It reminded Alfred of when he had first tried to learn how to skate. He just couldn't understand the mechanics behind what he was doing. Again and again he would fall. Of course, the difference was that Alfred had eventually learned how to skate; he had no idea what was going on with Arthur.
Nothing was wrong. That was what pissed Alfred off so much. Nothing was different. Arthur still came home, still grumbled and made some tea, still sat down not in his arm chair, but on the ottoman.
They still had sex every Tuesday and Saturday. They still went out for ice cream or coffee. Arthur still ignored conversations about having kids, and Alfred ignored Arthur's suggestion for a better paying job.
Something was missing, though. It was like before you figured out how to push your skate a certain way to glide across the ice. Alfred was trying to awkwardly walk across the rink.
And he just kept falling.
"Well maybe if someone got a real job instead of mooning about that bloody bastard video game store all day, we could get a—" Arthur broke off, looking away from Alfred for a moment before returning full force. "A child."
"No, Arthur," Alfred hissed, glaring down at Arthur. "It wouldn't matter if I got a 'real job,' there would always be something that would be wrong. You're too busy, work, money, time. There's never a right time—"
Arthur laughed. "That's funny, because when we first met, you said you were glad you were gay so you wouldn't have to worry about children. How you've changed your tune."
Alfred took off his glasses, running a hand over his face and through his hair. "We got together in college, Artie—"
"Don't call me—"
Alfred yelled over him. "We got together in college, Arthur Kirkland! I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to want kids after seven years." He moved away and began to pace, stumbling over furniture he didn't see.
Arthur crossed his arms. "You still work in a fucking game store—"
"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?" Alfred shouted, whirling toward Arthur. "I have fun there. I like working there! That's more than you can say. Half the time you come home and you're so—so—" Alfred stumbled over the ottoman and kicked it away, snarling.
Alfred heard more than saw Arthur walk away. Jamming the glasses back on his face, Alfred followed Arthur to the front door. The shorter man yanked open the door, striding with a purpose toward his car.
"Where are you going?" Alfred called from the doorway.
Arthur got into his car.
"Where are you going?!" Alfred yelled, watching the vehicle screech out of the driveway and down the street.
Alfred slammed the door shut, watching in satisfaction at the window nearby rattled. He repeated the action twice, each time harder than the last. He panted, resting his head against the cool wood.
The rest of the evening was spent in sulking silence. Usually, when Alfred had the house to himself, he would blast music or stay up late playing video games. Tonight, he just watched TV and ran his fingers over the spines of Arthur's books.
Always the same fight. Not the same words—sometimes it was about Alfred leaving his dirty clothes on the ground, or Arthur spending too much time at work—but always the same fight.
Alfred stared up at the ceiling, enjoying the empty bed.
Why were they fighting? Nothing had changed.
Alfred rolled onto his side, toward his side of the bed. The nightstand was covered in various artifacts: comic books, half read paperbacks, a glasses case. The one thing that stood out from the clutter was a picture of Arthur.
It was an old college photo. Alfred had caught Arthur smiling and turning around. It was blurred, but the color from the autumn leaves and Arthur's happy expression made up for the fact. Every time Alfred had looked at the picture—which had been often when Arthur had started his business trips—it would make him smile.
Alfred gazed at the picture. No warm, happy memories came flooding forth. He slowly reached out and placed the frame face down.
And he just kept falling.