wizard of Oz, given to him by a girl who had read it so many times she had memorized it. He still has both books; they are two of the few things that he brought with him when he came to live with Arthur. The Velveteen Rabbit is still sitting in the suitcase under his bed, but The Wizard of Oz he keeps under his pillow for the days when he needs an escape. A book as a gift means more to him than he can possibly say, and he feels as though his little heart might burst from the warmth flooding it. He doesn't even notice Al throw himself back in his seat and huff that, fine, he guesses he can listen to a story. Arthur takes the case and slips the first CD into the deck, and Mattie is enchanted from the very first words. He has always loved stories about magic, and when they arrive at their destination, he almost doesn't want to get out of the car, so anxious is he to find out who is sending Harry the mysterious magical letters. He hopes that whoever it is will take Harry away from his aunt and uncle and bring him to somebody who loves him…
"Come along, Matthew." Arthur is holding the car door open. "We can listen to more on the way home."
Matthew climbs from the car in a fantastic daze, only to be assailed by a flood of colors, sounds and smells. They're parallel parked with the ocean on their right and a bustling boardwalk on their left. Al is jumping up and down, running a few feet in one direction, then in another, whooping and laughing and shouting "Look Arthur, look! Look Arthur," until he almost trips over his t-shirt and decides that it may be safer to stand still. Arthur ignores him and squats down in front of Mattie so he's on eye level with him.
"I thought this would be a good place to celebrate your birthday. We can go to the beach, or there are a lot of fun things we can do on the boardwalk. Your choice."
Mattie looks to his left and right at his two options. The boardwalk is colorful and exciting, but it's also full of people. The beach is practically empty at noon on a Wednesday, the sand and the water stretch out further than his eye can see, and the rhythmic rush of the waves calls soothingly to him over the bustle of the street. He points shyly towards the ocean. Arthur smiles.
"Okay," he says.
He stands up and opens the car door, taking out the mysterious grocery tote.
"Your swimsuits are in here. We'll go to that bathhouse and you can change before we go down to the beach.
"Come on, Alfred, let's go," he calls, summoning the boy from where he is standing engrossed in watching a street vendor spin cotton candy.
"Coming," Al replies, taking one last, longing look at the giant pink cloud the vendor is handing to a pair of teenage girls before trotting back to join Mattie and Arthur and whispering to Mattie, "Where are we going?"
"To the beach," Mattie murmurs back.
Alfred gives a great whoop and tries to sprint ahead, but Arthur grabs his arm as he bolts past.
"Stay close, Alfred," he warns, holding onto him gently, but firmly, "There are a lot of people here, and I don't want you getting lost."
Al makes a face and wrestles free of Arthur's grip, but slows his pace to match that of his guardian. Mattie speeds up a little bit until he falls in step with them. Al is running his mouth at a mile a minute, telling Arthur the myriad of things he's somehow seen so far, but by now Mattie is good at tuning out Al's chatter. He's too entranced by the ocean to pay much attention anyway.
Mattie has never been to the ocean. Francis used to take him to the pool, and he thinks he vaguely remembers a day-trip to a nearby lake once during the summer he turned four, but the ocean is something totally different. It's bigger than anything he's ever seen in his life, and he thinks maybe he ought to be afraid of it, but somehow he isn't. He just wonders what makes the waves do that: how they roll in and out like that without anything pushing or pulling them. He wonders why they make such a loud, low rumble when they look so soft. He wonders if the water is cold or warm, and he wonders if it really tastes as salty as people say. He thinks it must be, because he's not sure whether he's tasting it or smelling it, but there seems to be salt just hanging in the air, which is somehow wet without being humid. A cool breeze whips his hair up and around and into his face—one particularly stubborn curl won't get out of his mouth—and the cry of the seagulls and the sparkle of sunlight on the waves combine with all his other thoughts and sensations to create something so much more impressive than anything he could have ever imagined. Then they arrive at the tiny bathhouse, the door to the men's room closes behind them with a heavy thunk, and Mattie has to fight the urge to rush back out and make sure that the ocean is still there, so different does the world seem inside four walls.
But the ocean is still there after the boys put on their swim trunks and Arthur has slathered them in sunscreen, and when they step back outside it seems—if possible—even more marvelous than before. It makes Mattie want to run towards it like nothing else in a very long time. Yet at the same time, he's afraid that when he gets there, it won't be as beautiful as it looks from far away. So while Al goes whooping down the path to the sand—ignoring Arthur's pleas that he wait and please for the love of God be careful—Mattie hangs back, biting his lip and looking nervously at Arthur, expecting him to scold and tell him to hurry up. Arthur doesn't.
"Alfred," he shouts, "You stay right there, or I will not buy you any cotton candy later!"
Now he'll have to buy Al cotton candy, which he had never planned on doing, but the threat works, and Al stands stock still on the edge of the sand while Arthur turns to Mattie.
"Are you all right?" he asks.
Mattie nods.
"Is it scary?" Shake. "Is it too loud?" Shake. "Do you still want to go down there?" Nod. "Have you ever been to the ocean before?" Shake.
Arthur smiles and nods in understanding, forming a silent ah with his mouth. "It can be a bit overwhelming your first time, even though it is beautiful. You'll love it though. I promise, it's every bit as wonderful as it seems."
He holds out his hand slightly, as if he hopes maybe Mattie will take it. Mattie looks down quickly, pretending he didn't see the gesture. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Arthur's hand drop back to his side; he doesn't dare look up to see the hurt on his face. He's never held Arthur's hand, not even on his first day of school, not even when Arthur took him to the crowded mall to buy new clothes. The thought of it makes his little hand burn in all the places Francis' hand used to cover it, reminding him that he's not meant to be here, and that Arthur is not meant to be his papa. So he sticks his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie and begins to walk with his head down, down the path to where Al is waiting, shifting impatiently from side to side.
The minute Arthur and Mattie's feet touch the sand, Al is off again, racing to edge of the water and running back, screaming with delight, the first time a wave tickles his toes.
"Do you want to pick a place to put down our things, Matthew?"
Arthur's voice is light and brisk, so Mattie feels it safe to meet his eyes once more when he decides on a spot a little ways down the beach that sits slightly in the shade of the dunes. He points to the space and Arthur nods his approval, so they trudge over the slippery ground into the shade, with Al tagging along behind, pestering Mattie to take off his hoodie and come in the water with him. Mattie looks to Arthur, who nods in encouragement, then turns to begin laying out a towel on the sand. No sooner has Arthur turned away than Al grabs Mattie's hand and starts running; Mattie doesn't even have the chance to remind him that he hasn't taken off his hoodie. Then they arrive at the waterline, and Mattie's a little bit glad he's still wearing it.
Al lets go of his hand the moment his own feet touch the water, and he splashes further out until he's knee deep. Mattie stands just shy of the point where the last wave began to flow backwards. Al is spinning around, chasing waves in and out, shrieking with surprise when an unexpectedly high wave hits and sprays up to his face, but it takes Mattie a moment to convince himself to step to where the incoming wavelets just barely creep over his toes. He inhales sharply at the water's first touch, but it's pleasantly cool and a little bit tickly, and the corners of his mouth begin to creep up into a smile. He steps forward a little more until the water washes all the way over his feet, and finally, his face splits into an almost-grin that morphs quickly into an expression of shock when the waves rush back out and he feels like the sand is disappearing from right underneath him. He almost falls, and he feels his heartbeat speed up and his breaths come quicker for a moment until more waves come and the sensation repeats each time. Slowly he realizes that he is still standing in the same spot, on firm ground, and he decides that that must just be what happens. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, letting the breeze and the waves rush over him. When he opens his eyes, Arthur is standing next to him.
"So what do you think?" Arthur asks, though Mattie can see in his eyes that he already knows the answer.
Mattie has no words. He can only smile and nod, even though it wasn't exactly a yes or no question.
"Do you want me to take your hoodie so you can go out where Alfred is?"
Mattie barely hesitates before nodding once more. He wriggles out of the sweatshirt and hands it to Arthur, then takes a step forward. And another. And another. The water is up to his knees, brushing the bottoms of his swim trunks. A few more steps and he's waist deep. He gasps reflexively as the water first hits his bare torso, but quite suddenly, the gasp turns into a laugh. It seems to touch his very soul, and he feels a tingling warmth shoot out from his chest to the tips of his fingers and toes, and suddenly he can't stop laughing. It's so wonderful, so alive, and he joins Al in his shrieks of joy as they watch the waves crash further out, sending spray to freckle their faces with salt. Mattie accidentally gets a mouthful of water and he splutters, scraping his tongue with his teeth; it's saltier than people say. Al laughs at the look on his face.
"Come on Mattie, let's race the waves!" he shouts, and off he goes.
Mattie doesn't often run, and he almost never shouts or makes any loud noise, but something about the waves and the wind fill him with a life and an energy that he can't contain, so he takes off after Arthur. The boys spend hours running back and forth on the shoreline, trying to keep ahead of the waves, and shrieking with laughter whenever the water catches their heels. Mattie can't remember the last time he felt so happy, and just for now, he doesn't try. He doesn't think, doesn't dwell on the times Francis used to toss him in the air and he would let out those same delighted shrieks. They are there, of course, in the back of his mind, but as long as he keeps his eye fixed on Al just a few steps ahead of him, and keeps thinking that maybe this time he'll catch up, they don't make him sad. Perhaps they will, later, but for now he is rapturously happy and incredibly alive. He can't explain it, but right now the past doesn't matter, and the future doesn't either. All that matters is the wind and the waves and the laughter and the happiness he feels right now.
Two PM seems to arrive in the blink of an eye, when Arthur stands up and calls them in from the water. They traipse back across the beach, limbs heavy and covered in sand, hair drying in odds clumps shaped by the saltwater. Arthur hands them each a towel from the bottom of his tote bag. Al eschews drying off in favor of walking around with the towel over his head, saying "Boo," and running into things, so that Arthur eventually has to grab him and rub him down himself. Mattie is glad to put his hoodie back on-the soft lining immediately warm against his skin-which has cooled quickly in the breeze, despite the sun. They re-pack their towels into the bag and begin the walk back up the path that runs through the dunes, going barefoot to let the sand rub off their feet. They reach the street, Arthur puts the bag with the towels back in the car and tells them to put their shoes back on so they can cross the street to the boardwalk and find somewhere to eat a late lunch.
"Cotton candy?" Al asks hopefully.
Arthur sighs. "Lunch first."
They decide on a little sandwich shop a few blocks down from where they parked. Arthur gets a lobster roll, Mattie and Al each get a grilled ham and cheese sandwich with fresh french fries. Mattie hasn't been so hungry in ages—not since he came to live with Arthur—but it's a good kind of hungry, the kind that makes everything taste like the best thing he's ever eaten, not the kind that makes his stomach feel small and achey. Even Al is too hungry to chatter much, and they pass a fairly quiet half hour eating at a picnic table outside the shop. Once fed, however, Al is brimming with energy again and anxious to explore the bustling boardwalk. He's been looking longingly towards the cotton candy vendor ever since they sat down, and Arthur sighs once more and walks them over. He buys Al the smallest size he can, knowing that in about an hour he will have a sugar-high Alfred on his hands and it will be no one's fault but his own.
"Do you want some, Matthew?" he asks.
Mattie shakes his head. Francis bought him cotton candy once at a fair and it got all over his face made him feel sticky for hours.
"Is there something else you would like?"
Nothing in the immediate vicinity catches his eye, so Mattie only shrugs.
"All right," Arthur says, "Just tell me if you see anything."
Mattie nods and tucks his hands into his hoodie's front pocket as they stroll down the boardwalk. Al is practically skipping, always a little bit ahead of them. He looks like he's trying to see in all directions at once, and at least once every couple seconds, he extends a sugary pink finger and exclaims, "Look!" Mattie stays close to Arthur. He's beginning to be drowsy. It's been a long day so far, and the hours in the ocean plus a warm, filling lunch make him want to curl up and take a nap. He doesn't want to bother Arthur or ruin Al's fun, however, so he tries the best he can to fight his drooping eyelids and keep up with Arthur. He's a little bit behind now, but he can still them. Then his eyes shut for a split second too long and he stumbles, and when he picks himself up again, a crowd of teenagers has passed in front of him and Arthur is nowhere to be seen.
He is wide awake now. Some part of him knows that they can't be too far away, and that if he keeps walking down the boardwalk, he will probably catch up to them, but he's alone, surrounded by strangers, and his brain is shutting down, leaving him paralyzed with a rising sense of panic. He spins around, the rational part of his brain no longer able to point out that Arthur is most certainly not behind him. Strangers pass by like he's invisible. He knows that he ought to call out, or perhaps start to cry—then maybe someone will notice him and tell him what to do—but his anxiety stubbornly rebels against causing any sort of scene. So he clenches his fists and tries to take deep breaths. Maybe if he just stays here, they will come back and find him.
Or maybe they won't.
His aloneness is suffocating him. He tries to tell himself that Arthur would never forget him, but this crowded isolation is all too familiar.
There were days when Francis would forget to come out and make dinner or buy food or do laundry. There were days when Francis would forget that Mattie had to go to school. But none of these compared to the one terrifying day when Francis forgot that Mattie needed to be picked up from school. He stood by himself in the mass of milling elementary-schoolers, watching contentedly for Francis' car. It never came. Mattie was sitting hugging himself on the steps of the school, long after all the other children had gone, when a teacher finally found him, asked him where he lived and took him home. The teacher went inside to talk to Francis. They talked for a long time, and when they came out again, the teacher looked very somber and Francis looked like he had been crying. It wasn't long after that when Francis called the foster home.
Mattie tries in vain to tell himself that Arthur isn't like that, but he can't stop imagining the boardwalk empty and dark, and himself sitting alone on the steps of the sandwich shop. And there are no teachers here. Nobody to take him home. Maybe he'll have to stay here forever. Maybe he'll have to steal sandwiches and cotton candy. Maybe someone will find him and send him back to the foster home.
Maybe Arthur left him on purpose.
Maybe he didn't want Mattie anymore. Just like Francis hadn't wanted him. It's all perfectly, terribly clear to him now. He knew this would happen. Why hadn't he run sooner?
I might as well run now.
He has no idea where he's going or what he's going to do next, but he was always going to end up here anyway. Alone, with nothing much to his name except the clothes on his back. He wishes he had Kumajirou with him, but it's too late for that now. He spins around so his back is to the ocean, looking for a road that leads inland. He doesn't know much, but he knows that Francis lives far away from the water, and he supposes that's as good a place as any to start. Once he gets away from the ocean he can figure out his next step.
He takes a deep breath. Here he goes…
"MATTIE?!"
A shrill, panicked voice cuts through the crowds on the boardwalk and the fog of desperation in Mattie's mind. He whips around.
"Alfred?"
His exclamation isn't loud enough to be heard over the clamor, but it doesn't matter, because moments later, two familiar figures appear out of the sea of people. Al bursts through first. There are tears stains on his cheeks and panic in his eyes. Arthur is right on his heels, striding quickly, not quite running, swinging his head left and right, scanning the crowds for a small boy in a red hoodie.
"MATTIE!"
Al's cry of relief is practically a scream. He sprints to Mattie and almost tackles him to the ground.
"I thought you had run away without me," he sobs quietly into Mattie's ear.
"Matthew."
Arthur's voice is faint, but no less relieved. His face is wan, and the concern and dark circles under his eyes that had vanished this morning are back in full force, but to Mattie he appears like a savior. Mattie shakes off the distraught Alfred and runs straight at Arthur. For the first time in almost-four months, he throws his arms around Arthur and buries his face in his shirt, muffling the gasping sobs of relief that he simply can't hold back. He doesn't see the tears that spring to his guardian's eyes, but he feels his warm, strong arms around him, and for the first time in forever, he feels completely safe. Then Alfred wraps his arms around him from behind, and Mattie feels warm tears begin to seep through the back of his hoodie, but he doesn't mind. They came back for him, and that's all that matters.
Arthur blinks away his tears before the boys can see them, then squats down, holding Mattie gently in front of him as though afraid he might break to pieces in his hands.
"Are you all right, Matthew?"
Mattie sniffles and nods.
"What happened?"
Mattie looks down and scuffs his feet on the ground. He feels a bit silly now, and he doesn't want to explain that he fell behind because he almost fell asleep while walking. He chews his lip, waiting for Arthur to ask another question, to start guessing what happened. But when he looks back up, Arthur is looking levelly into his eyes, waiting, but not impatiently. Matthew fixes his gaze on the ground again.
"I was getting really tired and then I tripped and some people walked in front of me," he murmurs, just loud enough so Arthur won't have to ask him to repeat himself.
Arthur doesn't ask him any more questions. He doesn't ask why Mattie didn't just run after them, or why he didn't call for help. He just gathers him against his chest and holds him tightly for a minute.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, "I should have been paying attention."
Mattie doesn't respond, but he wipes his eyes and smiles at Arthur as best he can.
"Can we go home now?" he asks timidly. Home.
Arthur smiles back. "Of course we can."
He stands up, putting a hand on either boy's head. Al shakes it off and begins walking, leading them back the way they came, but Mattie lets it linger a moment until Arthur sighs and begins following Al down the boardwalk. Mattie stands stock still for a minute before rushing forward and slipping his hand into Arthur's. Neither man nor boy looks at the other, but one smiles to the sky and another to the ground as they make their way homeward.
. . .
The drive back is a quiet one. Mattie sleeps the whole way, undisturbed by Al's low chatter which Arthur indulges but doesn't respond to. He only stirs when they arrive and Arthur shakes him awake. Arthur sends them to take their baths once they get inside, and when they come downstairs again, there's soup simmering on the stove and a cake in the oven.
Dinner proceeds as quietly as the day's previous meals. They do the dishes—Al washes, Mattie dries—while Arthur drizzles a chocolate glaze over the freshly baked cake. Al belts an off-key "happy birthday"; Arthur snaps a few pictures of Mattie sitting shyly with his seven-candled cake.
"Make a wish," Al prompts, once the song is finished, but Mattie doesn't. He knows what he would have wished for a few days ago—a few hours ago, even—but right now there's nothing he can think of. Maybe he'll have that same old wish again tomorrow, maybe not. Right now he really just wants cake.
After cake, they gather in the sitting room. Al is still talking animatedly—nobody knows what about anymore—Arthur is in his armchair sipping tea, and Mattie is sprawled on the floor with crayons, drawing pictures of the ocean. He's just putting the finishing touches on the sky (some clouds and a seagull), when Al sits bolt upright and exclaims, "I almost forgot!"
Mattie looks curiously up at him and Arthur asks him what he forgot.
"Mattie's present!" Al replies, and tears off.
Mattie can hear him thumping loudly up the stairs—one particularly loud thump occurs when he tries to take two steps at a time and trips—then rustling around in their room, and finally barreling back down the stairs even fast than he went up. Al returns to the sitting room carrying a large piece of poster board, which he hands to Mattie. He sits in breathless anticipation while Mattie examines his gift.
It's covered in star stickers—Al's signature decoration. In large multicolored letters it reads: "HAPPY BIRTHDAY MATTHEW"—he'd checked the spelling with Arthur this time. And underneath the words, in vivid watercolors, is a fairly intricate picture. There's a house in the background, along with the sun and the moon. Clouds and grass complete the nature scape, and in the front stand three stick figures—one big, two little. The big one—labelled "Arthur"—is wearing a clumsily-drawn tie and has eyebrows bigger than the green-dot eyes underneath them. The small one that's supposed to be Al has an odd, flat brown hat on his head, while the Mattie-figure has what appear to be two giant black O's resting in his hair; Mattie assumes those are meant to be his goggles. In the bottom right corner, in tiny, messy print, it says, "Love, Al."
Mattie smiles. "Thank you, Al," he whispers, eyes shining.
Al grins in reply. "I told you it was an awesome present!"
Mattie doesn't respond, but he takes the poster and scampers to the kitchen, where he fixes it to the refrigerator with a star-shaped magnet, to match the stars in the picture. He turns to see Al and Arthur both standing in the doorway. Arthur has an odd look on his face, like he can't decide whether to laugh or cry, and Al crosses his arms proudly over his chest, pleased that his picture is also in their homemade art gallery. Mattie doesn't say anything, but walks between them back to the sitting room.
"So was this the best birthday ever?"
Al asks as if he already knows the answer, so Mattie doesn't say anything. He lets Al thinks what he will, but the fact is that it might just be the best birthday he can remember. Even the getting lost part, because they found him again.
"You know what would have made it even better?" Nobody answers, but Al keeps going anyway. "There was a carnival at the boardwalk with lots of rides and games. That would have been the best!"
Arthur laughs. "Well, maybe next year," he says lightly.
"Next year," Al echoes, "We'll go for your birthday next year, Mattie, right?"
Next year. Next year is far away and frightening. But Al wants him to stay. And maybe Arthur wants him after all. Mattie sticks to his habit of remaining silent, but as he begins to yawn and rub his eyes, he gets up from his spot on the floor, walks over to where Arthur is sitting, and crawls up onto his lap. A look of total shock crosses Arthur's face for just a moment, before it relaxes into a contented smile. He adjusts his position so that Mattie can be more comfortable, and he rests his hand softly on Mattie's head. When the boy doesn't pull away, he begins to run his fingers tenderly through his hair. A whisper of a sigh escapes Mattie's lips as he falls asleep.
A year is a long time. But for tonight, this is enough. For all of them.
A/N: YAY FOR FLUFF! Basically none of this chapter was meant to happen, so I'm not sure what I think. I think it slows the pace of the story, but not necessarily in a bad way, because the rest of the outline in my head is ANGST CENTRAL. So this was kind of the domestic fluff calm before the storm.
For those of you who picked up on the history I was interpreting in Chapter 1, I just want to say that I am aware of it and it will factor more heavily into later chapters. Human timelines and historical timelines are hard to reconcile, so I'll be playing a bit fast-and-loose with history, but it will be chronological and as accurate as I can make it.
Anyways, I really hope you enjoy this latest installment. Please read, review, and feel free to ask questions and/or give suggestions and constructive criticism.
Cheers,
Vic
