Chapter 3: The After-Life
"I can't - believe - Arthur!"
Alfred kept his eyes trained on the highway ahead. "Me and Matt will drive down for your car tomorrow." He didn't trust Francis to drive himself in this state.
"What am I going to do?" Francis sobbed. ""I can't live without him!"
Beside him, Alfred listened to this tirade with grit teeth. "Francis. Come on."
"I looked for so fucking long, and for what? What? Fuck! Arthur's dead!"
"Francis."
"He didn't even... I didn't even say good bye right! I just made him cry, and..."
"Francis."
"What am I going to do?"
The car jerked violently as Alfred pulled off to the side of the road and stopped. Francis swore, rubbing him neck at the impact. "What the hell-"
"You," Alfred sneered. "What are you gonna do. You loved, you looked, you, you, you! You aren't the only one who fucking lost him!"
He stopped screaming in Francis's face, expression suddenly very blank. Then, slowly, he settled back into his seat, his eyes fixed straight ahead. "I'm sorry."
Francis let out a breath he'd been unconsciously holding. "Don't mention it."
This answer seemed to piss Alfred off again. "Fuck you. Whoever you are. I'm still not sure."
Francis scowled. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like," Alfred sputtered, frustrated. "I mean, who are you? Where did you come from? Why would Arthur... cheat on me, with you...?"
"Wait a minute," Francis interrupted. His expression was slightly scandalized. "How much did Arthur tell you about me?"
Alfred shrugged. "That you're Francis Bonnefoy, an 'old friend', and 'I won't cheat on you ever again I promise'." He sighed, dropping the hand that had been erratically forming air quotes. "He said the same stuff over and over again, so at some point I just forgave him. And I never pried after he got sick. It seemed wrong to."
Francis's lip trembled. "But you stole Arthur from me! At the university!"
Alfred looked at Francis with a strange sort of tired sadness. "Honestly, I don't remember seeing you ever until a month ago, when I... walked in on you two."
...
Alfred wasn't lying. In the entire time he had spent with Arthur at college, he had never noticed Francis enough to later remember him. Francis had been there, he supposed, but then, Alfred had never seen first-hand those darker sides of Arthur's life, and he had never inquired after them. If Arthur was so willing to run off with Alfred and leave his old life behind, then those other people couldn't have been very important.
Not only that, but he was afraid to pry, because Arthur had specifically said that he did not want to talk about it. He wanted to start anew, tabula rasa. The only people outside his old circle of friends who knew much about his life before Alfred were the members of his group therapy at rehab. And frankly, Arthur felt those were all the people he needed to tell to feel as though he had let it all off his chest.
That was how he had taken to categorizing his past: life before Alfred and life after. Alfred had at the time appreciated the sentiment, and only vaguely understood it, in the way that vague understanding sometimes comes with empathy.
Now, Alfred understood fully, and he began to sort his life in a similar way: life with Arthur, and life after his death.
...
After dropping Francis off at his apartment to mourn alone, Alfred was planning to drive straight home and dive right into work. He needed, in this sea of confusion, to cling to something that made sense. He would call his office and then the hospital and tell everyone he was ready to come back to work, right now if possible. Without pay, if he had to. He would work the ER, relieve his secretary and schedule all of his own appointments. Push some of them up. Whatever. Maybe if he made some people feel better about themselves, he could take on their happiness. Emotional osmosis.
Instead, however, when Alfred had asked for directions to his place, Francis had cried too hard for Alfred to understand him and then passed out in his car. Alfred had been to Francis's home before, but that had been a long time ago - or it seemed that way. In reality, Arthur had been alive only weeks ago. (And weeks before that, Alfred had been blissfully unaware of the affair, the disease boiling in his veins, and the existence of Francis Bonnefoy.)
In any case, Alfred had his reasons for not being able to get to Francis's apartment without help (supreme mental exhaustion among them) and he decided, reluctantly, to take Francis home with him. He figured that if the Frenchman didn't wake up from being violently shaken, he wouldn't wake up from being unceremoniously dumped on Alfred's living room couch, either. There was a moment where Francis's brow tensed in his sleep, and Alfred was terrified that he had been wrong and would soon be yet again berated by a hysterical Francis. But then his expression settled into solemnity. "Peaceful", Alfred figured, was not a word that would be able to describe either of their sleeping faces for a long time.
Alfred took a moment to stand in his living room, feeling the emptiness of the house around him, save for Bonnefoy on the couch. Looking at Francis now, without his pathetic sobs directly in his ear, Alfred felt a twinge (but very small) of pity for him. He had been in love with Arthur too, after all. They had that much in common.
After shutting off the kitchen lights, which he had left on since about six this morning, Alfred began feeling through the darkness for the staircase. He bumped his knees once or twice while maneuvering through the living room, swore colorfully, and then found the stairs just as his eyes began to adjust to the dark.
He rested one foot on the bottom step, then paused. The moonlight coming through the glass window on their front door illuminated some of the entry way. Alfred squinted, finding that everything about the decorating scheme - the dark wood, the crystal pattern on the front door's window, the green and yellow striped wallpaper - made him think of Arthur, who had chosen it all.
The dull ache that had been resting on Alfred's ribcage intensified, and laboriously, carrying leaden feet, he began to ascend the staircase.
But upstairs, things only got worse. If it had hurt sleeping in this room without Arthur back when he'd been hospitalized, then the pain caused Alfred to be here, alone, now, made him physically sick. His feet stumbled as they brought him to the bed, and he collapsed on it. There he curled up, tears leaking out of his eyes though he willed them to stop, fisting the sheets in his hands. He proceeded to stare at the wall, their closet, but more importantly, the empty side of the bed where Arthur used to lay. He didn't move, instead letting the silence fit around him like a glove, or a pair of warm and maternal arms. (These heavy pauses of reflection in his life were increasing in frequency. They could become a habit, he thought. He did not like this idea.)
Alfred continued to stare. He stared until his eyes were too dry to shed the tears that were pent up inside his chest. He stared until he heard the sound of his houseguest stirring downstairs and light began to spill from his window. He stared until, at last, his eyes were too tired to stare anymore, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.
...
When Alfred next opened his eyes, it took a moment for him to collect his thoughts. They came back to him in waves. At first, they were gentle crests; but then, as the tsunami that was Arthur's death crashed down around him, he felt flattened to his bed with more than just physical exhaustion. He was soaked, vulnerable, shivering. He wondered when it would hurt less. And how.
Glancing at the digital clock on Arthur's night stand, he swore and rolled over to grab the phone on his bedside table. He groggily punched in the numbers for his brother's home phone.
"Al? How are you feeling?"
Bless caller ID. It had already made this conversation much faster.
"Hey, Matt. Listen, I'm gonna need a favor from you."
Matthew paused, likely because Alfred hadn't answered his question, and he wasn't sure what that meant. "Sure, Al. Anything. What do you want?"
"I'm gonna need you to go to the airport with me."
There was a long silence on the other end. Then, his brother spoke in a low voice. "I thought... you took care of that yesterday."
Alfred realized what he was talking about and swallowed hard. "Damn, not - that! I... I gotta pick up a car."
He could hear his brother sigh a heavy sigh of relief. "Oh. Okay. I thought I had that date right." Matthew seemed to remember that this was an odd request. He cleared his throat. "May I, uh, ask why?"
"Long story," Alfred grumbled. "I'll tell you when I pick you up. Be there in five."
"O-okay. But, um, before you hang up, Al, how are you feeling?"
Alfred caught his breath to keep from tearing up. He channeled some of that sadness into anger as he snapped, "How do you think?" and not-so-gently jammed the phone back into its cradle.
Quickly, Alfred pulled off the clothes he had worn yesterday and replaced them with whatever his hands touched first out of his closet. (They hesitated on Arthur's clothes, then swept them aside, to the corners of the closet where he wouldn't have to see them) In the bathroom, he quickly brushed his teeth and ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it into place. He contemplated shaving, but then decided that it would take too long. The golden stubble was subtle, but it still made him look significantly older, or perhaps that was how hectic his life had been lately doing that. Either way it was a change, and Alfred found that he wanted to be as different a person as possible from who he had been yesterday.
Coming out of the bathroom, Alfred stopped to put his discarded clothes in the hamper (a habit pounded into him by Arthur) before making his way into the hall and down the steps. It wasn't until he was slipping on his shoes that he was reminded of his house guest.
"Leaving without breakfast?" The voice drifted lazily towards him like a waft of slow-spreading smoke. Typical Frenchman.
Alfred shot him a mere glance before he resumed looking at his feet. "I'm getting your car. Don't bother offering to come. You need the rest."
"Why?" Francis asked, lip curling. "Because of my grief, or because you think I'm such an... addict?"
"Both," Alfred confessed. After all, Francis's delusions could be easily connected to both, couldn't they?
"Fie on you," Francis sighed, sinking onto the living room couch. "I wouldn't have offered to come anyway. You owe me. Untrusting bastard that you are."
Alfred felt his temper flare. "First of all, I am not untrusting. I know for a fact you're an addict."
"Because I am Arthur's friend?" Francis sneered. "From his old life?"
"How about because I fucking saved you from OD'ing on that shit?" Alfred snarled. "Which brings me to my next point: I owe you nothing. I fucking saved your life! Of course, you've probably conveniently forgotten that."
Francis paused. "I remember... bits and pieces..."
Alfred clenched his hand over the door knob. "Yeah, well, know this: I don't owe you shit. Why would you even think otherwise? I hardly know you."
"I told you," Francis huffed. "You stole Arthur from me!"
Jaw tense, Alfred turned away, pulling the door open. "Fuck you. I'll be back with your car in an hour."
...
"So he just broke down on the tarp?"
"Yeah, yeah. Poor bastard was probably high out of his mind. I knew Arthur shouldn't have trusted that guy. First he fucking gives us AIDs, and now..." Alfred leaned over the steering wheel, tightening this grip. "And now, this just proves how fucked up he is."
Matthew sighed, about to speak when the car wrenched to a stop. He watched beside him as his brother flew into a rage at the driver who had cut him off. Matthew did not speak until after Alfred had slumped into his and released the break. Even then, he waited for the string of curses to die down.
He started with a preliminary compliment to help ease into the conversation. "That's very kind of you, to do something like that for him."
"Damn straight," Alfred grumbled. "Speaking of which, did I tell you what that guy had the nerve to say to me this morning?"
He relayed the words they had exchanged to his brother, who tried not to get too visibly nervous as Alfred got heated at the memory and began to raise his voice.
"And then I reminded him that if it weren't for me, he'd be dead! I mean-"
"Wait," Matthew cut in. "How?"
"What?"
"How, how would he be dead? I thought he was hallucinating."
"He was," Alfred explained. "But that's not what I was talking about. You see, a week ago, when Arthur, um, passed away..." He paused to swallow. "I decided to tell Francis myself, and I found him on the floor, unconscious. I figured he'd OD'ed - all the telltale signs were there, I mean,. empty pill bottles and scattered pills and everything."
"I didn't know that," Matthew said incredulously. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Because I was a little busy," Alfred grumbled. The two silenced at that, but not for long. Surprisingly, however, it wasn't the usually chatty sibling to break the silence.
"Still - what a thing to witness! And you saved him? Wow. Just, wow. I'd have thought you'd be real excited about that and tell me right away."
"Yeah, well." Alfred glared at the road. "I'm kind of regretting it, now."
Matthew snorted. "You don't mean that."
"Maybe not. But maybe I do. He probably didn't want my help anyway," Alfred pointed out," if he was so ready to kill himself in the first place."
"I'm sure he's grateful, deep down."
"I'm not so sure," Alfred retorted. "He's not really made himself out to be much of a house guest yet, either."
...
Francis made a face of disgust as his peek into the fridge proved fruitless. And vegetable-less. And in general, truly tasteless. It didn't surprise him that Arthur had lived here not too long ago; there were some preserved bits of burnt food that looked as though they'd been concocted by a certain green-eyed blonde.
Growing sad at that thought, Francis shut the refrigerator door. Perhaps he could just eat some of the gelatins left behind by the mourners. There was an army of them lining the counters and taking over the kitchen table.
On second thought, he wasn't feeling too keen about a meal. He was still shaking off that lousy feeling of shame he'd gotten arguing Alfred this morning. He didn't know why he felt like that, though, since Alfred was a total bastard who deserved all of it. Except Arthur being dead, of course, since that affected Francis, too.
Emptiness. He'd cried himself out and now he felt thoroughly sucked dry. Well, no, not dry, exactly. It was hard to explain; all he could say was that he didn't feel right, and that it was more than a little awful that he wouldn't be seeing Arthur anymore. He wanted to leave, but he needed his car to get home. He wondered how far the park was from here.
Francis wandered into the living room. If he was left alone, he might as well do some snooping. This place was pretty nice looking. A little old fashioned - shades of Arthur - but anyway, Francis wasn't buying the whole "perfect, happy home" routine. No way. There was something wrong with these two and he was going to figure out what it was.
He started by rummaging through drawers in the living room. If there was any incriminating evidence to be found, it wouldn't be among the silverware. Francis found a lot of domestic and medical magazines, some brochures, and a snow globe. The brochures were for places like Mexico and Hawaii, the generic tropic getaways. Very un-Arthur, if anyone were to ask Francis.
Of course, how well do you even know him anymore? a voice in the back of his head inquired. He tried to push those thoughts had slept with Francis even thought he'd been living with Alfred for years. Meaning that to some extent, Arthur had chosen him.
But you can't say that for sure, and now it's too late to ask Arthur yourself.
Francis grit his teeth and swallowed. He swallowed and swallowed and tried not to think about anything. He breathed hard through his nose. What was up with that stupid snow globe, anyway?
He held it up to his face, concentrating on it, distracting himself. Slowly, he began to realize how odd the scene inside was: three boys were chasing each other up the steps of a slide, each at varying stages of approaching the chute. One was just grasping the bars of the ladder; one was at the top, overlooking the playground from where he gripped the rungs; and the third had begun the descent, his arms in the air, the close-lipped smile on his face giving him an air of knowing something no one else did. It seemed an almost unfitting expression for the scene, and Francis decided that it was bad painting on the artist's part.
Watching the flakes settle gently at the boys' feet, Francis wondered whose snow globe it was. Alfred's? Arthur's? Was it a souvenir someone had dumped on one or the other, or had they chosen it with utmost care? He stared, the storm inside it having long come to a halt.
The wry expression on the sliding boy's face made Francis remember something. It was about Arthur, from before.
It was one of the first days of their affair - literally, the second or the third. They had spent an entire afternoon in the throes of sex. Thinking back, Francis can't help but wonder about the details - did Arthur have a job? Why wasn't he there? What had he told Alfred? All these aspects hadn't even occurred to Francis then and there must be answers to each, but how could he know? Arthur rarely talked about his other relationship to Francis. In fact, that was one of the reasons this particular instance stood out.
They were lying side by side, feeling really peaceful because of the afterglow and all that. Their togetherness gave Francis a sort of nostalgia, especially after he looked his room over; he had the same messy habits he'd had since high school, so this room wasn't all that different from the one back then. For some reason, this comparison made Francis very sad. The good old days were such for a reason. Why did Arthur have to go and ruin that, running off like he had? Why?
"Why Alfred?" Francis asked the ceiling. Beside him, Arthur's breathing had become more deliberately paced.
"He showed me unconditional love."
Francis turned over onto his side. "That's not it."
Arthur shut his eyes. "Believe whatever you want," he said with a yawn. "It's hardly relevant now."
Lips pursed, Francis continued to stare hard at the other man's face. Silently, he was demanding he bend to his will. But Arthur wouldn't talk.
"What's the appeal, anyway?" Francis said finally. "I mean, I'm just as good looking."
Arthur's responding shrug stung. It wasn't of indifference to the content of the question, so much as a statement of I don't feel like this right now. Still, Francis plowed on, determined to make him talk. "What's he got that I don't, huh?"
"A job, for one. He doesn't live off favors people owe him."
Francis scowled. "Oh, yeah? And what's this job that's such a turn-on for you?"
There was a pause. "He's a plastic surgeon."
Whoa - big bucks. The thought of what all that money could buy made Francis dizzy. So did the education involved - maybe Alfred wasn't the dumb schmuck he thought he was. Still, Francis knew he had to say something biting or risk losing the fight. "So he spends all day cutting open breasts and women's fatty thighs, giving liposuction. No wonder he's gay."
"He's not in it for that," Arthur said defensively. "He's a very good person. He fixes harelips and things. Does skin grafts on burn victims. Charity work."
"Very touching," Francis replied dryly. "But all the time? You can't get by on charity work, dear."
Arthur hesitated again. "Well, no, not all the time. You're right, it wouldn't pay much. But that's not the point - even if the work seems selfish, his original motives are utterly selfless."
"Maybe he gets off on being thanked," Francis pointed out. "Or he's building up a sparkling resume."
Another pause. "You're wrong. He's not like that." But the words sounded hollow, recited. Francis had gotten him thinking, even if he didn't want to acknowledge it.
Arthur rolls onto his side, away from Francis. He says very softly what a good, hard-working person Alfred is, what a cynic Francis is, how jealous of Francis, and don't be such a nitwit. But he doesn't make a move to leave, meaning he wants to be here more than he feels hurt by what Francis has said. Meaning this whole ordeal, to Francis, is a victory.
Or not, he thinks now. In the present, that wry, mysterious look on Arthur's face means a thousand different things. Maybe he didn't want to leave because he wasn't expected home and had nowhere else to go. Maybe he wanted to stay around to fix Francis the way Alfred had so kindly fixed him. Maybe, maybe. So many maybes. There are just too many uncertainties in life, Francis thinks.
...
Naturally, Alfred was also thinking about Arthur. In the quiet of his own car, with his brother trailing behind in Francis's, he had lost the will to convey his anger, or to entertain it. Anger took up too much energy, the upside of this being that it sometimes exhausted him so much that he couldn't bring himself to think.
Right now, though, he wanted to think. He decided to focus on nice memories: their journey to Niagara Falls with Matt and his former fiancé; watching Arthur's face erupt into a smile when he (dishonestly) commended him on a delicious meal, after Arthur had had a particularly bad day; sleeping beside Arthur, watching him sleep, waking up and finding that Arthur liked to watch him, too...
With a small, crooked smile, Alfred adjusted his rearview mirror and caught sight of his brother on the phone in the car behind him . Alfred's expression unhinged slightly; hopefully, the call had nothing to do with him. He had already told Matthew that he didn't want their mother barging in on his life until he was ready.
"What do you mean, ready?" Matthew frowns. "She only wants to comfort you." "You know it wouldn't turn out that way," Alfred replies drearily. To this day, he couldn't understand how his brother put so much faith in their mother. "At least "I "Okay," his brother gives in, pouting. "But I still think you're being a little silly. No one's asking you to suck it up and be the hero, Al. Mom's going to let you mourn - you
And he still had Francis to deal with.
"It's a wonder that you can care about everyone without stretching yourself thin."Traffic at a stand-still, Alfred allowed himself the luxury of shutting his eyes and picturing that memory.
They are on the phone together. Alfred is at the office from which he ran his private practice, and Arthur is at home. The local hospital is requesting Alfred's help for an emergency skin graft and he won't be getting home for another several hours. He won't be paid for it, either, and thus Arthur had made his comment. "They need me," Alfred replies huffily. "I'm not stretching myself thin." "I didn't say you were," Arthur says. His voice is disappointed. "I said that it's a wonder you haven't yet. Meaning you still can, so be careful." "I can't just ignore this," Alfred says with finality. "I'm going. Don't bother making dinner for two." "Fine, go, go. What a shame. Since you won't be bringing home any compensation for your heroic efforts, I was supposing I'd just have to be the one to reward you. But now that you're in such a mood..." Alfred's ears perked up. "What? Bad mood? Who's in a mood? You know I love you, more than anybody else in the world?" Arthur chuckled. "Goodbye, Alfred."
Summoning up what little strength the day has left him, Alfred hoists Arthur into his arms bridal-style and carries him to their room. He lays him down on the bed and gets to work preparing for sleep, brushing his teeth while he strips off articles of work clothing. When he gets back to bed, Arthur hasn't budged. Alfred is under the impression that he is still asleep, but as he is slipping under the covers beside him, Arthur speaks. "I said it would happen, didn't I?" "Ha?" Alfred grunts, shifting where he lays. "Said what would happen?" "Good night, Alfred."
"Dammit, Alfred! Did it ever occur to you that when you wear yourself down, you're wearing me down?"Oh, that. Right.
"Other people don't matter to me! I care about you!"He'd stopped a majority of his charity surgeries then, under the impression that the local hospital wanted not his skill but the fact that they could get away with not paying him. He got fewer calls from burn victims and more from women who wanted breast enhancements. For the first time in his life, Alfred became successful instead of selfless, and that made him feel guilty. He could go back to the way things had been, but he feared Arthur's reaction, and so remained miserable... and began to blame Arthur.
Is that why he cheated on me?Alfred felt even more tired than ever. Apparently, a myriad of emotions could do that even better than anger alone could.
...
Alfred left Matthew outside, thinking that since his brother was already in his own car anyway, he might as well drive home now. However, he wouldn't be surprised to look out a window and still find him in the driveway. Matt was obstinate that Alfred needed to be babied, and in the presence of copious amounts of human company, in his current state of mourning. He had begged to be let in, but Alfred had refused. He really needed to be alone, and as soon as he got rid of Francis, he could achieve that.
However, Alfred's house guest was not in the living room where he had left him. Frowning, Alfred wandered into the kitchen, hoping for the other man's sake that he was still somewhere downstairs.
A mere glance into the room proved he was not there. Still, Alfred compulsively stepped inside to make sure, though he already had a feeling he knew where Francis had gone. He slowly paced the kitchen, looking for warmth, a mess, or some sort of proof that Francis had perhaps had breakfast and, in the process, helped rid Alfred of some of the excess food he had been receiving since the obituaries had been posted. Absent-mindedly sliding it along the counter, Alfred's hand smacked into a bottle, knocking it over and producing a plastic, maraca-like sound.
Released from his reveries by the din, Alfred made eye contact with the label of his prescription bottle. One does twice a day, and he'd get to live to see another. Alfred realized with little fanfare that he hadn't taken any for a few days, what with the funeral and now Francis to take care of. He wondered whether or not to pick it up now.
Of course you should, idiot, a voice in the back of his mind scoffed. You want to live, don't you?
Francis entered the room then. Alfred could hear how his footsteps went from a normal pace to one of caution.
"Were you upstairs?" Alfred asked. If Francis were to say no, even if Alfred heard the lie in his voice, he would have let him go. Honestly, right now, he didn't want to fight. Not with Francis so close to leaving for good.
"Yeah. Is that a problem?" The sneer in his statement nearly set Alfred off, but he controlled himself. He gripped his hands onto the counter's edge tighter and kept not looking at Francis. He said, "Yeah, that is. But you didn't know, so it's okay."
"It's okay because this is Arthur's house, too." Alfred turned around, nearly panicking. Was Francis losing it again? The other man was glaring at him. "Arthur would have no problem with my being here. I bet that pisses you off."
Everything went red. Alfred grit his teeth and began to count. "I got your damn car. Go the fuck home." One, two, three...
"Make me," Francis challenged. Four...
"Dammit, I'm trying to help you!" Five, six...
"I don't want your help!" Francis hollered. "Fat help you were to Arthur!"
Ten.
Alfred lunged at him and the two went toppling onto the ground. Francis was no pushover; he fought back, and he fought back hard. In fact, his life experiences had made him a better fighter than Alfred. However, the other man was stronger and pinned him quickly. Francis's life had made him strong, but his lifestyle had also made him regrettably thin. He thrashed beneath Alfred, but to no avail.
"Don't you blame me!" Alfred screamed into his face. "I took care of him! You killed him!"
Francis struggled. Alfred couldn't tell if the agony on his face was from their physical fight or the verbal one. "If that's - ng! - what you believe, fine. At least I get to kill you in the process!"
"That doesn't matter!" Alfred cried, tears of anger stinging his eyes as his hands curled around Francis's throat. "Arthur's still dead!"
Alfred squeezed his eyes shut for only a moment, his tears having blurred his vision. But that moment was all it took: Francis punched him in the face and threw him off, Alfred's glasses clattering to the floor in the process. Bewildered, he reached for them, only to find Francis's weight pressing down on his chest. His forearms were being ground into the tile by Francis's vice-like grip, and he hissed in pain, squirming. "Get off1"
They struggled together a few moments more until they were panting at the effort. Inside them both, the anger had quelled, replaced instead with exhaustion and the dull ache of sadness. Alfred said, "Do you really want to stay that badly?"
"No." Francis set his nemesis free, rolling onto the floor beside him so he could catch his breath. "I just, I just wanted to see where Arthur lived. What was so grand about it that he was so unwilling to leave it."
Alfred turned his head so as to look Francis in the eye, to offer him some words of comfort. The words became caught in his throat, finding that the other man had rested on his side, his back to Alfred. He was hugging his shoulders close to himself.
Sitting up, Alfred said softly, "Hey. You can stay a little longer if you want. If it gives you closure, look around." Then, remembering, "I brought your car back, so you can leave whenever you're ready. Don't feel obligated to go so soon, though."
Still not looking at the other man, Francis kept his gaze trained beneath one of the kitchen counters. Alfred could see that his eyes weren't really seeing anything they touched on.
Francis spoke, frankly. "I'll never get closure." There was a pregnant pause, then, "I'm not ready..." He trailed off, then tried again. "I don't like..." he bit his tongue before he could say "you", then cursed, dragging himself to sit up. "You don't really want me here."
"That's not true," Alfred said, surprised at how honest it felt. He was suddenly embarrassed by his statement. He was supposed to hate Francis, yet by nature Alfred was unable to hate anyone in such a helpless state. He remembered Francis telling him he didn't need to be helped and decided to make up another reason. "I don't want to be alone right now."
"Then spend the night with your friends, your family. People you enjoy being with."
He shook his head. "They'd just smother me. These past few days, every time they gather, I feel so claustrophobic. It's like their pity makes the room smaller. I don't want them all looking at me like that. I want things to be normal again."
Those were the sorts of thoughts he had used to confess to Arthur. He alone was privy to them, and now, having said them aloud after keeping them bottled up for mere days, Alfred was relieved. Francis, on the other hand, didn't know quite how to take any of it.
An idea came to him suddenly. "Francis, would you talk to me about him?"
The other man blinked, once, twice, and looked at him incredulously. "What do you mean? Arthur?" He frowned at Alfred's pleading look. "Don't you already know enough?"
"No," Alfred said honestly. "There were some parts of his life he never shared with me, that I'm sure you were a part of. Could you please tell me about them? Please?"
Francis was looking at him warily and feeling as though Alfred was asking him for something that was precious and exclusively his. Alfred continued to plead. "Please? I never got to hear it from him. I would have loved to, but now I can't ever. Please, this is all I have."
Francis chuckled softly. "'Please', you say. 'All' you have. You have all this." Francis gestured around him, implying the house and all within. Arthur was in the wallpaper, the air, the very shape of every object. This fact was glaringly obvious. "Those memories, on the other hand, are all mine. All I have."
"I can share mine with you, too," Alfred replied, determined. "I can even give you physical things of his. 'Cause looking at all this -" again, a gesture, "- just makes me sad."
Alfred realized he must sound like a raving lunatic, but honestly, if straws were all he had to grasp at, then by God he would grasp at straws. He figured that what he was offering Francis had to be worth as much to him as what his memories would mean to Alfred.
Francis stared at the ground. "I don't like you."
"I don't like you either," Alfred quickly replied. The other man fixed him with a poker face, studying him, his sincerity.
"Fine," said Francis. "Let's meet someplace green."
...
Several hours later, Alfred was reheating some chicken that a coworker had sent when the doorbell rang. By this point, everyone he knew had paid him their condolences, meaning that this could only be one of two people: Francis, having forgotten something, or Matthew, here to suffocate him with some more brotherly love.
Instead, it was Elizabeth. Alfred's mother.
The little woman frowned at him from behind her glasses and he inwardly groaned. She was gong to scold him now for refusing her visits, wasn't she?
Then he noticed the slight trembling of her bottom lip, the way her vibrant green eyes filled with tears. When she spoke, her entire face transformed from its usual scowl to an expression of complete and utter loss.
"Did you truly think you were too old to need your mum?" She tried to keep her tone biting, remain true to character, but instead she ended up sounding like a soft old woman. Which, Alfred realized with a start, she actually was now. This epiphany reminded him of another one he'd had, back when he was seventeen. He'd been going through a rebellious stage, and at one point, during a fight with his mother, he had squared his shoulders, reared up, and shouted, "I hate you!" Her recoiling to his comment had made her seem so much smaller, and at that moment, Alfred had realized that he had actually grown a head taller and become broader shouldered than his once imperialistic mother. She could truly do nothing, physically, to stop him from doing anything.
Now, in the present, Alfred wrapped his arms around his mother, her tears causing a few to involuntarily spark in his own eyes. "Mom," he sniffed, "I'm so glad you're here."
"Silly boy," she scolded. Or, tried to. He could feel the warmth radiating from her. "You sure didn't seem to want me here every time I asked. But I just..." She halted, getting choked up. "I just couldn't let you go through this alone. So I came, anyway."
"I'm glad you did," he said, his attempt at chuckling muffled by a sob into her shoulder. "I'm really glad."
Eventually, a complaint from Elizabeth caused the two to go inside, and Alfred led his mother into the kitchen. There they sat, mother and son, alone together for the first time since Matthew had come to live with them in high school. They talked about idle things while Alfred almost instinctively put on tea for her, setting the coffee maker to brew a batch of cappuccino for himself. Surprisingly, their conversation only lulled when the kettle began to scream. Alfred stood to pour some tea for Elizabeth, however she declined and went to get it on her own.
"How are you dealing?" she asked, softly, deftly lifting her cup to her lips. His eyes paused in their inspection of her to fall to the table.
Alfred was tired of telling people he was fine. Steeling his breathing, he uttered, "I feel like... my heart's been torn out of my chest... and a big hole's just been left there to bleed and decay."
His mother seemed unsurprised by this answer. Her lips pressed into something reminiscent of a pitying grimace. "Sounds about right."
The coffee maker beeped. Elizabeth fetched her protesting son a cup before returning to her spot by the counter. A hush fell over the two, Alfred's mother taking dainty sips while her son swallowed his burning drink in huge gulps, trying to quell the tears threatening to render him immobile. He couldn't cry now. He needed to be able to talk about this.
Finally, Alfred set the empty cup down, taking a moment to catch his breath before he asked his mother question.
"Mom." She looked up. Alfred met her gaze. "How did you deal when Lou died?"
Elizabeth's face went from curious to shocked within moments. "Alfred!" she cried, her tone horrified. "How could you say that?"
He crinkled his brow at her. "What? Say what?"
"He was your father!" She said, English accent giving an extra authoritative tone to her anger. "He loved you and Matthew as if you boys were his own! Especially you!"
Watching her now, hands gripping the tops of dark cabinets, Alfred was reminded of how demanding and full of anger his mother had been in youth. Her heaving shoulders and fiery green eyes seemed for a moment to be that of a young woman, trapped in a marriage with a young man who loved her but whom she did not love back; trapped in a motherhood to two boys, one of whose father had vanished; and trapped in a country she could not begin to understand.
Alfred sighed. "Mom, I still don't understand what's wrong."
Her lip trembled. "You say that as if you didn't mourn at all when Loud died!"
Her voice shrilled over the "all", and when she was done speaking, she began to do as her son had earlier and rapidly swallowed down her tea.
"Of course I mourned, Mom, but it isn't the same," Alfred said lamely. "I didn't know him that well."
He thought of his mother's husband, a quiet Scottish man, holding the boys awkwardly and only when asked. Alfred thought of him working, of him watching the boys play with a beer in his hand and grunting a refusal to participate. Lou had looked much the same, Elizabeth had told her son once, when she had told him that Alfred wasn't his son, and then again when telling him that she was pregnant with yet another man's child. He hadn't thrown a fuss or seemed bothered at all; he merely pledged to take car of her, once and again.
Lou hadn't been nearly passionate enough for Alfred nor Elizabeth's demanding natures; it wasn't until the end that Alfred's mother had shown any appreciation for him at all.
Wiping her eyes, Elizabeth set her cup on the counter and then turned back to her son. She folded her hands in front of her lap as she stood, back pin-straight. "You 'didn't know him that well'," she repeated, shaking her head. "I never."
"Well, did you?" Alfred asked, frowning.
She looked thoughtful. "No. I suppose I didn't, either." She smirked, eyes sad. "There. Are you happy, Alfred?"
"No," he confessed. He didn't want this to be like all the other times spent in his mother's company. He didn't want to fight . Hoping she'd simmer down, he stared at his cup and tried not to make eye contact for a while. Luckily, his mother felt the same way, and after a moment she came over to the table to sit beside him. She drew her chair up close, so she could stroke his hair. Gradually, Alfred let himself lean into the touch until his head was resting on her shoulder.
"When does it stop hurting?"
"It never stops hurting," she replied, fingers twisting in the many yellow strands. "You just learn to live around it."
...
Alfred had had to drive around for a while before he could find the entrance to the park. It was his first time visiting since moving here; funny, seeing as it'd always been a frequent haunt of Arthur's. Alfred was real outdoorsy, too. It was just that he'd never really thought about, or appreciated, that he was so close to such a place, full of nature and human socializing. As he trod past a decline, looking down into the basin of it where a mother and some children were feeding ducks in a meager pond, he felt at peace. Nervous, because of what he was about to share with Francis. But also peaceful, too.
Finding the right bench took a while, and Alfred nearly panicked, thinking he was lost, until he made it over a path on a hill, and just a few yards away by some mulberry trees he saw Francis. He looked fuller about the face than Alfred ever remembered seeing him (a good thing, seeing as he'd been skeletal before), and he was wearing tasteful clothing for a chilly spring day. If any stranger were to walk by him right now, they'd think he was totally normal, Alfred mused.
There was an elderly man sitting beside him on the bench, and Francis shrugged as though to say, What can you do? With a good-natured smile to both men, Alfred sat down on the other side of the stranger and began to wait.
Eventually, the elderly man hobbled off. Francis and Alfred did not close the space between them or even really look at each other. Out of the corner of their eyes, they watched, hoping that the other would begin first.
Because he didn't trust Francis, Alfred decided to start. "So. Let's start with how long you knew him."
"A long time," Francis said. He paused as if to count, but then gave up. "Since we were small children, anyway. It doesn't matter the exact number of years. It was most of our lives."
It felt weird putting it into words. Words were s concrete; it had always just been. It hadn't needed any confirmation or definition. "It" being... What? Their lives together? That sounded as if they belonged to one another. Now Francis felt even sadder than before.
He realized that Alfred's eyes were on him still, silently begging for him to go on. He was totally unaware of Francis's conflict. Then again, was that a bad thing?
"Tell me what he was like," Alfred coaxed. The blue of his iris seemed sadder than usual. "As a kid."
"Bossy," Francis snorted. He warmed at the memory of a pint-sized Arthur with his hands on his hips, ordering Antonio to stay out of the new sand box because it was his now, and anyone who wanted to play in it would need his permission. Naturally, Francis was never invited in, but he went anyway.
He looked at Alfred's eager face. Just this one memory, please. And he kept the thought to himself.
But he shared others, and without the resistance he expected to have. Alfred's eyes crinkled at the corners from his smiling at the stories, as though he were sharing in the recollection of these precious moments.
"Bossy," Alfred laughed. "It doesn't surprise me. Arthur was always a little bossy. I loved it. Sometimes."
Francis nodded in agreement, a smile tugging on his lips more easily than he wanted it to. "Ha, ha, yes. You're right."
A thought suddenly occurred to him. His smile faded, taking Alfred's with it. "No. Wait. Not always."
"What do you mean?" the other man implored. He could obviously sense Francis's distress. Anxious, he pushed his glasses up his face.
Francis hesitated. Arthur wouldn't want this - it was just too personal. It was a violation of his privacy, and he had been all about privacy.
But it doesn't matter what he might have wanted, Francis suddenly thought. Arthur's not here anymore.
"When we were in kindergarten," Francis began, "Arthur was a relatively meek kid. Cried all the time - partly because he was spoiled rotten, partly because he was depressed about his mother having remarried. I didn't really know that, though. I just knew I didn't like his face when he cried. So I teased him to keep him occupied, so that he wouldn't cry. And it worked."
Francis recounted what must have been his entire life to Alfred in that quiet afternoon. And if it wasn't his entire life, it was at least the most precious moments. He wasn't just letting slip the occasional piece of his own life, as one is want to do when telling a story for his own point of view.
Nevertheless, Alfred greedily captured every word, savoring it. Even when Francis got to the parts about college, he listened carefully, and he didn't tell Francis to stop or get back to the point when he began to talk about what his life had been like without Arthur, searching for him. Alfred saw that Francis needed to vent, and so he let him. The only place where he drew the line was the affair; even then, he let Francis describe a few instances, realizing that the vivid detail of Arthur's naked body wasn't meant to make him jealous, but for Francis himself, so that he could preserve the image, give it tangibility. At some points in the afternoon, Alfred cried, overwhelmed with emotions from memories that were not his, and then Francis would begin to cry, too.
"And that's it," Francis said eventually, meaning that it was now Alfred's turn to share. The dishwater blonde man wiped the tears out of his eyes with a shaky breath. He began to speak with considerably less confidence than Francis had. Alfred, unfortunately, was not as eloquent of a story teller, and his voice shook both from crying and with nerves as he recounted his first meeting with Arthur.
Despite his mechanical explanations and lack of a grasp of detail, Francis paid close attention. He kept his face straight and inoffensive as he listened, and eventually, Alfred gained a little more confidence in his narrative. It still wasn't phenomenal, though: Arthur had always been the one who was good with words, not him.
"I don't get it," Alfred sighed. He barely noticed that the color of the sky had by this time faded to dark orange. "He's the one who told me not to volunteer as much and try to get paid. But he still got all sad with me." He shook his head, the weight of it suddenly colossal. He'd never even confided these things in Matthew. So why did his mind feel so heavy? Shouldn't getting this off his chest make the load lighter?
Alfred hung his head, rubbing his palms into his eyes. "Maybe we were just falling out of love. That's why he cheated on me."
"No." Francis's face was solemn. "I think he still loved you," he admitted quietly.
"Then why would he do that?" Alfred asked. He put his palms out, as though to catch answers from the sky. "I don't understand."
Silence. Francis hesitated, unsure of if he wanted to speak. He feared how real his theory would become when put into words. He feared what it would mean for him when he did.
"I think you're wrong," Francis went on. "I think Arthur just didn't want you to give yourself away for any reason, because for good or bad, you were still giving yourself away, straining yourself. And I think Arthur had something personal to gain, too." Alfred's anxious expression gained some curiosity. "I think that by wearing yourself down, you were wearing him down, because he wanted you for himself. I think he wanted you so very badly, but you weren't there."
Alfred dug his teeth into his lip, trying to stave off his tears with physical pain. He bit so hard his lip bled.
"Did he tell you any of this for sure?" he asked, an air of urgency to his voice.
Francis could only shake his head. "You know Arthur. He never talked about anything." At this, Alfred's persona wilted. Francis sighed; "But I'm sure of it. I'm absolutely positive."
Alfred nodded dully. Francis had the feeling that he didn't believe him, and said so.
"It's not that," Alfred reassured him. "It's just, what good does any of that do me now? It's too late for me to have any of that time back."
Sometime later into his story, when the sky became the dusty color of twilight, Alfred reached the touchy subject of Arthur's sickness.
"We spent every second together those last days." He watched himself wring his hands, feeling Francis's eyes on him. "We cried a lot, though we tried not to. Mostly we just focused on being. I felt so nervous just laying down with him because he seemed so weak. He was like this... this tooth-pick sized version of himself. And I..." Alfred trailed off, thinking, then lifted his face. "You know how new parents are nervous to sleep with their babies in the same bed, 'cause they're scared they'll roll over and crush them in the night?" Alfred looked at him with terrified eyes, remembering. Francis nodded. "Well, that's how I felt with Arthur. Like the littlest pressure would him. And then at the end-"
"Stop there," Francis commanded, voice hoarse. "Okay? Just stop. You've given me enough."
Alfred worried his lower lip between his teeth. "Are you sure?" He didn't wait for Francis to reply, plowing on despite the fact that the other man had opened his mouth to do just that. "Because I truly want to keep my side of the bargain. I mean, I feel like you told me stuff that was really important, and all I did was tell you how happy he... how well he got on without you."
The comment stung, but Francis steeled his nerves. Alfred was not trying to offend him. "No, I really appreciate what you told me today. It's just... I'm not ready to hear that yet. I can live without knowing how he died."
They sat in silence a moment.. Several yards away, the first of the outdoor lamps lining the asphalt path through the park the dark violet sky, a faint trace of the moon, but no stars. Not yet.
"I don't feel like I've fulfilled my promise until I tell you," Alfred said. He wasn't looking at Francis. Behind his lenses of his glasses, his eyes scanned the sky, back and forth, looking for celestial bodies.
Francis didn't want to join his search. He folded his hands in his lap and stared at them. "I am sorry. I just can't."
"That's fine." Alfred's eyes lit up with interest, which died once he realized that the shooting star he'd been following was just an airplane. "I suppose I'll just have to wait until you're ready. Until then," and now, Francis could feel his gaze resting on the side of his face, "I guess I'm the one who owes you."
He was agreeing with Francis, whether he truly believed it or not. Slowly, Francis hunched over, elbows on his knees, hands kneading through silky blonde curls. Alfred owed Francis. He had said it because he didn't need Francis. Francis needed him. And Alfred needed somebody to need him, so he had done it without making Francis lose, without making him weak. He did it by letting Francis win.
"Thank you," Francis sobbed. Because everyone occasionally needs a friend.
...
Once upon a time, there was a boy named Francis in love with another boy named Arthur.
Once upon another time, there was a young man named Alfred also in love with the young man named Arthur.
So once upon a time, Arthur had been a boy who loved another boy named Francis. Then he became a young man, and he loved another young man named Alfred.
Time passed, and the three became men. Arthur was still sure that he loved one, but not sure that he didn't love the other. And that was unfair. Then Arthur died, and Alfred and Francis, who hated each other, were left together. And that, too, was unfair.
Yet somehow, they made do. Sometimes, that's all one can ever do.
Sometimes, that's life.
...
The End
I want to give enormous thanks to my readers. Your reviews inspired me - you understood me! That makes my heart absolutely swell! And those of you who didn't were perfectly in the right, too, because life doesn't always make sense. Even those of you who didn't review but merely added this to your favorites or alerts truly warmed my heart. All of instilled me with confidence. Thank you.
I could write a novel about my experiences writing this, the many messages and symbols hidden throughout, but I won't. I want you to interpret it for yourselves and find your own meaning in it. I will give you this, though: Alfred's mother is Igiko. I felt female England was only appropriate, given that many historians - and historic figures, such as Thomas Paine - have tended to compare the relationship between America and England to that of a mother and her child. Whether this reflects at all on Alfred's relationship with Arthur is entirely up to you. I'm not a fan of Freud myself.
Well, I love you all, and I hope that this little story made for a nice reprieve. :)