A/N: Anime Expo Day 4! Happy Independence Day! What better way to celebrate Independence Day than by reading about how America gained his independence from... Japan... Yesterday was super fun - I finally shopped around lol, did karaoke again, and then saw the dance exhibition. That was basically it. :P I don't know what I'll get up to today, but I know I'll have a blast (get it? lol because of the fireworks tonight) and it was overall a wonderful con (again) and I already can't wait to go next year!
This is the last chapter. I sincerely hope you like it because, guys, the response has been amazing. You guys and your likes and comments and stuff - jeez, they're the highlight of my day, even at the expo. Tell me what you think at the end of this, yeah? I want to hear your thoughts. Love you all! (Also, fun fact! this is like the longest fic/story I've ever written :P) Have a sensational day! :)
Tino did not have any children. Maybe one day, but as it was currently, he had yet to know what being a father was like, what it felt like to love a child as his own. For that reason, Tino thinks this next interview was going to be enlightening.
After more hoops and express permissions, Tino and the two interviewees were seated in the family room of Alfred Jones's childhood home. On the couch before him sat two aging people. One, a man in his sixties - George Hancock, the man who had been cast as Jones's father. The other, a woman in her late fifties - Martha Norris, the woman who had been cast as Jones's mother. When they had first arrived at the home, Norris had started to tear up. Thankfully, she managed to calm herself before they officially started filming, so no real time had been taken up.
Tino wasted no time when he's told to get started. "What was it like being Alfred Jones's parents? Commonly you were referred to as being the country's parents. What was it like having that responsibility?" The two questions don't seem to faze either of them; they answer with practiced ease.
"I was honored to be his father," Hancock said smiling. "The only reason I agreed to 'die' was because I knew that he'd be all right without me and millions of kids across the nation would be able to see themselves on TV, a child growing up with only one parent because the other had died." He paused and considered his next words. "It was difficult, though, leaving him behind. I loved him, still do, and I didn't want to see him hurt, but when it came down to it - it was the higher up's decision. Knowing I could turn on my TV and see him helped… though it didn't really help for him."
Norris reached over and patted his hand before looking up at Tino and answering. "Being Alfred's mother was the highlight of my life. I can't have children of my own and when this job popped up, I was over the moon." Her eyes lit up with memories and her smile went soft. "I know I wasn't perfect, but I tried my hardest to be the best mom possible, and he was such a wonderful little boy." Her eyes start to go misty, so Tino launches right into the next question.
"Did the idea of violation of privacy ever cross your minds during filming?"
Hancock frowns and shifts back. "I never really saw it that way. Whether a child can appear on TV or not is up to its parents and, in this case, Alfred's 'parent' was a corporation who put him on TV." Alfred Jones had been the only child ever to be adopted by a corporation which is how Honda Productions had gotten over that disagreement for so long.
Norris nods her head. "It wasn't like the cameras followed him in the shower. I thought of it more like it was a massive diary being kept."
Tino waits a moment to make sure that they're done speaking before asking his most difficult question. "Now, I know you weren't there, Mr. Hancock - and I'll get to you in a moment, Mrs. Norris - but what did you think of the end of the show?" As far as he knew, Hancock had never been asked this question because it wasn't directly related to him, but Tino wanted his perspective, the 'dead' father's perspective.
On the couch, Hancock shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. "I was… heartbroken, I guess, there's no other word for it." His eyes come to rest on his lap and he fiddles with his hands. "I'd been watching Alfred for his entire life and for it to fall apart around him like that… I felt helpless and incredibly guilty."
"And what about you, Mrs. Norris," Tino asks, looking at her when it appears Hancock has become too overcome with emotion to speak.
"I…." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She holds for a few seconds before exhaling and opening her eyes again. "It shouldn't have ended like that. For years, I tried to blame other people for what had happened; it took me a long time to realize I was to blame just as much as anybody else." Her eyes start tearing up again and Tino tenses. If she starts crying, there was a high chance that he would start crying, and he'd rather not. "But that last night… when he came home, I didn't know what to think. Everything happened so fast that by the time it was over, I couldn't comprehend what had happened. I just remember thinking that - that I had failed him." A tear slips down her cheek, and then another and another, and then Hancock places an arm around her shoulders and she allows herself to be pulled against him before she starts full on sobbing.
Tino has to look away.
Love wasn't something he thought about often. It was just something he took for granted.
He loved his mom. Through all of her faults and his recent frustrations with her, he doesn't think that he could ever stop loving her. It was ingrained into his being to love her. And just as he loves her, she loves him too. They told each other "I love you" as often as other parent and child did, but he doesn't think he has ever stopped to consider how much he loved her, or how much she loved him. It was unconditional in his opinion, something that would never end, and in that way he took it for granted.
He loved Matthew. This, he definitely didn't think about all too often. His brother had always had his back, never judged him, and did his best to protect him like an older brother does (three days older, but still). He doesn't tell Matthew that he loves him enough. He should say it more than he does, because he loves him a lot. When that love developed, he isn't quite sure, but the years had passed without realizing it and he had gained a brother. The love between him and Matthew was unconditional, or so he felt, something that had sturdy walls holding it up, and in that way he took it for granted.
He loved his friends. Well, he's pretty sure he does. He's never really thought about it, but they were like brothers he had had by his side since forever. They might not get along all the time, but Magnus and Yong Soo had familiar presences and he doesn't know what he would do without them. He's sure they feel the same about him, otherwise why would they stick around? They had a friendly love, one that wavered but never broke, and in that way he took it for granted.
He loved his dad. It was an unconditional love while it was there, an unconditional love he had thought wouldn't wash away with the sea because it was the sea, big and deep, and in that way he had taken it for granted.
Losing his father was a lesson in love. Because while he still loved his father, he wasn't sure anymore that his father could love him back beyond the grave. People always talked about how his dad wasn't really gone because he lived in his heart, that his father still loved him up in heaven, and while Alfred believed them, he couldn't help but think that giving love, rather than receiving it, had an expiration date. Those people kept saying, "You're father loved you," not "Your father loves you."
Alfred only had so much time to love people and feel their love.
He doesn't love Arthur. But he definitely likes him. He feels that he could love Arthur if given enough time. The way he feels about Arthur isn't the way he feels about his mom, or Matthew, or Magnus and Yong Soo. It's so radically different that he's blown away by the feeling. And yet, sometimes, it's not so different at all. He wants to support Arthur, keep him company, not judge him and not be judged by him. He wants to hold him, and kiss him, and go on dates with him, and do everything couples do - like couples out on the street, or couples on TV, in the movies, he didn't care where. It could be a new kind of love, the first of its kind in New Haven, one that he hopes he won't take for granted.
But it's a love only Alfred has. Unless he does something about it.
...
He really shouldn't be thinking about it. He really shouldn't be thinking about something that could get him into more trouble than he's already in.
The clock on his desk tells him Winter Formal started about an hour ago. He had had dinner around that time. His mom is watching TV in the family room and he's pretty sure Matthew's in his room. For the past hour, he's been contemplating sneaking out again. And it's so bad to say, but he's really tempted to, consequences be damned.
Arthur is leaving on a plane in the morning. If Alfred doesn't leave now, he'll never see him again. It's now or never and the fear of rejection is stronger than the fear of being grounded until he's fifty. But he can't justify not telling Arthur how he feels, and most of his reasons are selfish, but feelings are inherently selfish.
He's tries his best not to think too hard as he leans an ear against the door. The TV is on, louder than it needs to be, and that's all the confidence he needs to put on his shoes and a warm coat before he's prying open his bedroom window as quietly as he can. When he has it open, he climbs out and shuts it mostly closed, but not all the way. Then he's off.
It is hellishly cold outside. But he pushes through and walks faster to build up body heat. He passes by the high school and barely acknowledges the music thrumming from inside the gym. He keeps going until he reaches Arthur's house. It hadn't changed much from the last time he saw it, not that he expected it to, and quickly analyzes the best way to get around to the back without a person seeing him pass by a window.
He ducks down to stay undetected and creeps silently pass what he assumes to be the family room window; the light is on, but he doesn't check to see if people are in it. He can only pray that Arthur is in his room. When he's around the back, there are three windows - one on a door, a small one high up, and one that has light coming out of it. Quickly, he goes towards the light and hopes his prayers have been answered.
They have and he lightly knocks on the window. Arthur appears in an instant, a call of "Alfred?" on his lips, muffled by the glass. He opens the window and continues speaking, "What on Earth are you here for?"
"I wanted to see you one last time," he admits. He hopes he doesn't sound crazy because Arthur is staring at him with enough disbelief to last him a lifetime.
"Aren't you still grounded?"
He grimaces and nods. "Yeah, I am. But I figured it was worth it." Arthur looks taken aback, like he can't believe he's worth being grounded over. Which isn't really much of a compliment, but it was never intended to be anyway. "Sneak out with me," he suggests and this is the moment of truth.
"What?" He fixes Alfred with a hard stare. "So I can be grounded, too?"
"I won't tell if you won't tell." His limbs are buzzing with adrenaline and he feels like bouncing off the walls. It's still cold and standing still is definitely not helping.
Arthur sighs, frustrated. "That's not - look, I'm not here so you can have some kind of teenage rebellion-"
"If this was teenage rebellion, would I have listened to you talk about Shakespeare?" He tries his best not to let on how insulted he feels because he still needs to convince him to come out with him. For his part, Arthur looks chastened. "Please. Just for a walk."
"I need to get up early tomorrow," he says by way of an excuse, throwing a look over his shoulder at his bedroom door. Alfred understands that anxiousness, but he isn't going to relent.
"You can sleep on the plane," he says with a smile.
His smile is met by a scrutinizing look. "I may come to regret this."
"I sure hope not."
It's silent for a moment and Alfred wonders if he really will turn him down, but he says, "Let me grab a coat," and turns away to start.
Alfred can barely contain his victory dance, but somehow he manages. As gracefully as he can, Arthur climbs out his window and they both sneak around the house to start their walk. He has no intention of taking up too much of Arthur's time, but just a little will be enough.
Their trip down the street back to where the high school is calm enough, but when they reach the corner to Main Street, Arthur grabs his arm and stops him. "Follow me," he says seriously and Alfred only has a moment to nod before they're running down the street, making twists and turns, ducking behind bushes and trash cans, sometimes feigning to go a certain direction before doubling back. It's confusing and wild and he doesn't understand why they're doing it, but he goes along anyway.
Arthur finally slows down when they're behind a shoe shop over on Polk Avenue, about a mile or two from the high school. They're both panting, and Alfred watches their breath smoke up and away into the dark night. He glances up into Arthur's eyes, alight with excitement, and he can't help but smile. The smile turns into a breathy laugh and Arthur joins in.
"Sorry," he says after a while. "That was weird, I know, but I didn't want anybody to follow us."
It's an odd choice of words - it's after nine o'clock in New Haven, not many people are out and about and a lot of businesses had already closed for the night. But Alfred doesn't ponder on it for too long. "'S'okay," he says. "I don't mind." He nods his head quickly, silently asking to walk and Arthur follows.
He feels calm again, the feeling seeping into his skin like a breath of air. It's cold out, but with Arthur next to him, he feels warm. They walk side by side behind the shoe shoppe, which turns into the bookstore, and so on. He can feel his hand brushing against Arthur's every once and awhile, sending sparks up his arm, and he wonders if it would be too much to take it in his.
Before that thought has fully formed, however, Arthur's hand wraps around his, shyly, like it isn't sure it can. "Is this okay," Arthur asks, squeezing his hand a little.
"Yes," Alfred whispers back, gripping the hand in his a smidgen tighter. He didn't think he would ever want to let go. His heart is up in his throat, but he's getting used to the feeling of it being there. He just hopes it's cool enough outside that his palm isn't sweaty.
They continue on in amicable silence, their hands swinging slightly between them. Alfred can't be bothered to contain the joy on his face, a smile stretching from ear to ear. He thinks his cheeks are pink, but so is his nose, so maybe he can blame it on the cold. A peek over at Arthur's own face tells him that he is similarly affected.
When they pass the ice rink, which had opened about a week or two ago, he figures that if there is ever going to be a time to tell Arthur how he feels, it may as well be now. He takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm his nerves and goes for it. "Arthur?" Pretty green eyes meet his. "I, um, I like you." His voice is too small, too quiet, he wonders for a second if Arthur even heard.
In that moment, his face looks vulnerable, elated, and sorrowful all at once. His shoulders sag and Alfred prepares him for rejection. "That's not fair," Arthur says with a pout. "Alfred, I'm leaving tomorrow and you've just given me one more reason why I want to stay."
His heart skips a beat and his breath hitches. He licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry, and stammers out, "D-Do you…?"
"Like you, too?" Arthur finishes, a small and beautiful smile gracing his lips. There's a blush highlighting his cheeks and Alfred thinks he might melt. "Yeah, I do."
Startled laughter fills the cold air; Alfred is buzzing, heart beating quickly, tingling from head to toe. It's a feeling he doesn't ever want to lose, something he wants to wrap himself in like a blanket and never let go of. "That's incredible!" he crows, smiling brightly at Arthur who has his own joyous grin.
"Yes," he agrees. "It's a shame that we don't have more time."
He purses his lips and tries not to let the reality of the situation affect his mood too bad. If this is all the time he's going to get with Arthur, he's going to make the most of it. "We have tonight," he tells him decisively. "So let's make it a good one." Arthur nods, pretty green eyes alight, and squeezes his hand. Alfred squeezes back and they continue on with their walk around town.
They avoid the main street, sticking behind buildings and in shadows, and it offers a silence, a tranquility like no other. It feels like they're the only two in the world and Alfred wouldn't want it any other way. The farther they walk away from the center of town, the closer they get to the ocean and Alfred feels the sea breeze tussle his air, chilling him even through layers of clothing. Still, they end up on the beach, walking on the sand.
Alfred doesn't want to ever go home and he voices this thought to Arthur who agrees with him. After some time walking, they sit as close to the water as they dare, shoulder to shoulder, hands intermingling on the cold sand. He half wishes it was warm enough so he could take off his shoes and dig his toes into the sand, half wishes that they had come here together when it was warm enough to actually have some fun, rather than just sit in the cold. But the crashing of the waves is calming, soothing, like a long forgotten lullaby, and here with Arthur, the night air felt magical.
They sit there for an indeterminable amount of time, listening to the waves, feeling the chill breeze on their rosy cheeks, enjoying the night for simply what it was. Tranquil and without end. They exist in their own bubble adjacent to the real world, if only for the time being, and it is invincible, unpoppable by any disturbance. It's just them two, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, with a budding relationship that would end all too fast.
"How much time do you think has passed?" Alfred asks at some point later. He's been lost in the feeling of Arthur's hand in his and he can't remember how long he had been gone like that, if it was a few minutes or a few hours. The temperature hadn't changed all that much, but temperature in New Haven didn't fluctuate wildly like it did in other places (according to television).
Arthur hums quietly. "I don't know," he muses, leaning a little bit closer to him. "The dance could be over and we'd be none the wiser."
By some miracle, he had forgotten about Winter Formal in the time he had been with Arthur. It felt nice for what had been a stressor drift away in the wind, completely forgotten. This time with Arthur was infinitely better than being there in the gym, dancing uncomfortably with whatever girl had been hand-picked for him by his mom and friends. There's no better way to finish the first semester, in his opinion.
Oh, wow, it's been that long hasn't it? "I can't believe half the school year is over," he says in wonder. Only half a year left until the summer. A summer without Arthur. "Where did that time go?"
"Not spent wisely enough. How dreadful that I've just learnt that I could have held your hand whenever I pleased." He sighs and punctuates this by gripping a little tighter, sand caught between their hands, smooshing coarsely between their skin. Alfred grips back tighter as well.
"You, too, huh?" He laughs a little, ironically, because it really was a shame.
"Just so." His eyes are cast downward and Alfred wonders how he can get them to look into his. His voice goes soft and quiet, a secret caught in his throat and he yearns to learn what it is. "I wonder… what else I could have done if we had confessed earlier."
An eyebrow is raised, intensely curious. "Like?"
"I… that is…. Kiss you."
Even in the dark, Alfred can tell Arthur has colored a fierce shade of pink, and he's pretty sure his own face matches. His throat has gone dry, palms clammy - cold night or not - and his heart feels like it might pound out of his chest, or at least break his ribs in its severity. Arthur has raised his pretty green eyes to his and Alfred can feel himself get lost in them again, drowning in a sea of green as the waves continue to roar and lap at the shore.
He swallows thickly because the idea is in his head and it won't leave. He smiles tentatively, feeling lighter than air as he speaks his next words carefully. "Oh, then, dear saint, let lips do as hands do."
It has the desired effect. Arthur snorts and they start giggling like children on the schoolyard. They're so close, their laughter mixing together in the small space between them, falling and catching in the breeze, flying off and leaving them with nothing but themselves and their conjoined hands. Their chuckling fades away into little breathy laughs, the aftershocks of what their giggling had been, light and fluffy and still full of life and giddiness, as they lean closer and press their lips together. It's so blissfully happy, the feeling of finally being closer than they had before, still sniggering, that Alfred has trouble discerning which laugh is his and which is Arthur's when their lips are pressed together. They pull back and he swears Arthur's eyes are shining brighter than the moon. Their smiles are wide, the air is electric, and in that moment everything seemed perfect and beautiful in every way.
"You kiss by th' book," Arthur teases, which sends them both into another fit of snickering. Alfred doesn't know why it took him so long to realize he liked him when things just came so easily.
And even though things had been going according to plan (and beyond), that couldn't last. He doesn't even think it's been five minutes since their kiss - his first kiss - when the headlights of a car pierce through their bubble. He flinches away from the sudden intrusion unto his eyes and he feels Arthur do the same, hand tightening on his as they turned hesitantly, squinting their eyes and watch as the car parks in front of them. Arthur's hand unclasps itself from his and he pulls away as far as he thinks is acceptable and Alfred laments the space between them for a fraction of a second before a burly older man steps out of the car.
Alfred can't see his face, but he expects it's serious. Not that they're doing anything explicitly wrong, but it is pretty late at night and they had been sitting in the dark for who knows how long. The man steps around the car door but doesn't close it and crosses his arms.
"And just what do you think you're doing," he asks, his voice is deep and he has an accent - an English one and it hits Alfred just how much trouble he's causing.
Arthur stands abruptly, face pale and Alfred follows, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but Arthur beats him to speaking first. "Nothing," he says quickly, holding up his hands in a peaceful gesture.
"Damn right 'nothing.' Get in the car." Alfred's eyes have adjusted and he can definitely see Arthur's father scowling now, impatient and very angry.
"I -" Arthur glanes at him and then back at his father, quick as anything. "Just - a moment." He turns to him like he has something to say, but before he can, his father has stepped between them, his large frame blocking Arthur from his view.
His voice is as harsh as a rock, strong and demanding. "Do you know how worried your mum is at the moment?" He puts a hand on a shoulder and starts steering him away. "Get in the car, Arthur!" Arthur stumbles a little at the manhandling and looks desperately back at Alfred.
Alfred, for his part, is at a loss at what to do. This is all his fault, he should have never snuck out in the first place, and he definitely should not have asked Arthur to come with him, but it was much too late to change any of that. Guilt overcomes him as he tries to catch onto him one last time. "Wait - Arthur!" His dad is roughly pulling open the passenger car door, holding his son where he is. Alfred doesn't know what to say to make this better, he doesn't think there are any words that can. So he says, "I'm sorry!" The desperation on Arthur's face bleeds away into sorrow, enough to match Alfred's own apologetic expression.
Arthur's father spares him a look, colder than the air around them. "Go home, lad." He then proceeds to shove Arthur in the car, but Arthur's hand steadies himself on the doorframe and his pretty green eyes loose their sorrow and harden with seriousness, sincerity.
"Alfred," he says, pushing against the weight of his father. "Listen to me." Alfred nods, not knowing what to do, but knowing he couldn't do anything against Arthur's father, knowing that this is the end. Arthur's eyes are solemn, pained and teary. His heart aches to go and comfort him, but he's rooted in the sand. "None of this is real," he says before he lets himself be pushed in.
The world feels like it's spinning. The world is spinning, he knows from science class, but directly around him, he feels like it's spinning. The air is too thin to breathe and his heart is conflicted, not knowing whether to stop or to speed up, but it's making his stomach nauseous and the spinning doesn't help, because he's getting dizzy and he doesn't know if he remembers how to breathe. Arthur's pretty green eyes are staring at him through the windshield, and all he can croak out is a quiet, "What?"
Arthur's father fixes him with a stern glower and tells him, "You are in so much trouble, young man," before climbing back into his car, the car with Arthur in it, and pulling away.
"Wait!" Alfred calls because he needs to know. His feet are still stuck in the sand, his limbs frozen from some emotion rather than the chill and it takes him too long to remember how to move them, but he still calls, "Wait!" after the car, already a mile away. He fumbles into a run, but it is in vain because the taillights have long disappeared from view.
His feet come to a halt and he's left with his own thoughts in the bitter winter air.
...
Somehow he makes it home. He climbs into his room tiredly and barely processes that his light is on. He thought he had turned it off, but evidently….
Matthew is on his bed. He so doesn't want to talk right now, but Matthew looks pretty mad and probably won't let him off the hook so easily.
He waits until Alfred has taken off his shoes and sat on the bed with him before he demands, "Do you like watching the world burn?" He has his arms crossed and there's a frown on his face that doesn't suit him at all and it's all Alfred's fault that it's there. When had he become such a trouble maker? "Twice in one week, Al! You've snuck out twice and I couldn't save you from getting caught the first time, that was your own idiocy, but do you know how much effort it took to cover you? Mom was ready to barge into your room, but I stopped her, and you have so much to explain, Alfred F. Jones, I can't even-"
Alfred sighs and drags a hand down his face. "Look," he says complacently. "Can we talk later? I'm tired."
"You're tired? Do you know how long I've been waiting?"
"I didn't ask you to," he snaps and instantly regrets it because of the look on his brother's face. Matthew doesn't deserve this, he's done nothing but be nice and a shoulder to lean on. "Sorry. I'm sorry. But, please, Mattie. Later."
Matthew regards him with a poker face, collected and not looking as tired as he probably feels. He seems to be searching for something by the way his eyes roam up and down his figure, but whatever he's looking for is found and he sighs, exhausted and frustrated, and Alfred feels another wave of guilt. "Fine," he says. "But you're going to tell me sometime. I don't care if I have to wait until after the new year, and you owe me a big favor in the future, but fine - later." Alfred nearly collapses in relief and says his thanks a million times over, but Matthew just rolls his eyes and pulls him in for a hug. "When will you stop being such a nuisance?"
Alfred huffs, but there's a small smile on his face. "When you stop being the best brother ever."
"That's never happening."
"Then I guess I'll never stop."
Matthew groans and pushes Alfred a little, almost sending him straight off the bed, but he smiles at him before he leaves with a, "Good night." Alfred doesn't know what he would do without him.
He quickly gets dressed in pajamas, turns off his light, and crawls underneath his covers, but he doesn't think he'll sleep. His mind, no matter how fatigued he is, won't stop thinking.
His lips won't stop tingling. It's a fuzzy feeling, one that spreads into his fingers and makes his heart skip a beat every once and awhile. Kissing Arthur had been better than he could have ever imagined and it was a memory he wished he would never forget. His heart ached to be able to do it again, just once more, to feel that high again, like he would never come down from the clouds. Even if it was just a press of lips, it offered a feeling so much harder to express than the feeling of Arthur's hand in his. It was happiness, happiness like when Betsy would jump on him and lick all over his face, or happiness when he caught the right wave at the right time and he skimmed the blue sky-like water, or happiness when he beat the next level of Invasion of the Curroes. Except it was more than that, so much more brighter and lighter and all-encompassing. If he thought that maybe he could get lost and drown in Arthur's eyes, then he could be found and have life breathed back into him by Arthur's kiss.
How could the night turn from something so happy to something so… broken?
He felt broken. "None of this is real." What did that mean? Did that mean that Arthur never really felt anything for him? That their friendship was a farce? That the kiss didn't matter? But then why had he bothered to start a friendship at all? To hold his hand and sit with him? If that was real (is real?), then what wasn't (isn't)?
It hurt to think that Arthur didn't mean it.
It had been a long interview, a long day, but it was all worth it. Tino could feel the documentary coming together under his fingertips as he prepared the last questions he would ask of Matthieu Bonnefoy. Bonnefoy, for his part, still retained his superb pokerface and cool composition.
Tino shifted in his seat, ignoring the somber feeling in the air. Alfred Jones had a lot of reasons to be distrustful of people, but by some miracle, he wasn't. Tino couldn't fathom why, and neither could Bonnefoy, but he knew he had to get the atmosphere lighter again somehow. He flipped through his cards and picked an adequate question: "On Alfred Jones's behalf, would you say he was happy in the town of New Haven?"
Bonnefoy took in a big breath and exhaled loudly, almost like a sigh, but there was too much thought behind it. "Yes," he said. "He was happy, a little anxious to leave and see the world, but he was about as happy as anybody is living in a small town where they grew up. He hadn't known anything else, couldn't know anything else, so by default he was happy."
"Do you think, if the show had lasted, he would have still been happy?"
There was a long silence as Bonnefoy reflected. His poker face had fallen into a frown, pensive and unsure. "Unless big changes were made," he said after awhile, "no, I don't think so." His arms crossed over his chest and he tilted his head a little. "Even if he had been allowed to be gay, he still wouldn't have been able to leave." Tino nodded in understanding; Honda Productions had done their best to try and instill travelling fears in Jones's mind, but it hadn't worked out too well. "Staying in New Haven wouldn't have made him happy," Bonnefoy finished, head tilting back into an upright position.
"Is he happy now?" It was his last question, a question he was sure going to end the documentary. Alfred Jones had made himself to be a private man, understandably, and many of his old so-called fans were interested to know that the boy they had watched grow up or had grown up with was doing fine.
Bonnefoy regards him with slow eyes before a calming and sure smile spreads itself across his lips. He's confident in his next words, no ounce of insincerity or unrest in them. "He's as happy as he can be. And for Alfred, that's really happy."
Tino smiled back warmly.
Christmas had been a quiet affair. Quiet because Alfred was still technically grounded. He still got presents, sure, but they had been withheld for the time being; all but one. After the day was over, his grounding could either be lifted to probation or reinforced by a longer sentencing. After the day was over, it would be a new year, for better or worse.
The one Christmas present being redeemed was not by his choice, but his mother's and Magnus's mother's choice. For this one day, New Year's Eve, Alfred was allowed to go to Mr. Im's arcade and, under Mr. Im and Yong Soo's supervision, to try and mend his friendship with Magnus. The arcade is empty except for them, Mr. Im having closed it to the public for the holiday, but had given them permission to be here. He was over sitting at the counter, glancing up from a novel every once and awhile. Alfred was, by no means, excited to be where he is, standing in front of Dance Dance Revolution. Yong Soo had picked the game as "friendly competition" and expected he and Magnus play it and try to maintain a civil conversation as they did so.
It sounds like a new form of torture if he's ever heard of one.
He lets Magnus pick the song because he doesn't feel like putting in the effort. He hadn't felt like putting much effort into anything lately, not since the night of Winter Formal. He had tried not to think about it much; he is, afterall, the president of not thinking about things. It hurts to much to think about, so he pushes his more melancholic thoughts to the side and steps up onto the platform with Magnus.
As the console starts to count down, Yong Soo states the topic of discussion. "During the song, we will have a nice chat about-" he waits for the count down to say "Go!" before shouting "-super powers!"
"I've always thought I have them," Magnus says without missing a beat, quite literally. He's moving on time to the music, getting Perfect!s and Amazing!s across the board. "Super strength, super dashing looks…." He turns his head from the screen briefly to glance over at Alfred who is struggling to keep up, but also not lagging too far behind so as to get Boos while still having a few Misss. "What about you, Al?"
It's an olive branch and Alfred tries his best to not let it mess him up too badly. He waits a few steps to think of an answer though, because he isn't sure what superpower he would truly want anyway. He reads comics, sure, is his mom's 'little hero,' but answering generically like Magnus did seemed cheap. "Teleportation," he says. That's what he wishes he could do - go anywhere in the world at any given moment. "To teleport out of here," he continues and thinks about teleporting to a mall, or go cart racing, or New York City, or - or England.
"Really," Magnus asks sharply and this time Alfred really does mess up because he hadn't been expecting that. "You hate me that much now?"
He pauses, not caring about the game, and just stops to stare at Magnus who has also stopped. "I didn't mean it against you," he says. Yong Soo appears next to them, ready to intervene, a mask of apprehensiveness overtaking his features. "I meant that I don't want to stay in New Haven forever. I would have said flying, but I figured teleporting would be faster."
"Oh," Magnus says, releasing a breath Alfred hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders sagging. He looked humbled, sheepish. "Sorry."
"Whatever," he replies with a sigh. He turns to Yong Soo. "What's the next topic?"
Yong Soo still looks unsure, but he backs away from them and resumes his post next to the console screen, the crisis having been averted. "Uh, well," he mumbles. "Pick a song, Al, and I'll tell you."
Neither of them had really won the last round, stopping in the middle would do that, but Magnus had done marginally better. Alfred picks a random song and the countdown begins.
"Winter weather," Yong Soo shouts when the song starts.
"It's cold," Alfred says obviously as his feet begin to work.
"You have to bundle up," Magnus adds.
"A wool-blend peacoat at Burlington's is under sixty bucks," Yong Soo says helpfully. At least it would have been if there was actually at Burlington Coat Factory in New Haven. Alfred only knows of its existence because of a girl who had been showing off her new coat last winter. So why Yong Soo has this information, he doesn't know, and he isn't about to ask.
He struggles for a reply and settles on, "Why get a new coat when you can stay inside?" Their game isn't going too bad, in fact it's going better than it had been before, and he thinks for a moment that maybe the day is going to go well.
Magnus adds a little flare to the next move. "You can drink hot chocolate while the heater is on." Alfred thinks back a few days ago when he had had the chance to do just that.
Yong Soo laughs a little as the song is coming to an end. "That's true. Did you know Nestle Hot Cocoa Mix in a canister is only $4.98?" He punctuates this with a smile. "I want thirty!"
The music ends and he stares at his friend. "Do you realize you do that," he asks when he's sure he has his attention.
"Do what," Yong Soo asks with a small chuckle.
"Talk like a commercial." The smile wipes off Yong Soo's face in an instant and Alfred almost feels guilty, but his curiosity can't be put to rest. He glances at Magnus uncertainly. "I mean, no offense, but I don't think any of us are really going to go buy hot chocolate mix any time soon." Yong Soo is growing nervous and he doesn't understand why, it is a simple question with probably a simple answer.
Magnus is the one to answer though. "He's just trying to be helpful, Al."
"I guess," he says placatingly, but he can't help but wonder who Yong Soo is trying to help. Something isn't clicking in his mind and he can't quite grasp what, if it's anything-
None of this is real.
-at all.
The thought is unbidden and hits him like a train. His breath is stolen and it takes half a minute to realize that Magnus has chosen another song, half a minute more to partake in the next conversation, if he partakes in it at all because his mind has stopped comprehending anything that doesn't have to do with reality.
Talking like a commercial isn't really helpful. Being in a commercial is.
...
His mind is in a haze for the rest of the arcade trip, for the walk home, he's having a hard time cementing himself to the ground. He doesn't know if he's already flown off.
He doesn't hesitate walking past the garbage until he realizes the garbage had no reason for being taken out. It isn't trash day, it isn't even close because of the holiday, and he hadn't taken it out. He pivots his body to stare at the black bag and sighs lugubriously at it before making his way over and forcing it open. He reaches his hand inside, feels around the gross feeling trash until his hand comes into contact with his scrapbook and he pulls it out. It's covered in filth again and he swallows thickly, impulsively opening it up just a peek because he needs something to bring him back down to Earth.
The page he opens to is the one of articles and obituaries. He silently reads the words to himself because-
None of this is real.
The book slips through his fingers, landing back on the trash bag. It closed during the fall, and he stares at it with his jaw clenched. Then he takes a mechanical step away, and another and another until he's halfway up his driveway.
But he stops because how dare it? He shuts his eyes tight as his heart picks up speed and the fire rises from within somewhere by his stomach. How dare it not be real? He turns back, anger burning behind his opened eyes, glaring at the book resting peacefully on the bag of garbage where it belongs.
His steps back towards it are hurried and he doesn't pause as he swings out a leg and kicks the bag over, spilling trash over the street. Used paper towels and tissues scatter with the wind, empty wrappers crumpled into balls rolling away, old and molding food splattering against the asphalt. He's made a mess and he doesn't care. The book landed a foot away from the curb and he snatches it up, flipping the cover open.
A picture of him on his father's lap stares back at him, both of them smiling brightly at the camera, Betsy at their feet, a Christmas tree in the background; around them is littered with wrapping paper. Longing swirls in his gut, but the aggravation is stronger because he's finally come back down to Earth, but the sky is crashing down around him. His hand reaches for the top of the page and, without second guessing himself, tears the paper in half, the glued on picture ripping with it. There's a nauseous feeling in his stomach, but he keeps going; he tears the next page and the page after that. Half torn papers are fluttering around him, pictures ripped to pieces, piling up at his feet.
His vision has gone white, or maybe red, and tunneled in at the book. His hands keep moving and he doesn't want them to stop; he wants to release his frustration and his anger and he feels like he's going a little bit crazy, grunting and sobbing and tearing and ripping until every page has been wrenched free of the binding, or at the very least half of it. He thinks he can hear his name being called, but the pulsing of his heart in his ears is too loud to really tell.
He brings his knee up and the book down over it, breaking the spine and forcing the book into two with a shout. A strong set of arms wrap themselves around him, making him waste no time into trying to break free.
"Alfred," Mr. Franklin's voice says in his ear. He tries harder to get loose. "Alfred, calm down. What's wrong?"
"Let go of me!" His legs try their best to kick at Mr. Franklin's, arms struggling to pull himself free, body throwing itself away from the one behind him. "Let go!" His request is granted and he stumbles forward, caught off guard, but regains his balance and whirls to glare at his offender.
Next to Mr. Franklin is his mother, standing horrified and looking around at the mess he had created. Her eyes are watery, but Alfred's remain dry, but with his anger dissipating quickly, he feels like crying. He takes in a ragged breath and doesn't say anything as he he tosses the two halves of the cover down onto the asphalt before walking inside the house, past Matthew in the family room who starts to say something, and into his room, slamming the door behind him.
He stays there, behind the door, breathing heavily, his actions replaying in his mind and his eyes are getting hot. His book of memories, his book of his father, mutilated and broken by his hands, but none of that really matters. Nothing matters.
None of this is real.
The dam breaks and tears rush over. He sobs and doubles over, a hand coming up to try to muffle the sounds, but they're too loud for his ears. He slides down the door, shudders raking up and down his body violently as he sobs and gasps for breath into his knees.
...
It's nearing midnight. He hasn't been able to sleep because his thoughts drifted off and didn't stop and now he's wondering about England. England, so far away, and yet where Arthur is going. A place Alfred could only ever dream about until he made the effort to leave, to go, but… could he? He knows he wants to, he knows people leave, but he still didn't really know what is outside of New Haven. He had never been outside. There really could be nothing out there, nothing except emptiness. Things could only exist in New Haven and he would have no idea about it. But is that really existing, or is it something else?
If nothing is real, is he?
There's a knock at his door, which he ignores. But it comes again along with a soft call of, "Al? Are you asleep? Can I come in?" from Matthew. He almost ignores him again, but he thinks to himself that Matthew won't lie to him, and gives him the okay.
He sits up in his bed where he had been cocooned in blankets and greets his brother with a gruff, "Hey."
"Hey," Matthew parrots as he sits down as well. "What's up?"
He lifts his eyes from his hands in his lap up to Matthew's. They're filled with concern and Alfred swallows. "I snuck out," he says and he isn't sure he meant to say it, but it's been said and there's no going back now. "I snuck out to go see Arthur." Matthew doesn't look surprised and he wonders if maybe he had known all along. "He's gone to England now. I went to see him one last time to tell him…." He trails off and looks away. He may have admitted his infatuation to Arthur, but he can't bring himself to confide that in anybody else, not even Matthew. "To tell him that I'll miss him." He looks back at Matthew.
Matthew nods, looking like he understands. "And did you get to tell him?"
"Yeah." He pauses and thinks if he really wants to ask. But Matthew won't (can't) lie to him, so he asks. "He said something, when his dad found us." He holds eye contact, feeling that if he loses it, he'll lose his courage. "He said none of this is real. Why would he say that?"
A silence settles over the room, palpable, uncomfortably heavy. They stare at each other, the unease on Matthew's face growing more evident as the seconds pass.
"I don't know, Alfred," he says, voice shaking a little. The hands that had been resting by his side come together, rubbing against each other. Alfred tracks their movements with his eyes. "Of course it's all real."
Alfred's face goes blank, mimicking his mind, his emotions, his being because there isn't anything that could possibly remedy the turmoil he feels. He lies back down and uses the blankets to cover his face. He wonders that, if now he can't see anything, if anything exists outside the covers. If things blink out of reality when he isn't looking. If, when he opens his eyes, he sees reality at all.
"Al?"
"Night, Mattie."
He hears him sigh, feels him get up. "Happy New Year," Matthew says, voice travelling across the room. "Good night."
...
He gets a few hours of fitful sleep. Around six, he gives up entirely and strains his ears to hear any signs of life outside. There aren't.
He feels restless, itching to do something, anything to prove himself wrong. This is real, it has to be. How can it not be? He sees, he feels, he hears, he smells, he tastes - by all means, he can do everything to prove reality, but he can't wrap his head around the illusion that has been created in place of that reality. Things haven't felt real in some time and he's been too busy ignoring it to notice.
By seven, he's dressed and out the door with an apple in his hand. He closes the door quietly behind him and walks off aimlessly. The trash has been picked up outside, no traces of it or his book in sight, and he can't feel a thing.
There's no ashen taste in his mouth as he bites into the apple, just sweetness. That has to be real. No cars pass him by, everybody still inside sleeping after their New Year's party. He doesn't know if that's real. The air is cold, a freezing wind ripping straight through his layers of jackets. That's real. A dog barks in the distance, but he can't see it. It might be real.
He goes on like this, walking through town. Time is passing slowly, quickly; time isn't passing at all, time has passed already. The temperature rises a few degrees and people make their way out of their houses. He settles himself on a park bench and watches them. (Bike, flowers, car.)
And watches them. (Bike, flowers, car. Bike, flowers, car.)
Watches them. (Bike flowers car, bike flowers car, bike flowers car….)
He picks himself up and moves on, bumping into someone who apologizes, who uses his name. The next time he bumps into someone, it is purposeful. They also apologize, they also use his name.
He sits in front of the ice rink and watches them. (Child, dog, couple,)
And watches them. (child, dog, couple, child, dog, couple, child, do….)
Watches them. (child dog couple child dog couple child dog coup-)
When he walks into the bookstore on impulse, there is no one there. He finds that some of the books in the display case are hollow. He passes by the movie theatre and notices the movies playing haven't changed since August. It doesn't appear that anybody has been inside since then either, if the dust on the ticket booth counter is anything to go by.
He finds a place to sit in the public library and watches as the same three people pick up and put back the same three books. He pretends to read Ernest Hemingway. Three new people come in some time later, the other three leave, and they pick up and put back the same three books. He pretends to read Mark Twain.
There is no show playing at the cultural arts center. He can't remember if there ever had been a show playing there at any time in his life. The door is locked to a convenience store despite a neon sign saying 'OPEN' and no one is inside. The shelves look half-stocked. He purposefully bumps into another person who again apologizes and again uses his name.
His day goes on. Time passes slowly, quickly, not at all, and all at once.
...
When he goes home, the sun has set. He walks home in the dark, the lights in the house are on. He does not hesitate to enter, does not fear consequences, does not feel much of anything beyond unchecked turmoil bleeding into frustration. Though maybe he isn't frustrated anymore, just mad.
The only reason he came home was for confirmation. Otherwise, he would have already hijacked a car or boat and hightailed it out into the great unknown world. But he needs to talk to Matthew, needs to be proven right, needs to at least say good-bye.
Matthew does not greet him. His mother does. He looks at her and does not see a mother; maybe she never was. If people in this town are as repetitive as he had seen, if they are as fake as they appear, then there's no reason for his mother to be different. But she does her best to keep up the facade that she is a mother, looking disgruntled and worried all in one go, standing before him in the entry way.
"Alfred," she exhales sharply. "Where have you been? We've been worried sick!" Mr. Franklin, Magnus, and Yong Soo materialize over her shoulder, all looking as equally concerned as his mom. She goes to reach out for a hug, but he brushes her off.
"Is Matthew here," he asks. Home is on his lips, but he refuses to call this place home any longer.
Her worry switches to confusion in a second. "Yes," she says uncertainly. "In his room."
He holds eye contact for a moment longer before moving past all of them without a second glance.
Magnus, however, doesn't take kindly to being ignored. "Seriously," he scoffs. "We're all out here organizing a search party, but you only want to see the one person who doesn't care enough." Alfred pauses and whirls around to glare at him, deeply offended. As far as he is concerned, Matthew is the only one who cares about him - cares about his interests and his feelings, trusts him even when he acts outside his routine, doesn't give him shit about not being a good friend. Magnus glares back, unapologetic. "You know what Matthew said? He said that he wouldn't go searching for you because it didn't matter. He would rather see you frozen with hypothermia then haul his ass out of bed."
"Fuck you, Magnus."
He doesn't have time for this. He doesn't want to deal with this. But apparently he isn't going to be let go that easily. There isn't a way to make them understand why they were wrong - it wouldn't have mattered if they had went looking for him, with or without Matthew, because nothing could have stopped him. Nothing could have kept him from this dawning realization, nothing could keep him from becoming angry and overwhelmed by not knowing what is and what isn't. He is unconcerned with keeping up the dream of being all right, of not letting anything bother him. He's tired of not thinking, of ignoring, of giving up and giving in. He isn't going to lose another battle, even if he dies or is erased from existence first, he's going to leave this constructed world knowing the truth.
For his part, Magnus looks shaken, possibly not expecting those words, if any words at all. His mother does not hesitate, though, and her shrill words cut through the family room with resonation. "Alfred F. Jones, watch your language." He turns his head to meet her eyes and her body language screams with authority. Oh, how he wants to undermine that authority. So he does.
"I would tell you the same thing," he snaps, "except you have Mr. Franklin for that."
His mother is baffled, speechless. Mr. Franklin isn't looking at him. "How…." she trails off. Her voice is quiet, breathy, barely there, and there's an embarrassed flush donning her features. It takes her a moment too long to collect herself and even then she doesn't seem to pick up all the pieces. "How dare you speak to me like that?" Her eyebrows draw together in rage. "I am your mother!"
He almost snips back, "Are you?" but it's overpowered by Mr. Franklin's voice saying something indistinguishable from his mother's continued rant, or Yong Soo chastising him for speaking to his mother that way, or Magnus going off about about his bad attitude. Their voices clash at varying degrees, the volume raising, saying a lot of different things, but never saying anything of value. It's too loud - though, only an echo compared to his thoughts from the night before - as they speak all at once, fighting to be heard. He doesn't hear any of them, only to staccato call behind him.
"Al?" Alfred swivels around, back now to his mother, facing Matthew. Matthew who looks unsure, anxious, fidgeting in his place where he stands by the hallway to their rooms. He's watching the scene with trepidation, paying extra attention to him in the middle of it, worried over how he is, what he's thinking. But all Alfred is thinking about is how Matthew lied to him the night before.
He sucks in a shallow breath, observing Matthew's apprehensive frame. "It's all true, isn't it," he says finally through his teeth. There's a tremor in his voice, filled with unspoken emotion. "Or - not. Because everything… everything is a lie." And isn't that the truth? He's been lied to some many times he never realized just how many until now. Everyone he knew lied to him.
Matthew takes a step forward and opens his mouth to - to deny, maybe, or apologize, but he doesn't want to hear it. He isn't done. "No - shut up! Just shut up!" It's deathly silent and finally he feels like he's in control of something. He takes in a shuddering breath and reaches a trembling hand up to push away some hair in his face. "I was out there all day, Matthew, watching the world - my world - go around like a machine, like clockwork. The bike, the flowers, the car, the bike the flowers the car - over and over again without end. I ran myself into people to see if they knew my name. They did. I'd never met these people and they knew my name.
"Why me? Why, when everybody around me seems to follow a set script, why do I feel like I'm the only one who isn't?" His voice cracks. There are tears collecting in his eyes, but he doesn't let them drop. He can't break, he can't, because if he does there's a chance he won't be put back together. His shuddering breaths and pounding heart are already pushing against the spiderweb fractures on the surface of his mind, threatening to shatter it, shatter whatever sanity he had left. "I feel like I'm going crazy, Matthew. I feel like I'm the only one who knows that something's wrong. When everything isn't real…." His voice trails off because this is the hardest part. This is the thing he can't wrap his head around. His entire life, he had never had a reason to doubt, but so suddenly his world was turned on his head. If none of this is real, "Am I? Am I real?"
Matthew looks petrified, his own eyes watery, standing still like he can't remember what moving is. There's so much regret and pain in his eyes that Alfred almost has to look away, but he can't. He's frozen too.
His mother moves, off to the side, stepping into his space, arms reaching out to encircle him. "Oh, yes," she's saying, "of course, Al-" The feeling comes back into his arms and he pushes her away, cutting her off.
"Don't touch me!" He feels the dam break and a tear slide down his cheek; it's wiped away in an instant. His mother looks hurt, troubled by his behavior. It isn't convincing enough for him though, not anymore. She's hurt him. She's hurt him by smothering him, controlling him, not grieving enough, not allowing him to grieve, keeping secrets, sighing and ending things before he's ready, telling him he isn't ready, saying that she raised him better without realizing that this is how she raised him. She's hurt him and he's hurt her. And it isn't fair, but his hurting is too persistent to leave her be. "You've kept me here my entire life," he says, not accusatory, just a fact. More tears escape from his eyes, burning hot but his anger is evaporating them faster than his sadness can make them. "Trapped and caged here." She flinches; Mr. Franklin puts a hand on her shoulder and Alfred's jaw clenches, but he ignores it. His tears, which had seemed abundant, dry up. He presses on. "Whenever I ask to leave, to have an adventure, you say no. Is there nothing out there? Is that why you keep me? I want to go places, Mom - places I've never been before, everywhere possible. You've been outside New Haven, but I've never-"
"Where do you want to go, huh," Mr. Franklin's harshly interrupts. He's standing in front of his mother protectively, like Alfred might hurt her, his imposing build shielding her. "Where is it you want to go so badly?" There's poison in his tone, like he can't believe any place is better than here.
"England," he blurts out. "I want to go to England and see Big Ben and the Queen and people I would have never seen if I had stayed here." People who don't look at the same three books for hours, people who show up for work, people who don't walk in circles, people who are real. People who have never been to New Haven, had never heard of New Haven, who had only ever known a different country's culture and buildings and history. Someplace far away with at least one person who he knew, who could show him around.
"You just want to go because Arthur's there." Magnus has his arms crossed, looking wholly unamused. Bored. At least Yong Soo seems to be affected, glancing around nervously.
He huffs in frustration, molten anger sluggishly moving around in his bloodstream. "What does that matter?" His arms fling out for emphasis, heartrate picking up. "It's somewhere far, far away from here and there's somebody there who I know likes me." His jaw shuts with a click because he hadn't meant to use those particular words, and he tries not to let it show that his own words had an affect on him, but nobody seems to notice anyway.
Magnus just rolls his eyes and looks at him like he was scraped off the bottom of his shoe. "Say what you want, Alfred, but Arthur isn't…." As he trails off, his face goes pale. He shakes his head a little and looks away, like he's disgusted, but not with Alfred. It's more like he's disgusted with himself, which doesn't make sense.
"Arthur isn't what?" He can't let Magnus not finish; there's a truth there somewhere and he's going to get even if he has to fish for it. Magnus was argumentative by nature… at least he thinks he is. Maybe his personality is fake, too; maybe the things people say around him aren't what they really want to say. Maybe his friends, the friends he knew, weren't actually how he knew them to be.
Yong Soo steps forward, hands up to pose no threat. "I think," he starts hesitantly. Alfred gives him his attention, wanting to know. "I think what Magnus is trying to say is that-" His voice catches awkwardly like he had had something to say and thought better of it. Face paling a little too, he looks back at Magnus. Their eyes meet and an understanding is shared between them that Alfred wants to understand, but it isn't something he can. But they look at each other and understand. Yong Soo slowly returns his eyes to his and searches for the words he needs. "That… this is wrong," he says eventually, slowly, lowly. "This isn't right. We're supposed to be your best friends, but we haven't been acting like it."
"We've been total dicks," Magnus says, complexion now back to normal. He's looking at the floor, but he's sincere. "We keep saying we're being supportive, but we've been pushing you away."
Yong Soo nods and claps a hand on Magnus's back. "We're sorry. Really."
Alfred is at a loss. He doesn't know what to think, doesn't know if he can think. This conversation has taken a shift, too quickly for him to really grasp, and wonders if reality is distorting, if maybe it's meant to. Because, as he looks around at the people around him, he doesn't think he would be able to comprehend a reality without them. His mother is speaking again, worry present in her voice, speaking about the future or something of the like. He doesn't understand what she's saying, his mind processing everything too fast or too slow or somewhere in between; either way, he hasn't got a clue as to what to do. Her voice drifts away into Mr. Franklin's saying that things were going to get better. Things had to get better if Alfred had anything to do about it, but he doesn't know how.
If he were to leave, where would he go? If there really was nothing outside of New Haven, if there was no England, what then? What would he do then?
He locks eyes with Matthew whose lip is trembling. Matthew who can't truly lie to him, Matthew who he thought wouldn't, but had. Matthew whom he trusts. When his mother and Mr. Franklin seem to meet the end of their words, he says his, maintaining eye contact with the boy he calls brother. "You rub your hands together."
He's met with puzzlement. "What?" Matthew's eyebrows are knitted together, his voice but a croak.
"When you lie," he starts over, licking his lips, "you rub your hands together." There's a nervous pit at the bottom of his stomach, wide and gaping. He's placed his life in Matthew's hands without thinking twice. Being impulsive had been his thing lately, so he trusts his gut no matter how shaken it is. Because it might be better if he kept on ignoring this one thing, it might make his life easier, especially if this is real. Because he might have stumbled across the one secret to the universe that he shouldn't have found and if this was the way back into ignorance, he would take it. What else can he do? What else is there for him?
Matthew, however, isn't so certain in this decision. "Why are you telling me this?" The quiver in his voice is prominent; he doesn't want the responsibility he's been given, a full leap of faith in his honesty. Behind his glasses, his eyes hold steady despite the rest of his body shaking with the strength of his slightly panicked breathing.
Alfred believes in him, trusts him. Whatever decision Matthew would make, he would accept. Truth or ignorance. "I'm giving you the chance to lie to me." He closes his eyes, inhales deeply and exhales just as much before opening his eyes again, staring dead straight into Matthew's. "Is this real?"
There is a silence like no other he has experienced before. It does not feel heavy, it does not spread, it simply is. And in this silence, he finds that calm once more and clings to it like it's a lifeline. This may be the last time he feels it, the last time it claims him as its own. If only for this moment, in this silence, he will feel at ease once more knowing that, as in the times before he had felt it, his life would change. His shoulders sag, the tension flooding from his body, rippling away into the silence like it never existed.
The silence feels real. The calmness does, too.
"I'm not going to lie to you," Matthew says, shaking his head. He looks repulsed by the idea and Alfred knows he made the right choice. "I can't hurt you like this anymore. I love you too much." His eyes hold all the sincerity in the world, promising him the truth, justice, peace at last. The love in them molds around the heartbreak also present, encapsulating it, strangling it until they blend together and Alfred can't tell anymore what is love and what is heartbreak.
He takes a rattling breath, eyes holding onto Alfred's. The hands at his side do not move. "My name is Matthieu Bonnefoy." Matthew Williams. "I was born in Montreal-" Toronto. "-to François and Jeanne Bonnefoy." Justin and Hazel Williams. "And when I was three years old, I auditioned and was cast to act as your cousin. I am an actor. This is a TV show, Alfred."
The world stops and starts spinning. The calmness has disintegrated in his grasp and the silence has become deafening. He stares shellshocked at the person before him, a person he doesn't think he knows. He turns and stares at the one who calls herself Mom only to find she's looking away, sobbing into her hands. The man next to her isn't looking at him, just holds the woman in his arms. The two boys, who had been "friends" are staring back at him, guilt radiating from their beings. He can't seem to remember if he knows how to breath, but he's gasping.
This truth, if it is truth, does not feel real.
Before him, Matthew - Matthieu - is shaking, trying to keep himself together. Alfred feels like he's falling apart as he asks, "Are you lying?"
"No." There is no hesitation. There are no subconscious movements. This is truth. "I'm not. I'm so sorry." Sorry. What does sorry mean? How can an apology cover this? An apology does not fix reality. "If you want," he continues, "I can take you out. Right now. They can't keep you here." Who are They? Are They the ones who did this to him? They must be, They put him here, They… They did this. Oh, God, why did They do this? "Do you want me to show you the way out?"
Matthieu's eyes are steady, unwavering. Alfred can leave. He said he can. He wants to.
"Yes," he says in a breath. He steels his emotions and stands as tall and as confidently as he can and repeats himself with conviction. "Yes."
"What makes the end of a story," Tino asked nobody, everybody, whoever who takes time out of their day to watch this documentary. "Is it when the characters reach a state of peace unachievable at any other point in the narrative? Is it when the protagonist reaches their goal, after the many hardships they have faced?
"Alfred F. Jones was no storybook character, but a real person whose early life sparked controversial topics and ignited a revolution over a human's right to privacy. The Alfred F. Jones Show was one of a kind, never to be seen again, living on in the memory of its viewers. The intricacies of the full story may never be known, but the end came, resulting in the highest viewership ratings in the show's history. The end, for some, was inevitable, and for the man himself was non-negotiable. Many viewers rioted over the emotional upheaval of the last episode, but for the happiest boy on television, Alfred F. Jones couldn't have found his happy ending without it.
"What is he doing now, you may ask? Well, that's none of our business."