A/N: Sorry I took so long to update... I normally aim for at least once a week around over the weekend... Don't forget to review c:
"Waiting for your call, I'm sick
Call I'm angry,
Call I'm desperate for your voice
Listening to the song we used to sing."
-Your Call, Secondhand Serenade
Jump
Chapter two
He stood by the post office box.
The air shifted around him as people pushed past him in lights of crystal and diamonds. The sky fell onto his shoulders and he couldn't move; not an inch. Arthur rubbed the envelope in his hands, and with blazing eyes he glanced to his left—to his right. He turned around.
I couldn't do it again.
Alfred stood in front of the mirror.
He stretched his lips into a smile.
Farther. Farther.
What was different today than yesterday?
He laughed.
It sounded the same to him.
He gripped the sink, head down. His hair was messed up like a damp dog, and his eyes were worn out and drenched with venomous fatigue. He wept softly and silently. He was slipping upon thin ice and drowning; he was falling underneath nothing and he couldn't find his way back up.
How he could possibly feel the pain of a million daggers in his heart, and feel so empty at the same time he will never know. How his soul would sob uncontrollably and his shoulders would shake—he would cry and the tears would never be enough. How could he get rid of such immense emotional pain that it makes his chest cave in and he collapses with no control? How could he be like this?
But no—he mustn't think—Shut up, mind! He tore his shirt off and shed his clothes. He stepped into the shower. He turned on the water. He stood alone.
He counted.
One… Two… Three.
Alfred grinned radiantly.
"I have those photocopies you asked for," he said as he approached Mr. Kirkland's desk with an indistinguishable caution.
"Thank you," he responded plainly with his features weighted and sunken. "Oh, and wait here a moment," he added as Alfred turned to leave.
He walked farther into the office slowly, with a sort of wariness in his eyes.
"Take a seat there— I'll be there in a minute. I have to print this out."
And with that, Arthur had pressed a last button on his keyboard and walked to the copying room. Alfred was left alone in the office, sitting in one of two chairs with a quaint table between them. There was no clean whistle through the air to calm his nerves, and he tapped his fingers.
Arthur was taking his time with printing the—who cares what it is?—out. Alfred's mind had broken chains and started to run a hundred kilometers— up two trees and jump from cliffs. His teeth started to chatter and he wished to run away and hide himself so he could scream. What was going on? Why did Arthur ask to see him? Why did he see him yesterday as well? How could he see through his smile? What—
"Read this," Alfred hadn't noticed Arthur had returned.
Alfred's panicked eyes shot up and calmed in the slighted when he was returned with tranquil green forests. He looked back down, his heart rate slowing back to normal. In front of him was a piece of paper.
"What's this?" he asked, looking up curiously.
"A short story. Read it," he requested—more like commanded—again.
Alfred nodded, picking up the paper to bring it closer to his eyes. About a paragraph through, he looked up again.
"Am I supposed to be doing anything? Proofread?" he asked.
Arthur shook his head. "Simply read it. Unless you see something amiss?"
Alfred shook his head quickly, "Nothing," he said, and with a sigh, he continued.
It was about a hero.
A man who sacrificed everything in his life—even his own happiness—for the happiness and well-doing of others. The man wore a mask, and the world knew him only by that mask. Without the mask, he felt unneeded. During one part, the hero took off his mask one day and was mugged, left in critical condition in the hospital. He had no family to visit him and the world started to get worse in crime without their hero.
"Finished?" Arthur asked patiently.
Alfred nodded. "It just… Ends like this?"
Arthur laughed. "Of course not. That's the start of the novella. "
Alfred stood. "I see. Good luck on the rest. You're a wonderful writer. Is there anything else you need?"
"Oh you're not done. Sit back down," Arthur said before Alfred could leave.
Alfred sat down again warily. He smiled and nodded, waiting for further instruction. He didn't understand what Arthur was doing. He'd been working in this building for nearly three years; why did he start doing this just now? He'd always known him as the grumpy worker that hardly gave him the time of day. With such a drastic character change he didn't know what to think.
Arthur put the same story back in front of him.
"Describe the main character," he requested, sitting back in his chair.
Alfred sighed, looking back at the story for but a second and back up. "Well, he's the hero. Everyone loves him. What else is there?"
Arthur sat forward with his elbows on his knees. "Oh there's a lot more than that. A hero is a status. What's beneath the hero? Describe him for me. What does he do when he gets home, what's beneath the mask, how does he like his sandwiches made?"
Alfred nearly laughed at the last part, though seeing Arthur's neutral expression, he decided to keep it to himself.
"He… Always wears a mask."
"Yes, that much was clear in the story," Arthur nodded with feigned patience.
"No I mean, if he always wears a mask, he's afraid of people seeing who he is."
Arthur smiled and sat back again, "here we go," he said softly and gestured for him to continue.
"He sacrifices his own happiness for others because he doesn't think he's worth the happiness. Maybe he did something long ago he regrets."
"Doing something so unforgivable he doesn't deserve happiness, that would mean he doesn't deserve to be loved either, wouldn't it?" Arthur said.
Alfred looked up at him and for a moment, feeling something pinch his heart.
"If he believes that, he doesn't deserve it. If you can't love yourself, you can't love others," Arthur continued, "This hero is as good as dead with a dead soul."
Alfred's posture stiffened and he looked back down at the story with a fire falling from his eyes—and the lights seemed darker, seemed dimmer. They choked him.
"If he hates himself he doesn't feel the need to feed himself," Alfred spoke as if he had a noose around his neck. "He's most likely tried starving himself. He probably shows everyone how happy he is. It probably makes him sick."
"The character here is obviously pathetic. He's weak," Arthur pointed out. "If he can't save himself, what's he doing trying to save others?"
Alfred clenched his fists, and slowly his smile fell unbeknownst to him.
Arthur smiled.
"Does he think so lowly of them and that they can't see through his mask?"
"Of course not!" Alfred shouted before remembering his place. "The character probably just wants to save people since he knows his own life is… useless…"
"And again," Arthur interrupted, "If he does something so stupid, he does deserve to die. If he attempts suicide, kill him. Make it easier."
"If people are telling him to kill himself it isn't his fault if he tries!" Alfred shouted, his knuckles white and he stared a hole in the table.
Arthur tilted his head with the ghost of a smile on his face. "I never said people told him to kill himself."
Alfred looked up, suddenly remembering they were talking about the exposition to a novella.
"H-Hypothetically," he corrected himself. "Maybe that's the reason he tried."
Arthur stood, picking up the story. "Thank you for your time, Alfred," he said and walked back to his desk.
Alfred stood, somewhat stumbling as he balanced. His head was running in all directions as he tried to collect the information that was just thrown at him.
"Mr. Kirkland, what was the point of this?" he asked in a frustrated tone.
Arthur looked behind him to see Alfred.
"An experiment," he said simply. Alfred was still frozen in place when he spoke again. "I don't know who's telling you these things, but it's never the answer. If ten people told you to end it, and one person told you not to who would you listen to?"
Alfred felt his breath running short. Shorter, shorter, and he was torn between running and screaming. Arthur spoke.
"Don't."
If the world was glass it would have broken by now—cracked at the least. And even in the dense, sturdy material it was made of, it was growing weary—it was crumbling. Alfred felt his feet heavier than they'd been in years as he ran. He didn't care where he was going. He didn't look as he crossed the street.
He was well out of the city and he collapsed by a bridge. His mind was racing. This man was driving him crazy.
The riverbed was damp and cold and he found himself comforted by it. Only but the chilly air rushed past his ears and only but the muddy bay seeped between his toes. His chest rose and fell radically and he closed his eyes.
One of these days, he wished he could live without any worries.
He jumped to the clouds when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Arthur sounded as out of breath as he was as he spoke; "Why did you run like that?" he paused to look around. "Why here?"
Alfred looked up with scared eyes, inching away from him. He didn't want to be touched. He didn't want to be spoken to. He didn't want… Whatever Arthur was doing to him.
"Why are you here? Go away," Alfred said begrudgingly.
"No."
A pause.
"I want to help you," it was Arthur who spoke again.
"I don't need helping," Alfred said with stony eyes to the river.
The chilly wind blew hair to Alfred's eyes and he had trouble seeing. It was nearing dusk. The clouds shrouded them from light and from darkness. They were nowhere, yet they were everywhere. Cold, damp mud was stuck between Alfred's fingers; he felt Arthur sit down behind him.
"I think you do," Arthur said carefully. "How long have people believed your smiles?"
Alfred flinched. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"A smile is one that reaches the eyes."
"Says you. You never smile," Alfred retorted.
"I never lie," Arthur countered.
Alfred quieted. Stars were hung like Christmas tree ordainments as the sky darkened.
"And I do smile," Arthur admitted quietly, green irises lifting to the moon. "Not as often, but isn't it the fact that I don't smile much make the times I do that much more special?"
Once again, Alfred had no words.
Silence was stealthily creeping under the sheets of their barriers and a wall fell with cracked bricks. Alfred lifted his knees, hugging them to his body, not minding the mud that got on his arms. He turned slightly towards Arthur.
"How do you know though?" Alfred's question was soft as a child's lullaby.
Arthur turned to look at him. "I told you before that a smile is one that reaches the eyes. As I writer, I know much about body language. Your body language never corresponds with your smile, therefor, it's fake."
Alfred was quiet; a harmony to the winds. Arthur moved in front of him this time, and for once he saw the loneliness lurking in Alfred's dull, blue eyes. He lifted a finger and it grazed the skin beside his eye.
"There would be crinkles… here," he said slowly and the finger moved, "and a crease here." Arthur looked up at Alfred, their hearts beating as one and with each touch nerves were settled. "Your eyes would light up," he continued. His voice barely above a whisper as he finished; "You would smile."
They had started returning by midnight. Both a shivering, muddied mess.
They were both on Alfred's doorstep and Arthur shoved Alfred's arm with feigned irritation. "It's your fault I'm all dirty and cold and wet now. Let me in to clean up."
"Hey, never said you had to follow me," Alfred shook his head, his lips lifting in the smallest amount before dropping again. He took a key and jiggled it in the doorknob before opening the door.
"I'm coming in nonetheless," Arthur huffed and stepped in after him.
"And here I was under the impression you had such great manners," Alfred teased.
Arthur sent a forced glare his way before walking off in search of the bathroom, not wanting to ask.
"The third door down that hall!" Alfred called after him before he got too far.
"I didn't need your help!" came the faint retort.
Alfred laughed to himself, sending a last amused glance down the empty hall. He heard the running of water and the slap of wet clothes on the tile floor. His eyes dropped lower as he recalled the night. He walked to the mirror above the sink in the kitchen.
He looked in the reflection.
"Crinkles… here?" Alfred raised a hand to his eyes, his voice not loud enough for even he himself to hear. "A crease…" his hand dropped.
Lights.