Arthur is getting used to darkness. To barely being able to see anything. He likes seeing glimpses of blue though, when Alfred dopes him up on pain medicine. Palliative care is quite effective. Arthur is getting used to being alone, and when Alfred comes in with breakfast and a story to tell, he greets him.
"There's no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate. Nobody ever finds the one." It is a moody sigh, but Alfred likes it, likes the way Arthur is so British and partly delirious but it fits him like a glove and he plays it like a role.
"Are you telling me I'm going to be alone forever?" He pretends to grump, hoping more words of wisdom reach him. They do.
"The city dumps fill/the junkyards fill/the madhouses fill/the hospitals fill/the graveyards fill/nothing else fills." Green eyes close again, sucking last seconds of sleep, gathering his energy for a proper conversation with Alfred. He wants to do this, to hold on as long as possible because now he has a charming doctor and it seems so lustrously juvenile and cliché and he just has to try it.
"Well, anything you'd like to do today? Your family is visiting tonight, to check up on you."
"Then will they be going back to England? I'm fully sick of them," He tries not to feel like a kid. But he was a kid.
"I, I think they'll stick around for a bit, if you want them too," Dr. Jones reminds himself that this is just a boy, of course he hates his parents. Who hasn't?
"It is not childish hate, if that is what you're assuming," Arthur knows that is what his doctor thinks it is. And maybe, deep down, it is a little bit. But they weren't the nicest people. His mother too spineless, his father too angry, his siblings too overbearing and cruel. One would think that knowing you aren't going to live a full life would elect pity from others. But it doesn't, not really at least. Only silly pity at wrong, useless moments.
"I wasn't assuming that, but you'll want them around. Or else you'll just have to spend all day with me," Alfred is grinning again, but he's still too far away and Arthur can hardly see anymore anyway. He feels it instead, and that is almost better than any sight in the world.
"I shall schedule their deportation at once," Arthur declares. Then, his brain slacks, and he can feel his body move, and he's quite embarrassed but he can't help it, so he just waits until things are normal again.
Alfred understands, and doesn't think less of him. There are rules to courting Arthur. The first is that Arthur must always remain in his special chair. It's almost like a wheel chair, but Arthur likes to think he can still walk so it isn't that. The second is that they mustn't talk about it. They see the line they've crossed- they can feel it, taste it, know that it has been passed, but they don't do anything. Arthur is only seventeen. He only has a few months to live. A few weeks until he can't see at all.
"Did you know," Arthur says, causing Alfred's attention to return back to him instead of some blasted T.V. show that Arthur can't even see, not to mention want to see, "I cannot write anymore?"
"No. You're so smart, it's hard to think 'bout that stuff." Dr. Jones hasn't been sleeping well. His friends have noticed; he gets sloppy sometimes. Once, Arthur was in pain for hours because he forgot to give him the special pill, the one that made all feelings go away. He wished he could take one of those. Because now he was feeling all these things in his stomach, and really, he wanted to roll Arthur outside and take him to a movie, grab him a burger, go see an art exhibit.
That doesn't happen. They spend days cramped up inside, talking about anything Arthur can manage, him quoting a few poems whenever a situation deems it appropriate. His parents left three days ago. This marks his first week at the hospice. He's starting to believe in love at first sight.
"Alfred, please kiss me already. I don't want to be blind when it first happens." It is snappish and rude, and from the sofa, Alfred is stuttering, looking around to see if any nurses, physicians, or volunteers had heard.
"Don't go around blurting things like that!" It's cold outside, already turning to winter. Arthur imagines himself dying in the spring. He savours the irony before turning back to the matter at hand.
"I'm dying, pity me." His upper lip sticks out, touching the soft, ivory skin of his upper chin. Alfred is taken by this delightful boy. He doesn't pity him, he adores him.
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead," Arthur whispers, seeing Alfred get up to come and loom over him. He squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly nervous. First kisses do mean a lot, you know.
"I'm going to Hell," Alfred murmurs before closing all gaps and pressing tightly to the cold, purple-ish-blue-ish lips of his patient. It isn't warm, but a fondness settles into his stomach. One he has never felt before. Sure, he felt electricity. That is what is often described as ideal, but Alfred is starting to doubt that. It only made him feel jumpy and too hot. It caused his fingers to prickle and his stomach to clench. What he has with Arthur is much better. It is comfortable, as if he could just relax into the other's mouth, leeching off of it for all nutrients, foregoing hygiene and conversation. This is heaven.
It ends. Arthur starts heaving, his poor lungs not able to handle something as exciting as that for so long. It sounds like slick suction cups when they pull apart, their mouths smooth with lust and saliva. Arthur opens his eyes slowly, green window shades pulled up.
"I lift my lids and all is born again." He is looking straight into a sea of blue.
"I'm worried," Alfred is on the phone. He is talking to the long, European-nosed nurse. He hasn't seen her in a week and hasn't thought about her in days. Kissing Arthur Kirkland is the best choice he's ever made in his life.
He likes doing it too; it's more addicting than any drug he's ever tried. And really, he's not even twenty one yet, so the list wouldn't be too long. He likes the way Arthur scrunches up his nose when they're about three minutes into it, and getting breathless and sappy. Dr. Jones likes the part when Arthur starts to melt into his arms like they are in some cheesy romance novel. Maybe it is because he just lost control of his limbs, but there aren't any shakes, so he assumes it's meant for him to feel.
"Why?" He replies a million years later.
"You don't go out with us anymore, you hardly ever leave that place. Alfred, do you even sleep over there?" Her voice is angry, but the questions are practised. He feels nothing. He doesn't reply.
"Look, just, go out with us tonight. Gilbert is getting sorted, and we can all meet by the park." He doesn't want to say yes. He wants to hold Arthur's hand. Right now he's sleeping, turning slightly in his sleep, drool dribbling down his cheek. A new patient came to that room today. Arthur instantly hated him as much as the other boy instantly loved him.
So Dr. Jones will leave the volunteers and day nurses in charge of the two boys, one on the left side of the room, the other on the far right.
"Arthur, I'm going. Anything you need?" Dr. Jones asks, nose in the door.
"I want you to get this fucking Frog out of my room." Arthur is grumbling, still turned over on his side and facing the doorway.
"I can't do that sweetie," Alfred teases, knowing that pet names both delight and mortify the other boy.
"Then I wish one of us would die already. He smells French, I hate it." To Alfred, it doesn't make sense. He wonders if the boy is already starting to lose his ability to think correctly, but then he quotes another farewell poem, and everything is okay so he goes out to get another type of high.
"The sun sinks to the horizon. Soon I shall be tossed into a gentle mass grave. In the sky the fine red evening is burning. Perhaps in thirteen days I'll be dead."
Gilbert is sitting on a park bench, deep into the trail, where kids don't go. Belle, the caring nurse, is sitting on the grass, her light blue dress getting stained by the moist dirt. Two other hospital workers were there. Interns for Gilbert, which would be a pretty awful experience.
"Hey, I'm June," A tan nurse with long hair waves from off to the side. She has shorts on that show her endless legs, but Alfred isn't drawn to them like he would've been any other day. Arthur is waiting for him.
"I'm Alfred," He waves back.
Gilbert is smoking now, lighting up the freshly rolled stick and taking slow drags from it. Belle eyes it curiously, then takes it from him.
"Awesome," He grins, then attempts to lean down and kiss her but is pushed away.
"Don't you have a boyfriend?" She asks after a few puffs.
"Yeah, but Roddy wouldn't care." Of course he would care. But Gilbert isn't thinking and soon they are all blowing out misty air and none of them are thinking. It ends with a pile of them on the winter grass, too warm to keep inside.
Gilbert drains a beer and they use that to play spin the bottle. Both girls kiss, laughing and humming into each other's mouths. Gilbert kisses both of them, while Alfred lights up another stick and forgets more.
Alfred joins the kiss because the bottle tells him so, and it tells the other intern, a sassy looking boy with green eyes and blond hair. He sort of reminds Alfred of Arthur, but he is too far gone to feel regret.
Soon it's just sloppy licks and nibbles on necks, collarbones, occasionally a mouth. It's nice. Not electric or what he feels with Arthur, but nice all the same. Feeling reckless, hands slip up shirts, feeling around for bras and for smooth, flat chests. It's reckless and they are young and high.
It starts snowing, and they all break apart to laugh. Alfred falls asleep outside, and when he wakes up he feels frozen and contrite.
Slowly, he makes his way back home to strip down and shower. The walk isn't long and the hot water kills his skin pleasurably. He tries not to wonder about the dying boy in the hospice. He can't help but let his thoughts flood him. He wonders if he should tell Arthur. This leads him to question what they are. If they aren't an item, then why does he feel so guilty he could die? It's an awful feeling; it starts in his stomach and pulls him down, nearly making him unable to move.
The hot water is his only salvation, and soon it runs out, leaving him shivering and miserable. He can't go to the hospice today, so instead he cleans up, swallows some microwave hamburgers, and goes to the hospital. He sees a two year old girl die after getting hit by her mom's car because she was running through the streets and watches surgeons stitch up three people. But what haunts him the most is the old man who dies. He is sitting in the waiting room when it happens, and no one notices until after he's cold and clammy.
Alfred runs across the street to Arthur. Worried isn't half of what he's feeling. It's more like shame and if he died while Alfred was away, he'd never forgive himself. He didn't even think about Arthur dying when he went away to smoke. Their relationship was too new for death. It had to get to some point of closure. It was like an open wound and you couldn't just brush it aside. You had to let the wound fester and puss, allowing them to fall deeply for each other, so the sting would be a better feeling. One of knowing and loss, instead of almost knowing, and still losing.
He runs up the stairs, until he is in Arthur's room and he sees the boy sleeping and looking just fine and his blood drains from his face.
"Arthur! Arthur! Are you alive?" Arthur wakes up, rolls over and glares.
"Yes, I'm quite alright." His glare softens until it is just a loving squint.
"I have something to tell you," And for a hope beyond all hopes, Arthur thinks he's about to be told he is loved. His heart swells vulnerably.
"I kinda made out with some people." Time freezes a bit, and for a second, Dr. Jones is worried he just killed Arthur Kirkland by announcing his infidelity. A moment later and there still isn't a response.
Arthur feels cold inside. He doesn't understand, his brain hears the words, but he can't comprehend them. He hasn't ever cared about someone as much as he cared about Alfred, but still, he isn't used to it. He isn't used to betrayal. He was still shiny and new to the idea of devotion.
"Arthur, look, just tell me it isn't okay, and I'll never do it again." The French boy across the room stirs, but realises the intense situation, and excuses himself to the bathroom. He can walk.
Still not facing him, still thinking, he whispers, "Please go away. Go away and don't come back because I'll never forgive you." Maybe he was being dramatic. Maybe in the real world, kisses didn't mean anything. But Arthur has never been a part of that world, so he doesn't know what to do.
Things moved too fast anyway. Way too fast. And Arthur was going to die. So it was better to forget him now, to move on naturally, instead of forced by death.
"If I the death of Love had deeply plann'd, I never could have made it half so sure, as by the unblest kisses which upbraid the full-waked sense; or falling that, degrade! 'Tis morning: but no morning can restore what we have forfeited. I see no sin: the wrong is mix'd. In tragic life, God wot, no villain need be! Passions spin the plot: we are betrat'd by what is false within." And it's the longest part of a poem Arthur will ever recite for him. He barely hears it, catching it by chance as he closes the door and promises himself not to return.
AN:
Poems by: Charles Bukowski, Sylvia Plath, Alfred Litchenstien, George Meredith