Notes: Okay, so here's chapter three, the last of the redundant chapters! Now I'm all caught up, and the next chapter should be up in 2-3 weeks or so. Thanks to everyone for reading and favoriting and all of that good stuff! You're all fantastic (:
Ludwig Beilschmidt paced up and down his small, white, and very clean bedroom, contemplating his options carefully in his head as he walked. His cell phone was in his left hand, dangling uselessly at his side, and a cup of coffee was in the other, held up halfway to his mouth. It was only eleven in the morning, but even though it was one of Ludwig's days off, he had been up since six and, for once, the police officer resented his very ridged schedule. The morning had seemed to draw on forever.
Ludwig was feeling very lost. This was something that he was not particularly used to, as he worked very hard on a daily bases to control his life so that hardly anything outside of his work could take him by surprise. And, after years of investigating the streets of the city, even the most gruesome crimes could hardly break through his stoically practical demeanor. Throughout most of his life, Ludwig had been consistent and sure of himself and his identity; he knew what he liked, what he didn't like, what he valued, and what he stood for. When it came to most topics, Ludwig knew his position, and was firm and consistent in his convictions.
The subject of romance, however, was another story.
Ever since Ludwig was a little boy, when he and his family were still living in Dusseldorf, he had found the notion of romance irritating, mostly because no one ever seemed to stop thrusting it in his face, despite his disinterest. Whenever one of his classmates had pestered him, asking which girl he liked, or retelling with bewildered awe things that they had seen on the television when their parents weren't looking, Ludwig had felt like he was being force fed something he didn't want to eat. Every time he would say, "No thank you, I don't want that," they would just get confused, and offer it again, and more aggressively. When he was in secondary school, and one of the prettiest girls in his year had developed a crush on him, his friends had been shocked and appalled when he had rejected her. She had been upset as well, thinking that she was the problem…when in reality, the problem was that Ludwig didn't even understand what a 'crush' was supposed to feel like.
There were times in his life, though infrequent, when he thought that maybe he was beginning to understand. They were only small glimpses; pleasant friendships that he could imagine maybe developing into something more, or brief pangs of an unfamiliar longing upon seeing strangers on the street. When his brother, Roderick, had married his wife, seeing their happiness had made him think that maybe there was some merit to be found in the concept of love. But, for the most part, all of Ludwig's experiences had merely been uncomfortably forced attempts to make himself feel and appear 'normal', and his failures in this area had always left him wondering if there was something fundamentally wrong with him. Because, while everyone who cared about Ludwig always seemed to act as if there was something missing in his life, Ludwig had never felt anything other than whole.
He wondered if there was any purpose in what he was about to do. He had long ago given up on the idea of having a romantic partner, and he feared that another failed attempt would only end in pain. He didn't want anyone to be hurt because of his own abnormalities.
But Ludwig felt, almost instinctively, that this was different. Because he knew that even those few moments of comprehension that he had experienced had only been hints, shadows of what others were able to feel. What he had experienced just days ago had been different- he had blushed, he had stuttered, he had felt deep, sharp feelings in the pit of his stomach- just like what it always said in books. Just like what everyone had always told him he should feel.
He set down his coffee, and dialed the number into his phone.
It had hardly rung a single time before it was answered. "Yes, hello. What is it?" the voice of his brother drawled through the speaker.
Ludwig cleared his throat nervously, wondering again if this was worth it. "Good morning," he huffed, cringing immediately at how awkwardly formal he sounded, knowing that his brother would be suspicious. "Ah…how is Elizaveta?"
"She is fine," Ludwig could almost hear Roderich's eyebrows moving skyward, "Why did you call?"
"Well…" Ludwig wasn't sure how to continue, and he found himself wondering why he hadn't thought through this conversation more carefully, "Actually, I was thinking about visiting the museum later today."
"Is that so?" Roderich questioned, obviously surprised, "Have you taken a sudden interest in the arts, brother?"
"…Something like that."
There was a pause Ludwig's brother probably waited for him to elaborate on this vague statement. When he didn't, Roderick sighed in irritation.
"Well, if you want to come visit, that is fine." The tone of his voice signified to Ludwig that he thought the conversation was more or less over. Ludwig couldn't blame him.
"Well, actually…" he paused, not so much to organize his thoughts as to give himself time to build up as much courage as possible. He felt unpleasantly silly as he continued, "I was thinking that maybe we could work something out, that would be, ah…special."
His brother's momentary lack of response was all Ludwig needed to know that his cover had finally been blown. Even over the phone, he could tell that Roderich was smirking slyly on the other end.
"Well, this is certainly a surprise," he said, his tone making Ludwig wish that they were speaking in person so that he could hit him properly. When Ludwig only grunted in response, he continued, "Hm…You know I would usually not use my job to do favors for you, Ludwig, but if you are planning on bringing a girl around, than perhaps we might be able to work out a special tour."
Ludwig sighed, finding it unnecessary to the current conversation to point out that Feliciano was not, in fact, a girl. Instead he simply mumbled a reluctant, "Thank you," and, after a bit of effort, managed to disentangle himself from any further conversation.
He hung up the phone, wondering how he was going to survive this day. He already felt exhausted.
Then, sighing, knowing that there was no way that he could back out now, he scrolled to the most recently added contact in his list.
This time, the phone rang so many times before being answered that Ludwig was very close to hanging up and, consequently, to renouncing any belief that he still may have had in the ideas of romance, attachment, and fate. Which, considering the fact that Ludwig had held very little belief in these concepts from the beginning, would probably end in him aging alone in his pristine apartment until he was as dry and as wrinkled as the pages of the books with which he spent all of his free time.
Although, in that particular moment, this prospect did not seem entirely unappealing to Ludwig.
He was not given time to consider it too thoroughly, however, because the phone was answered just before he could press the button. His heart sped up instantly as his ears strained to listen to the quiet, sleepy voice that drifted to him through the speaker.
"Pronto?" Feliciano said, his musical voice thick with grogginess.
Ludwig was mortified. "I-I'm sorry," he apologized clumsily, "This is Ludwig. Did I wake you?" Because he himself kept such an early schedule, he had not even considered that the other man would still be asleep at this hour.
But Feliciano's tone brightened immediately as he realized who was speaking. "Oh, hello Ludwig!" he exclaimed, sounding pleasantly surprised by the call.
Ludwig cleared his throat, "Ah, yes. Hello." For some reason, Ludwig was suddenly reminded of doing presentations in grade school, and his teacher scolding him for saying "ah" between every other word. She had told him that it made him sound less authoritative. He wondered if Feliciano thought so.
"Well," he started, now making a conscious effort to not sound like a nervous idiot, "I was wondering, since you seemed interested the other night, if you would like to visit my brother's museum. Well, it isn't…it isn't 'his' museum, exactly, but he works there, so…I was wondering if you would like to go there, today. With me."
There was hardly moment's pause before Feliciano replied excitedly, "That sounds amazing! I would love to."
Ludwig wasn't sure if he felt relieved, or more nervous than ever, at Feliciano's response. "Great," he said, attempting to sound as easily enthusiastic as the younger man, "I will, ah…I will see you soon, then." Feliciano agreed, and then they hung up, and then Ludwig got busy preparing himself for the day.
Meanwhile, in a small, unkempt apartment not very far from Ludwig's, Feliciano bounded out of bed, singing happily to himself. From the bed which he had vacated, someone groaned into the covers.
"Will you shut the hell up, Feli?" Lovino griped.
"Sorry," Feliciano replied, still smiling, "I'm just really happy today!"
Matthew liked Washington Square. Compared to most of what he had seen of New York, which to him seemed to him like a photograph that had come out blurred as the result of too much frantic movement, just a mesh of confusing colors that conveyed nothing but speed and disorder, the square was to Matthew a relatively calm and spacious retreat. As he sat on a bench at the edge of the square, he found himself enjoying how everything slowed down enough that he could enjoy small things; the contrast of a few green trees against light blue sky and radiant steel, the shimmer of the sunlight reflecting off of the large, round fountain, the sounds of children crying and laughing and whining. Matthew didn't hate the city, really, but it was a city of doers, of participants active almost to the point of aggression, and he himself had always been more of an observer. He didn't like the idea that if he stopped to smell the roses (or the exhaust fumes) then he would be promptly run over by what could only be described as an armada of walking, talking bulldozers.
Alfred was sitting next to him on the bench, apparently attempting to inhale his sandwich and utilize it as a replacement for oxygen rather than actually ingest it. Matthew had noticed that this was Alfred's way with food, and had added it to the ever-growing list of ways in which he and Alfred were different. Matthew didn't mind these differences; in fact, he found them a little comforting. While he could never be sure which of his childhood memories were real, and which ones were fabricated, he thought that he had always had a picture in his mind of Alfred being very different from himself, and he liked the idea that these hunches were being validated. He had a feeling that, if he still could remember those days, then he and his brother still had something connecting them other than their identical DNA.
"Whatcha smilin' at?" Alfred asked, a small grin appearing on his own face as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Matthew blinked; he hadn't realized that he had been watching his brother eat. He hoped that Alfred didn't think he was too creepy.
"What? Oh, nothing," he said quickly, embarrassed, "Sorry."
"You're sorry for smiling?"
"Um…"
Alfred had already stopped paying attention to Matthew, however, and he stood up suddenly as something apparently caught his eye. So fast that Matthew didn't even know what was happening at first, Alfred dashed over to the ground in front of them, bending down. When he rose, there was something small and red clutched in his hand.
"Hey!" he called to two people with a baby stroller a small distance away. Then he jogged over to them, handing them the object. One of the strangers took it, smiling gratefully, and bent down over the stroller. Alfred beamed at them.
After a few more words were shared between them, Alfred strode back to meet Matthew at their bench. "She kicked her shoe off," he said proudly.
Matthew merely nodded in comprehension. While it was nice that Alfred was prone to such random acts of kindness, he couldn't shake the feeling that simple compassion wasn't his brother's only motivation. It was obvious to Matthew that he fed off of praise and attention, two things that always made Matthew shy away in discomfort, or "go into his shell", as his Papa always said. It was this phenomenon that had earned him the nickname "Petite Tortue"- Little Turtle.
"Hey," Alfred said, bringing Matthew back to the present, "Kiku got me a new game for my birthday, and I'm gonna go over to his place sometime to play it, and I was wonderin'…do you wanna come?"
Matthew blinked, surprised by the sudden offer. Until then, Alfred had seemed oddly reluctant to spend much time with him. "Are you sure it's ok?" he asked, a bit nervously.
Alfred squished the paper left over from his decimated lunch into ball. "Yeah! Keeks has a really nice apartment. And you two should get along great; you're both so quiet and everything. It'll be really fun!"
"Oh, well then…sure," Matthew smiled, "I'd love to."
"Cool," Alfred said, already seeming to become preoccupied with something near the other end of the square.
A few yards away from them, Matthew watched as a baby boy flung his pacifier onto the white cement.
Alfred didn't notice.
In all honesty, the part that Ludwig had been the most worried about was the taxi ride. Once they were in the museum, he knew that Feliciano would be interested in other things, meaning that the potential for awkward silences would be significantly reduced. Actually, this is why Ludwig had chosen this venue in the first place, despite the inevitable and unwanted encounter with his brother. Because he had already been to an art gallery with Feliciano, he knew that he could handle it. A relatively long ride in a taxi, however, with nothing but the sounds of honking and the blabbering of annoying little television sets to fill the silence, was a breeding ground for potential disasters.
But when the time came, and the two of them were seated next to each other in the backseat, he realized that his worries were unfounded. When he had paced his apartment, thinking fearfully about long, empty moments of quiet, he had obviously underestimated Feliciano's ability to fill the space with his words.
"Oh! That place over there makes really good sandwiches!" he exclaimed, pointing a finger at his window. Ludwig leaned over slightly to get a glimpse of the place in question.
"Hm," he said, leaning back into his seat, "I've never been there before."
"Really? I can take you sometime!" Then he giggled suddenly, "Did you see that guy on a bike? He had vegetables on his helmet!"
When they arrived at the museum, Ludwig paid their driver, and held the door for Feliciano as he got out. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, he stood and stared at the enormous staircase and white columns that were in front of him.
"Ludwig," he said, gaping, "You didn't tell me that you're brother worked at this museum!"
Ludwig rubbed the back of his neck, "Ah, no, I suppose I didn't. I am Sorry."
But Feliciano flung himself at Ludwig, attaching himself to the larger man's right arm. "No, don't be sorry! It's amazing!" he gushed. Ludwig became very flustered, and cleared his throat loudly.
"Well…should we go inside, then?"
The entrance hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was brightly lit, with sun streaming in through a round skylight that was reminiscent of the structures of ancient Rome. When they entered, Feliciano gasped audibly in delight.
"It's so beautiful!" he exclaimed.
"You've never been here before?"
Feliciano shook his head. As they walked over to the long line for admission, Ludwig remained very aware of the other man, who was still clinging to his arm diligently.
"Excuse me," a voice said from behind Ludwig, "But you two look a little suspicious to me. I'm afraid I'm going to have to search you."
Ludwig spun around, simultaneously detaching himself from Feliciano. "What...oh. Hello, Liza."
His sister–in-law grinned. She had green eyes, long brown hair pulled back into an efficient ponytail, and was wearing a security guard's uniform that barely seemed to fit over a large bulge in the area of her stomach.
"Aren't you going to introduce us?" Ludwig didn't like the way that Elizaveta was smiling, or the way that her voice sounded significantly more high-pitched than usual. He hoped that it was just some bizarre hormonal symptom.
He cleared his throat, feeling his face heat up, even after making a conscious effort to physically force the blush from his features.
"Ah, yes. Th-this is Feliciano." He gestured to the man in question, as if to make sure that Liza knew which person he was referring to.
"It's so nice to meet you!" Feliciano chirped, reaching out to shake her hand enthusiastically. At this moment, the expression on Elizaveta's face was rather strange; her eyes were wide, and her lips were pressed tightly together as if attempting to hold back an uncontrollable, manic smile.
"It is very nice to meet you too, Feliciano," she said, making meaningful eye contact with her brother-in-law. He looked quickly away from her.
"Oh!" Feliciano suddenly exclaimed, delighted, as he noticed Liza's stomach, "Are you going to have a bambino? That is so exciting!"
Elizaveta smiled kindly at him, "That's right!" she said, "There are only a few months left, now."
Ludwig grunted, "Do you really think that you should still be working, Liza?"
She waved him off dispassionately, "Of course I am! I could work until I gave birth in the middle of the European sculpture gallery. But, unfortunately, Roderich is insisting that I take my leave next week." Suddenly, Elizaveta's demeanor changed, and she took on the person of a professional security guard once more. "Now," she said, taking a few steps back from them, "I have been specially instructed that you two Very Important Persons are to be taken to the front of the line for a special tour."
"Wow, really?" Feliciano looked overwhelmed with happiness, but Ludwig, who did not enjoy rule-breaking, narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"Are you sure you won't get into trouble for that?" he asked Elizaveta.
Again, she waved off his concern as if it were an irritating insect, "You worry too much, Luddy. Now, step this way please."
In reality, Liza's "Special Tour" consisted of her asking Feliciano what he would like to see next, and then personally escorting them to whatever exhibit he choose with rapid efficiency. Occasionally, if there were large crowds gathering around a specific piece, then she would politely, but commandingly, ask them to step out of the way so that they could get a closer look. This upset Feliciano, however, and she stopped doing it after he begged her to allow the other people to have their turn. Elizaveta had looked as if she was going to cry.
Ludwig noticed that, for most of their visit, Feliciano was standing close to him. He didn't hold onto his arm, as he had when they were first entering the building, but he did seem to gravitate to whenever Ludwig was standing, and Ludwig had to admit to himself that he didn't entirely resent the invasion into his personal space. For instance, there was a moment when Feliciano stumbled on the stairs, and Ludwig was able to catch him by the arm. He had been slightly alarmed to find that he wasn't only happy that Feliciano hadn't fallen; he had been happy that he was the one to prevent it.
After a while, Ludwig's brother appeared to greet them. There was really no reason for him to be there, but Ludwig assumed that he saw whatever was going on that day as an excellent opportunity to tease his brother. Upon seeing them, Roderich was not disappointed.
"Well, this explains a lot of things," he said, smirking. After being introduced to the Feliciano, he had managed to find a bit of privacy with Ludwig as Feli had become particularly engrossed in a painting on the other end of the room.
Ludwig glared at him.
"It's funny," Roderich continued, "Our father always assumed it was me, for some reason."
"Imagine that," Ludwig huffed.
"Oh, there is no need to behave that way, brother. You know I am fine with it. And Liza, well, you know how she is…Ow!"
"Hello, darling," Elizaveta said sweetly, her nightstick clutched tightly in one hand, "What were you saying about me?"
Roderich pouted, clutching his wounded arm. "You can't just use that for whatever you want, you know," he said resentfully. She smiled at him, more sincerely this time, and rubbed his arm.
"I'm sorry, dearest. But don't you think we should be letting Ludwig get back to his date?"
Ludwig flinched at the word. But Roderich either agreed with her, or was still wary from being struck in the arm with a nightstick, because he quickly retreated, leaving Ludwig to get back to Feliciano.
Ludwig wasn't sure what he was expecting to happen. After they left the museum, he and Feliciano went out to eat, chatting idly about art and history and Ludwig's family members, and then Feliciano went home. They didn't kiss, like they had only a few nights before, but Ludwig was almost relieved about that. The only thing that didn't feel right about the end of the day was that he felt as if something important was missing once Feliciano had left his side. And, for the first time in his memory, Ludwig felt lonely in his apartment.
"I can't believe you're making me do this."
"Relax, Matthew. It will be good for you! You need to learn an appreciation for life's finer pleasures."
"Why would I do something that I hate?"
"How do you know you will hate it? Besides, this is something that father and son are meant to do together when the son reaches a certain age."
"I'm pretty sure that most people don't go to strip clubs with their parents."
Francis stopped walking abruptly. Before that, he and Matthew had been making their way down a relatively quiet sidewalk, the light from square windows and neon signs illuminating everything, making it appear almost as if night hadn't already fallen. Now, sighing, Francis turned to face his son.
"I see what is happening," he said, adjusting his features into their most pitiable expression, "You do not wish to spend time with me anymore."
Matthew put a hand to his face in distress. "Papa, please don't do this to me," he begged, but Francis was merciless.
"No, no, I understand," he continued, "You are an adult now. You have no need of your poor old Papa. It is perfectly natural, I suppose."
Matthew rolled his eyes at his father's theatrics, but found that he could not ignore the guilt that was beginning to fill his weak heart.
"Fine," he grumbled after a moment, and Francis recovered suspiciously quickly from his apparent heartache.
"Fantastique!" he exclaimed, and they proceeded to walk towards their destination.
But Matthew's reservations only increased when they reached the establishment, and his dad nearly had to drag him to the entrance.
"Do you have ID?" a very large and intimidating man asked Matthew. Poor Matthew could only stutter in response, and Francis had to intervene.
"He is supervised," he said, flashing the man a charming smile, and handing him his own identification. After a moment's consideration, the man shrugged, and allowed them both in.
Matthew came very quickly to the conclusion that this was going to be the most uncomfortable evening of his life. It wasn't like he didn't enjoy watching girls take their clothes off, or anything, and he certainly didn't think that there was anything wrong with that personal life decision, but he definitely felt that he would enjoy the experience more in a much more private setting, with someone he actually knew. For the most part, if he saw a girl who he thought was pretty, his first thought was that he would like to get to know her a bit before he saw her breasts. He found it very difficult to enjoy the experience when all he could do was blush and sweat and fidget for all of the wrong reasons.
His father, however, did not seem to share this view. While Francis was undoubtedly of a different species entirely from the scores of drunken men shouting obscenities from their seats, he was certainly enjoying himself. For the majority of the time, he sat back calmly in his seat, winking and smiling at the girls as well as giving money to them. This behavior might have made Matthew extremely uncomfortable, if he wasn't used to his father behaving in a similar way with everyone, everywhere, all the time.
After not very long, however, Francis's eyes began to wander around the room. When they eventually rested on a small door on the other end, he discreetly tapped Matthew on the shoulder.
"I'll right back," he assured his son, who nodded, probably assuming that he was going to use the toilet. "Try to relax a little, non?"
The other room was different- darker, quieter, and more claustrophobic. Unlike the larger room which he had left behind, which was littered with poles and platforms, this room only had a single platform. Upon entering, Francis immediately found a place in the back, choosing not to sit; he was only stopping for a look, after all. He smirked slightly at the thought of poor Matthew, who was undoubtedly still squirming, and attempting to make as little eye contact as possible. He made a mental promise to himself that he would not leave his son alone for too long. He had simply wanted a moment to indulge his…alternative tastes.
Currently, there was a man out on the single stage. He was already down to nothing but briefs and a tie, but Francis had to admit that he wasn't exactly his type. The man had more muscles than even Francis thought he would know what to do with. He took a moment to look out into the audience; it consisted mostly of women. Up near the stage, a woman was wearing a purple sash and plastic crown, and he assumed that she was a soon-to-be newlywed.
After the first man had finished, an announcer began speaking from somewhere off stage. "And now," he said, with the gaudily forced enthusiasm of someone at a carnival advertizing a freak show, "All the way from the exotic shores of the British Isles, here for your enjoyment, give a warm welcome to our own Officer Kirkland.
There was a smattering of cheers from the crowd, but Francis frowned. Why did that name sound familiar? Then the man in question stepped out onto the stage.
Oh. That was why.
Now, really, it wasn't Francis's fault that at first he didn't see the obvious problems with his son's brother's young roommate suddenly appearing on the stage of a random strip club of which he was currently a patron. Because honestly, how could he be expected to form any sensible thoughts when Arthur was up there, swishing his hips and wearing a police officer's outfit? It was unfair. He was only human. And so, Francis's panic had not come to him immediately. It was postponed by a moment of mindless happiness that involved much staring and gulping and stupid, open-mouthed grinning. In fact, his mouth began to get very dry as Arthur moved, finally fining his way to the pole in the center of the stage….
Wait…what?
Francis blinked, like he was just waking up from a particularly vivid (and pleasant) dream. Then, still numb with confusion and shock, he waved over a young waiter who was walking past him.
"Excuse me, sir," he asked, never removing his eyes from the stage, "But do you know how old that man is?"
The waiter frowned, "Who, Arthur? Um…I think he's in his late twenties. Twenty-six, maybe?"
"Twenty-six," Francis repeated vacantly.
"Uh, yeah," the young man said, now eyeing Francis warily, "Is something wrong, sir? You look a little dizzy."
"No," Francis said, and the single syllable came out unexpectedly harsh, "Absolutely nothing. I just think I might need to step out for some air."
Matthew was having a miserable time. His dad had not yet returned from the bathroom, and he was beginning to suspect that he had not really gone to the bathroom in the first place. It wouldn't come as any sort of surprise if that were the case.
It was the same every time. Every single time a woman would come out, she would eventually look at him, he would try not to make eye contact but would end up doing it anyway, he would think "she probably has kids or something", and then he would think "I should probably give her some money". But then, every time, crippled by anxiety and embarrassment, he would realize that he was entirely incapable of doing that. And then he would feel guilty. And then it would happen all over again the next time.
But if he was embarrassed already, it was nothing compared to what he was about to feel.
Matthew was not well acquainted with the rules and customs of strip clubs, but there was one thing he understood- if you unexpectedly run into someone you know at a strip club, it is almost always a bad thing. If you are a customer, and you see someone you know who is another customer, it's awkward. If you are a dancer, and you see someone you know in the audience, it's potentially life-destroying.
But, if you are a customer, and you see someone you know on stage, it's…confusing.
Matthew was certainly confused when his brother's friend Michelle came out onto the nearest pole, in a seeing-your-teacher-at-the-grocery-store kind of way. Well, there were some differences, obviously, most notably that Matthew couldn't remember any of his teachers wearing high heeled boots and not much else (wasn't the nakedness supposed to happen gradually, or something?) at the grocery store, but the amount of surprise was definitely similar.
And it was this surprise, embarrassingly, which prompted Matthew to be unable to hold back a soft (but noticeable) exclamation.
"Michelle?" he said reflexively, like shouting after burning yourself on the kitchen stove.
To her credit, she only lost her composure for a brief moment after hearing her name all but shouted at her. When her eyes found Matthew, they widened in shock, but only a second later she seemed to remember her surroundings, and she smiled a small, embarrassed smile in his direction.
And, because the situation was completely ridiculous, and because Matthew suddenly felt worlds better just after seeing that gentle smile, he smiled back at her, and laughed. And still dancing, still very much unclothed, Michelle laughed a bit too. It was a beautiful laugh.
Matthew fumbled with his wallet.
Before he could accomplish much of anything with his trembling fingers, however, Matthew felt a strong hand on his shoulder, and he turned around to see that his father had finally returned from the "toilet".
"Get your things together. We are leaving," Francis hissed in his son's ear. Matthew stared at him, confused.
"Uh, ok," he said, "But hold on a sec. I was just-
"No, Matthew. We are leaving. Now."
Matthew frowned at the tone of his Papa's voice. But before he had the chance to ask any questions, he found that he had gripped him by the arm and was pulling him out of his seat.
"Are you crazy?" he asked Francis, but his father ignored him. As he was pulled through the maze of tables towards the front door, Matthew shot an apologetic look over his shoulder at Michelle, but she didn't look disappointed; she looked frightened. He hoped she didn't think that he was in trouble.
When the two finally burst out into the night air, Matthew yanked his arm from Frances's grip.
"What was that about?" he asked, but his dad didn't seem to be listening. He was already plowing a path through the crowds down the sidewalk.
"Dad, wait! Where are you going?" he walked quickly, eventually managing to fall into step with the older man, "What did you do? Are you in trouble? Talk to me!"
Francis gave his son a small, apologetic look, but did nothing to slow his frantic pace. "Oh," he said, with uncharacteristic rancor, "I am not the one who is in trouble."
"What does that mean?" Matthew wondered desperately. Suddenly, Francis stopped. He had led them around the corner, to the other side of the club, and they were standing outside of a large grey door that obviously wasn't a main entrance. Then, without ceremony, he smashed his fist against the door multiple times.
"Dad!" Matthew gasped, alarmed. Then, after hardly a moment, the door opened halfway. A man in a black shirt, black pants, and a professional-looking headset stuck his head out.
"Can I help you?" he asked harshly. Francis's confrontational demeanor never wavered.
"Yes, in fact, you can," he said darkly, causing the man to raise his eyebrows, "I would like to speak to Arthur Kirkland, immediately if possible. Call it a "Family emergency".
"Wait, what?" Matthew whispered, "Arthur's here? What's going on?"
But the man shook his head, "I'm afraid I can't allow that, sir. Mr. Kirkland is working right now."
"Then I will wait." Francis crossed his arms defiantly.
The man looked as if he was about to kick them off of the premises, but just then a voice drifted to them from over the threshold.
"Is something wrong?" it said from inside, "I heard you say my name."
The man pinched the bridge of his nose, and the swung the door open all of the way. "Do you know this man, Arthur?"
From the doorway, Arthur stared at the two of them, his expression completely blank. He was wearing a large black raincoat that hid whatever he was wearing underneath, and the light from what was presumably a dressing room caught in his light hair before spilling out onto the dark street.
"Fuck," he said.
Francis only continued to glare at him, chest rising and falling rapidly in anger. Noticing the look in Francis's eyes, the man in all black turned to Arthur, concerned, "Do you need me to, um, take care of this for you?"
Arthur shook his head. "Don't worry about it," he said, "It's nothing I can't handle." He wrapped his raincoat more tightly around himself, "Tell Marie I left, alright? I was done for the night anyway."
The man didn't look happy about it, but he grunted and allowed Arthur to step out onto the sidewalk. Then, with one last threatening look at Francis, he closed the door, and the three of them were alone.
For a beat, no one said anything, and groups of people bumped into them as they walked by. Then Arthur attempted to meet Francis's eyes. "Now," he said calmly, his tone reminiscent of a high school guidance counselor, "Let's try to talk this through rationally."
But Francis responded by gripping the younger man's arm tightly, and bringing their faces closer together. "I asked a waiter for your real age. You lied to us," he growled.
"Papa…." Matthew said quietly, but Francis didn't hear him.
"Let go of me," Arthur spat, freeing himself from Francis's grip, "I know this looks bad, but I can explain, if you would give me ten bloody seconds…."
"Yes, please," Francis said venomously, "Explain. Explain to me why my son's brother is living with a twenty-six-year-old stripper-
"I don't see what my being a stripper has to do with anything, actually," Arthur interjected, lip curling, "And, to be honest, I would rather not do this out in the open. The apartment's just around the corner…."
"Oh, we will do this here, now," Francis said, but Arthur was already walking briskly down the sidewalk, and Francis and Matthew had no choice but to follow him.
Francis would have heckled Arthur all the way back to the apartment, but Matthew placed a gentle hand on his father's arm, giving him a meaningful look that told him to wait. And so, the walk was tense and silent.
But when Arthur reached the door of his building, the dam broke almost as soon as he began fumbling with the key.
"You must understand," Francis started again, more calmly than before, but only slightly, "That when I see a grown man, living with a university student-
"Alfred isn't a university student." Arthur mumbled, rolling his eyes as he opened the door, and began heading for the old, narrow staircase.
"Excuse me?"
Arthur began walking up the steps, "He isn't in university. Obviously."
Francis shook his head in disbelief. He turned to Matthew, who was walking behind him. He hadn't said a word since they had left the club. "And what do you think of all of this?" Francis asked him.
"Well…" Matthew said, not meeting his father's eyes, "I mean, I sort of suspected that he wasn't telling me everything…."
From ahead of them, Arthur chuckled slightly, "See? At least your son seems to have some common sense."
"Matthew," Francis said, sounding hurt, "Why did you not tell me?"
"I just thought that he would say something when he was ready."
For a moment, Francis almost felt guilty, but then he shook his head as they stopped outside of Arthur and Alfred's door. "You are far too trusting, Matthew," he said sadly.
Arthur swung the door open, and the three of them stepped inside. "Now," Arthur said quietly, "We can talk. Just don't be too loud; Alfred's sleeping."
Francis chuckled darkly, "Oh, so you are his father now?"
Matthew frowned, "Dad. Stop it."
"Stay out of this, Matthew."
"How can I stay out of it? He's my brother. This affects me more than it affects you."
Francis shook his head, "You don't understand, Matthew. Because of my mistake, I am responsible for anything that has happened to Alfred." When he said this, he glared pointedly at Arthur.
Arthur had had enough. "You know what? You're right," he spat, taking a threatening step closer to Francis, "You are responsible. And yeah, a lot of 'things' have happened to Alfred. But I sure as hell am not one of them. In fact, you are goddamn lucky that I found him."
"Oh, yes, I am sure he is very lucky, as an impressionable young boy, to have miraculously been 'found' by a grown man, who he now shares a one bedroom apartment with-
"Uh, guys," Matthew said nervously, "You're getting kind of loud…."
"How dare you." Arthur said murderously, "How dare you accuse me of that. I would never hurt Alfred. You know nothing."
"I know a bad situation when I see one," Francis retorted, "I have half a mind to get Alfred and take him back to Canada with us tonight."
"He's not a child! He wouldn't just follow you home like a stray animal!"
"No, I'm sure he would not; who knows how you have brainwashed him."
Matthew's eyes suddenly widened "Guys…." He said. But neither man heard his quiet voice over their shouting.
"I cannot believe this," Arthur ranted, "After all that I have sacrificed, all that I have done for him, now you walk in and act like you're his savior, just because you wear fancy suits and can buy him presents, and just because of the job that I had to get so that I could support him…after I took him off of the fucking streets…By the way, tell me, since you're so streetwise, how many people do you know who would see a dying, crack-addict orphan on the side of the road, and do anything other than walk right past him? If it wasn't for me, he would have been lying dead in an ally somewhere three years ago!"
His words rung in the air, like the sudden silence after the crack of a whip, or a particularly decisive gunshot. For a moment, Francis gaped at Arthur in horror as the truth began to slowly sink in. But then he noticed the distress on his son's face, and that it was not directed towards himself, or Arthur, but at the bedroom door.
"Alfred…." He said quietly, a few tears beginning to trail silently down his face.
Francis turned to face the door, already knowing that he would see Alfred standing there. But what he could not have prepared himself for was the look of complete devastation on his face.
"Christ," Arthur muttered, running a hand through his hair, "Alfred, I'm so sorry."
For a moment, Alfred just stood there, hair still ruffled with bed-head, and stared at them with wide eyes covered by crooked glasses. The, he bolted across the room and out the door so fast that none of them could react, slamming the door behind him.
"Alfred!" Arthur called. He started to go after him, but, to his surprise, he found Matthew blocking his path.
"I'll handle it," he said gravely, "You two stay here, and work this out."
As the two older men looked at Matthew, their eyes showed so much guilt that he almost pitied them, but he still though that they had both been acting selfish.
"He's probably gone up to the roof," Arthur said numbly. Matthew nodded, and left the two of them standing awkwardly in the main room.
Sure enough, when Matthew made it to the roof, Alfred was there, near the edge, with his knees pulled up close to his chest. When Matthew sat next to him, he was staring up at the sky.
"You…you can't really see any stars, here," Matthew said. Alfred closed his eyes, as if trying to wish himself somewhere else.
Matthew waited a moment, trying to decide what to say next. Finally, he sighed. "You could have told me, you know." He said.
Alfred shook his head, opening his eyes to stare out at the city. "I bet," he said, "That when you imagined meeting me, you didn't picture me like this."
"What do you mean? I found you. You're alive. That's all I've ever wanted."
Alfred looked away from him. "I'm a fuck-up," he said, his voice cracking.
"Stop it, Alfred. You're not a fuck-up. You've been through a lot…" Matthew was having difficulty keeping his voice steady, "…But you've gotten through it. You're probably the bravest person I've ever met." Alfred still wouldn't look at him, "And it could have just as easily been me. And I don't…I don't know if I would have made it as far as you have."
Alfred turned and stared at his brother with wet eyes, "Really?"
Matthew smiled, "Definitely." They sat in silence for a few moments, before he spoke again. "You know, it's weird," he said, "But I don't really feel like we've been separated for that long, you know? I feel like I still know you."
Alfred smiled a little, "I know what you mean." Then his eyes widened, "Hey, what if we have psychic powers, or something?"
"What?" Matthew laughed.
"I read somewhere that twins can have psychic powers. Like, they know what the other one is thinking and stuff."
Matthew snickered again. "Oh, okay," he said, "Let's try it. What am I thinking about?"
"Um," Alfred screwed up his features into a look of extreme concentration. "Hamburgers," he finally declared. Matthew shook his head, grinning. "Oh," Alfred said, "I guess that's what I was thinking about."
Matthew laughed, then, and Alfred joined in, and for a little while, the two just sat there on the roof, both just enjoying that they were able to be together.
After Matthew shut the door behind him, Francis and Arthur were faced with a terrible, guilty silence. They were both standing in the main room of the apartment, trying not to make eye contact, and shuffling their feat like chastised kindergarteners.
It didn't take long for Arthur to lose patience. Sighing heavily, he made his way over to the window, gracefully stepped out onto the fire escape, and lit himself a cigarette. He only had time to enjoy a few moments of peace before Francis followed him, awkwardly crawling out of the window to join Arthur in the now too-cramped space.
He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket as Arthur attempted to sit comfortably while also avoiding making any physical contact with Francis. Then, Francis cleared his throat, trying to sound casual.
"Would you mind, ah…."
Arthur sighed again, and handed Francis his lighter.
"Thank you." There was a pause, and the sounds of several car horns going off drifted up to them from the streets below. "Do not tell Matthew about this. He does not know that I still smoke."
"Alfred hates it," Arthur said, taking a drag, "Americans. They're so uptight about those sorts of things. Meanwhile, all of our neighbors own guns."
Francis decided to ignore that alarming statement, hoping that it was an exaggeration. Instead, he said, "Technically, Matthew is Canadian."
Arthur snorted, "Is there a difference?"
Francis bit his tongue.
After a moment, Arthur suddenly rubbed his hands over his face, groaning. "I really shouldn't have said those things," he lamented, "With the way Alfred behaves, it's so easy to forget how sensitive he still can be. Not that I blame him."
"We all make mistakes," Francis said, staring straight ahead, "And, from what I've heard, it sounds like Alfred is lucky to have you."
"Hm," Arthur glanced at Francis out of the corner of his eye, "And I…I suppose Matthew is lucky to have you, as well."
Francis let out a bark of a laugh, and Arthur frowned at him. After a moment's thought, he asked, "So, why did you adopt Matthew, if you don't mind me asking? You must have been quite young."
"You flatter me," Francis said, winking. But Arthur gave him a look that said that had definitely not been the intention, so Francis continued. "Marianne and I, we were together in high school. We were young, and stupid, and she was sick…" Francis took in a shuttering breath, "Now, of course, I realize how selfish it was of us, to take bring a child into a home that was already destined to be broken. And of course, we went and found the somewhere out of the way, undocumented, and that's why Matthew and Alfred ended up separated. But she couldn't have her own children, and honestly, I…" he stared out into the lights of the city, "I couldn't stand the thought of being left alone."
Arthur looked down into his lap, "Oh."
"I am afraid it is not as heroic as you taking in Alfred."
"I don't think of it that way."
Francis frowned, "Why not? As you said before, there are not many people who would have done the same."
"That's just it," Arthur said, knitting his eyebrows together pensively, "He was only sixteen at the time. He was a kid, and he was dying, and no one was doing anything. And I just thought, how many of these people send money every month to some starving child in Africa who they never even see? But then you put a starving child right under their noses, and they step over him like he's a stain on their carpet."
Francis stared at him. They were making eye contact for the first time since the argument, and Arthur didn't even look angry. He just looked like he was trying to explain something very important to Francis; the expression in his green eyes was incredibly earnest.
Francis couldn't help himself.
CRACK.
Before Francis could even begin to piece together what had happened, Arthur was crawling back in through the window, and the left side of Francis's face felt as if it was on fire. After he had collected his wits, he scrambled in after Arthur.
"Unbelievable," Arthur was saying, storming to the kitchen, "Un-fucking-believable. You find out I'm a stripper, and then you try to kiss me. You think I'm easy, now, is that it?"
Francis sighed, cursing his uncharacteristic tactlessness. "Of course not, Arthur. That is not the reason-
"I don't want to hear it!" Arthur snapped, "That's it- I want you out of here."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me! Leave, go on!"
But Francis didn't leave, much to Arthur's dismay. Instead, he began to walk slowly towards him.
"What are you doing?" Arthur asked harshly, "Stay away from me!"
Francis continued to walk until he could place one arm on either side of Arthur, effectively pinning him to the kitchen counter. Arthur swallowed, but didn't make any attempts to break free. "This is ridiculous," he said.
"No. What is ridiculous, chérie, is that you could ever imagine that I would think that you are easy. Because I am fairly certain that you are the most difficult person that I have ever met."
And, with that, he managed to successfully kiss Arthur. Within seconds, they were gasping, breathing hot breath into each other, and Arthur kept thinking that he should push Francis away, because he hated him, and everything, but it had been so long since he had been properly kissed, and both of their mouths tasted like cigarettes, and how had he ended up sitting on the counter…?
They were forced apart suddenly by the sound of familiar voices in the hallway. Francis let go of Arthur, and Arthur jumped down from the counter, embarrassedly wiping a large patch of saliva from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
When the boys entered, they both stood and stared at Arthur, both with very different expressions on their faces. Alfred, who had always been pretty terrible at reading environments, shook his head, looking disappointed.
"Were you guys fighting?" he asked, "Like, actually fighting? That's really immature. And don't try to deny it; you're both all red and sweaty."
But Matthew, who was very good at reading environments, and who knew his father well, said nothing, but gave Francis a look that said, "You've got to be kidding me."
Arthur cleared his throat loudly, "Uh, yes, Alfred, you caught us. We're very sorry." Francis nodded in agreement. But then Arthur seemed to remember what had happened, and he gave Alfred a genuinely apologetic look. "Are you feeling better?" he asked him.
Alfred smiled, "Yeah. It's all good."
Arthur relaxed, "Good. Now, it's almost two in the morning. I say we all go to bed."
Alfred nodded, suddenly yawning, "Yeah, okay." But then he smiled again, "Hey, you know what I just realized? Now that everything's out in the open, we can spend a lot more time together! No more secrets."
Arthur swallowed, "Yeah," he said faintly, "No more secrets."
