Last chapter from Kenya. I go home in a week!
Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed. It makes my heart skip a beat when I get that "New Review" email! You are all wonderful people.
And to the reviewer who expressed disappointment with the way Arthur went about his first Major Change, I completely agree. It plagues me as well. I had a hard time figuring out a way to bypass the money issue and I wanted to go ahead and jump through the hoop so I could continue on to the rest of the story. Perhaps one day I'll go back and change it. For now, I hope it does not detract too much from your enjoyment of the story!
CHAPTER SEVEN: The Edelstein Project
"Fourteen…fifteen…" Arthur collapsed back on the gym mat on which he was doing sit-ups, his abs burning fiercely and sweat trickling in meandering streams down his neck. He exhaled heavily then lifted his head to take a surreptitious look toward where Alfred and Kiku were lifting free weights. Kiku's face was bright red as he did bicep curls, but he wore an intense expression that testified to his determination. Beside him, Alfred did shoulder presses easily, cheering his companion on between sets. Arthur squinted at the football player and tried to analyze what he might be thinking every time his eyes diverted to the smaller man. Was there affection? Was there admiration? Now viewed through a proper lens, Kiku's feelings were obvious. He would stop his lifting to watch Alfred, a soft and almost hungry look on his face.
Arthur's eyes lingered on Kiku, then drifted back to Alfred. He was done with his sets now and was drinking a bottle of water and laughing at something Kiku must have said. Was it just him, or was that laughter too bubbly to be genuine? Then again, wasn't Alfred's laughter always that way? That's just who he was. It didn't mean anything. His good nature was given easily and freely, like fresh air. When he smiled at you, it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. As these thoughts consumed him, Arthur noticed that Alfred had ceased paying attention to Kiku and was now watching the angel stare at him, an amused and wary air in the way his eyebrows were lifted. Arthur snapped back to himself and averted his eyes, flushing with embarrassment. He hadn't meant to stare. It wasn't like he fancied his stupid smile or anything. What an idea.
Alfred's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer; he could feel it. Then Gilbert, who had emerged from the locker room, slapped the football player on the back and broke the tension. "Broke my own record for the mile run today! There was this hot chick beside me. She totally gave me the eye, man. That's probably why I ran so fast…" He stretched up, exposing a stretch of white abdomen down which ran a thin line of white hair. "She obviously appreciated an awesome man when she saw one. Unlike some girls." He scowled, leaning up on his toes as he stretched.
A chuckle issued from both Alfred while Kiku's smile took on a knowing edge. Gilbert reddened and stopped his stretch. "What's so funny?"
"Nothin'," Alfred replied. "You, uh, having trouble with Elizabeta?"
"No," Gilbert fired back. "Even if I was, I wouldn't care. She wouldn't recognize awesomeness if it was tap-dancing right in front of her, trying to get her attention." He opened a bottle of water and slurped a quarter of it down, frowning all the while. Alfred turned his head ever so slightly towards Arthur and dropped him a wink as if to say just keep watching. The wink disconcerted the angel and so he ignored it. Just as Alfred had expected, Gilbert kept talking, muttering at first and then full-on grousing. "She's completely oblivious, especially about that limp noodle of a boyfriend of hers." His voice changed to a girlish falsetto. "Oh, Roderich, how I love to watch you play the piano! You're such a dreamboat! Gag me."
Arthur had never heard that name before. "Roderich? Is that her boyfriend? Does he live on our hall?"
Gilbert snorted. "No, he doesn't live on our hall. He's too rich and famous to live somewhere as plebian as an apartment complex." Seeing Arthur's confused face, he shifted his weight and explained. "Roderich is some stupid pianist prodigy who's sort of popular. He's played for the Queen before and has a few CDs out in stores. They're completely terrible; I've listened to them. I don't know why anyone would want to hear that garbage, but apparently they do because he tours around the country giving concerts. Elizabeta practically worships him like some sort of musical god…they've been dating for a while now." He kicked at the ground, scowling. "I don't get it. The guy's a scumbag! Anyone can see it! He cheats on her, I know it. He always has one or two bimbo fangirls fawning over him. And you know what? One time she was wearing long sleeves in the dead of summer. It must have been ninety degrees outside and she comes waltzing down the hall in a long-sleeve button-down shirt. It was green. It looked nice on her. It was suspicious. Anyway, she was going to make dinner with Feli, so she rolled up her sleeves just barely, enough that she wouldn't get flour on them. That's when I saw them." His face darkened and his red eyes glinted. "I saw the bruises. Four purple lines on top of her forearm and one on the underside. They were finger marks. Roderich did that. He hits her, I know it."
"Gilbert…that's a very serious accusation…you can't just say things such as that without proof." Kiku had replaced the weights back on the rack and was standing beside Alfred now, concern written all over his round face.
"I saw the marks!" Gilbert flared. "His scummy attitude is all the proof anyone needs. Elizabeta doesn't get it. Roderich doesn't deserve someone like her. Or anyone at all. It's not like she's that great, either," he added hastily. "Whatever. Let's go. He'll get what's coming to him. Or maybe Eliza will marry him and have his stupid musician spawn. I won't care either way." With a look that indicated that he was done with the subject, he flung his towel into a nearby hamper and clumped towards the door, his usual swagger replaced with an angry stiffness.
The other three exchanged glances and followed him, keeping their thoughts to themselves. As they crossed the first street, Arthur ruminated over Gilbert's words and suspicions. Who was the Roderich fellow, really? Was he as bad as he was just painted to be? Were those smears only the ramblings of a jealous man? He panted as he struggled to keep up with the group, his breaths strained. His lungs hadn't been working quite right lately. When he ran, he could feel them constricting within his chest. Still…if Gilbert was even partially right, then Elizabeta needed to get away from him before she fell any deeper for him, assuming she wasn't already arse over ears in love. How could he find out? He couldn't very well just go up and ask the fellow. Pardon me, chap, but have you been slapping around any ladies recently? He'd be likely to get knocked around himself for impertinence. Maybe if he just…observed him for a few days. Angels could be silently stealthy if they wanted, unlike bumbling demons. Humans were usually too preoccupied to notice. That could work.
In this way, Arthur found himself following Elizabeta and Roderich back to the latter's house the next day, intending to spy on the man for a while. It wasn't hard to do, because the young musician's house was open, breezy, and full of windows hung with sheer curtains. Expensive-looking paintings hung on the walls and lavish rugs lay on the wooden floors. Everything was clean…almost sterile. The obvious centerpiece of the house was a medium-sized drawing room in which sat a beautiful, glossy, well-maintained grand piano. Various stands containing sheets of music were situated around the sitting bench, which was covered with an intricate lace doily. The piano was arranged opposite a wall-length mirror, as in a dance studio, so the player could watch himself play.
On this day, the couple entered the house and Elizabeta went straight to the kitchen, where she took from the cabinets pots and pans in a practiced way, as if she did this often. She drew vegetables out from the amply-stocked refrigerator and immediately started slicing them. Roderich, meanwhile, went to his bedroom, combed his hair, and changed his jacket. Afterwards he seated himself at the piano in the drawing room, stretched his fingers, and began to play. After three-quarters of an hour, Elizabeta brought him out a plate of food, which he examined and then gave back to her. She took it back to the kitchen, disposed of it in the trash, and began anew. Alfred would have eaten that, Arthur thought, clinging to the branch of the tree in which he sat.
Roderich Edelstein, 26 years old, considered himself to be the most up-and-coming musical genius this side of Vivaldi. The reviews his critics wrote claimed that his performances were flawless, his stage manner was intense, and that his compositions were surely sent from the gods. Roderich, of course, believed all of this and more. He was raised the youngest child of a wealthy Austrian family who had shunned television and electronic games in favor of music and literature for entertainment. Consequently, he was well-read and had an expansive vocabulary (in many languages) at his disposal. At the age of four, he had been gifted with a tiny child-sized keyboard, to which he had attached like a duckling to its mother. His parents recognized the natural talent, immediately pounced on it, and began a course of musical grooming that would last their son's whole life. At the age of eight he played in famous Austrian music halls. At ten he played at Carnegie Hall in America. By twelve he was invited to play at the Sydney Opera House, and at the tender age of fifteen, he was invited to play before Her Majesty, the Queen of England. By now, he was more or less world-famous among classical music fans and toured around various countries, recording albums and giving stage shows.
A professional must have professional surroundings, and so Roderich never settled for anything but the best. He had moved to Britannia a little over a year ago and offered a personal meeting with the fan who bought the lucky ticket number. The whole thing was his manager's idea, because he thought Roderich needed a "friendlier" image. The pianist himself was completely against the idea and was prepared to deal as little as possible with whatever horror stepped into his backstage dressing room, but the girl who was ushered in the room was far from undesirable. She was a lovely lithe thing with wavy brown hair that fell to the middle of her back and sharp green eyes. Her lips had been reddened with lipstick, but she still licked them nervously as she approached him for a handshake. He had taken her hand and kissed it instead, then looked her straight in the eyes and greeted her in a traditional Austrian way. That was all it had taken. She was smitten and he knew it. Girls were just like that…one little nudge and they fell for you as deeply as you desired.
She was the perfect girlfriend for his professional image; he knew it. She was attractive, but not too attractive. She was saucy, but could be bullied into cooking and cleaning at his whim. She was elegant and looked well in concert finery. She was talkative and willing to talk to people that he didn't want to associate with. Most of all, she was completely enthralled with him and trusted him implicitly. Sometimes, when he was curled in bed with some star-struck girl he'd met at a concert or an album signing, he felt a vexing twinge of guilt because he'd told Elizabeta some excuse for his whereabouts and she'd believed him. Then the woman would sigh his name in that way that all his conquests did—oh, Roderich—and the guilt would dissolve. Surely she didn't honestly expect him to be monogamous. A man was only young once, and few had the access to as many desirable women as he. It would be downright unfair for him to bed her and only her and leave all of his other fans bereft. It would be boring, and Roderich was not a boring man.
For her part, Elizabeta Hedervary still couldn't believe her luck in snagging the most handsome, talented man she'd ever imagined. All through high school and undergraduate she'd listened to classical piano solos as a way to focus her mind so she could study. Dashing young Roderich Edelstein's compositions had captured her interest as soon as they hit the market and some nights she would abandon her work and just sit, listening to his music and looking up images of him on the internet. His face…those stormy blue eyes staring soulfully up out of creamy skin…that dark, artfully messy hair that had clearly been tousled by his long, slender fingers…after five minutes she would squeal and bury her face in a pillow. He was exquisite.
One day, after a hard afternoon of dealing with professors and older therapy interns, she had trudged by the local performing arts center and absentmindedly looked at the upcoming shows. Phantom of the Opera…seen that...Bollywood Bonanza…not interested…23rd Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee? What the hell is that? Then she saw it. No…way. Roderich Edelstein LIVE! Here! In Britannia! He's coming here! She immediately rushed into the box office and demanded to see the prices. They were beyond her means, but she scrimped, saved, borrowed, and sold belongings until she had enough to buy that one precious ticket. She hadn't even known that there was a lucky number that would take her backstage to see him. That was announced during the show. When they called out her number, she jumped in the air and shouted with glee. What god had she pleased in order to get this privilege? And there he was, perfect and beautiful and smelling of cologne. He'd kissed her hand and murmured something in his native language…a girl could die from such bliss.
He'd asked her on a date right then and there and it wasn't long until they were official. She accompanied him on some of his tours, she watched him practice…she made food for when the torture of his genius was too exhausting. He wasn't perfect and she knew it. Sometimes he would get too stressed from his work and snap at her. One time he grabbed her arm so hard he'd left bruises. None of it mattered, though. He'd apologized afterwards and she'd forgiven him immediately. There were rumours that he slept with female fans who came backstage after concerts, but Elizabeta didn't believe a word. Roderich would never betray her in such a way; he just couldn't. He always told her where he was going to be. Beneath his straitlaced exterior lay the heart of a true romantic...it must be hard to be so wonderful every day…he was a true artist in everything he did. He was mature, settled, dignified—everything she'd ever wanted.
Then there was Gilbert. That frustrating albino had plagued her ever since she'd moved in—she should never have accepted his offer to help her lug in her furniture. He had some unaccountable crush on her and didn't care that she was a taken woman. Gilbert was a cute enough guy. He had a boyish smirk that occasionally sent flutters into her tummy, but he was roguish, immature, flighty-everything she'd never wanted. She'd never been able to make him go away and leave her alone…but then again, she'd never honestly tried. He was an amusing friend and a good person with whom to have a witty banter-filled argument. She'd be sad if he left.
Arthur stayed in the tree until an hour after Elizabeta left that evening. Nothing out of the ordinary transpired in that time, so he slipped away back home. He returned the next day, and the next, but still caught no form of transgression from the Austrian. The most scandalous thing that happened was a steamy petting session between the two lovers. Gilbert gritted his teeth when Arthur told him his empty report, but encouraged him to keep watching. Roderich was rotten, he said, he just knew it.
It was on the fifth night that Arthur's surveillance paid off. Elizabeta had left the city to visit a family member in a nearby town who had just had a baby. She'd kissed Roderich goodbye that evening and promised to tell her family that he said hello, then boarded a train. Roderich was sorrowful for a moment, then opened his cell phone and dialed a number off the back of what looked to be a receipt. He chatted animatedly for a few minutes, hung up, and strolled back into the house. Two hours later, a young woman walked timidly up the expertly manicured lawn, checked her phone, and rang the doorbell. Roderich answered the door, having changed into a casually-chic outfit with the top two buttons of his shirt undone, scolded her for walking on the grass, then invited her inside. He poured her glass after glass of wine and alternated playing piano and making small talk while she drank them. The woman became bolder as the night deepened and the wine loosened her inhibitions. She slid onto the piano bench with him a third of the way through Swiss Lillies, and had the rest of his shirt unbuttoned before he could finish the piece.
There was no more piano playing that night. Roderich's guest relieved him of his pants and herself of her dress, and the two moved their amorous activities upstairs to the master bedroom. Arthur nearly fell out of the tree at this point. He knew he shouldn't be peeping…but this was anthropology, damn it! He stayed long enough to confirm that, yes, Roderich was cheating as enthusiastically as one could cheat, then he melted into the darkness.
"I KNEW IT!" Gilbert yelled when Arthur ran to him that same night, breathless with the news. Ludwig immediately stuck his head in the bedroom and shushed him with a frown, but that didn't dampen his brother's fervor. "I KNEW he was a cheater. I…I have to tell Eliza. She has to know. But she'd never believe me. She'd never believe that her beloved would sleep around on her." He paced the floor, up and down, back and forth. "She'd ask him and he, duh, would deny it. Who wouldn't? Then she'd just get all pissy at me and that would accomplish abso-freaking-lutely nothing. You saw them do it? Like…right there?"
Arthur cringed at the memory. "Right in front of the window."
"So he's used to this. He does this often; he's not even careful anymore. That's good. I mean, it sucks for Elizabeta, but it's good because sooner or later he's going to slip up. He's going to slip up and Eliza is going to be there to see it."
"That could take years," Arthur pointed out. I don't have years. I barely have months. "What if we, say, caused him to slip up? Facilitated it, in a manner of speaking?"
Gilbert looked at him sharply. "Set the music man up? Now? Elizabeta…it would break her heart." He sat down heavily on his bed. "I…I really hate that guy. But I don't know if I could do that to her. You know?"
Arthur squirmed. He needed his friend's help on this one. Gilbert had connections to all the right people, Elizabeta most importantly. "It would hurt her far more deeply if you let the relationship go on longer. She'll just fall further in love with him." The other man jerked a little when he said that. "Don't you think getting out of a bad relationship would be a…positive life change for her?"
The albino rubbed his white hair with his hands, his head hung low. A low sigh hissed from him and faded into nothing. "You're right. The longer this…this farce of a relationship goes on, the worse it'll be for her. It's like ripping a bandage off, right? It hurts but it's best to do it quickly?" He looked up at Arthur, searching. "It's the right thing to do, yeah?"
"I think so. I think she'll agree, in the end."
"Good." Gilbert huffed and cemented the idea in his mind. A wicked smile spread across his face. "Let's give him hell, then, you and me, hey?"
oOoOo
Upon returning to his own room in 914, Arthur shrugged off his boots and coat and collapsed on his bed. Alfred, who was lounging in his bed reading comics, watched him. After a minute, the angel slid down to the floor and stretched out. He lifted one leg, then another, and tried to touch his toes. He couldn't, and so he dropped his feet back to the floor with a groan. "What're you doing?" Alfred asked casually, looking at his roommate sprawled across the floor like a squashed spider.
"Stretching. My back and shoulders hurt from sitting in a tree all day." He didn't mention that he could have sat all week in a tree in Heaven and not been sore after. Stupid Halfway sickness. He sat up and twisted side to side, trying to pop his back into a more comfortable place.
"Don't do it like that, you're gonna hurt your back more," Alfred pointed out. Arthur scowled at him but stopped. "Here, let me help." Putting his comic down, he lowered himself to the floor and crab-walked to where Arthur sat. Arthur stiffened when the American's hands were laid on him, however gently, and Alfred laughed. "Hey, dum-dum, I'm not gonna hurt you. Chill out."
"No, I'm fine, I don't need…" Arthur's sentence petered out as Alfred set to work. As ridiculous as it was, the back rub felt fantastic. This was exactly what his aching back had needed. He complained when Alfred hit a particularly tense or sore spot, but mostly stayed quiet and enjoyed the pampering. "Thanks."
Alfred chuckled behind him. "No prob, dude. The number of back injuries we see every season in football is astronomical. The sports trainer taught us all the best way to handle a strained back." He worked in silence for a moment. "You're pretty tense. Try to chill out."
Letting out all the air in his lungs, Arthur made a conscious effort to loosen his body and let his stress melt away for the time being. Little by little he felt himself unwind and relax back into Alfred's ministrations. "You must really enjoy American football, eh? You spend so much time at practice and games."
"…yeah," Alfred answered after a bit. "I like it. It's a rush, you know? There you are on the field, with hundreds of people watching…you know the game and the your team depends on you. It's pretty great. I was always pretty good at it, I guess."
Arthur grunted genially in response. Alfred seemed to be working himself into an introspective mood, so he figured it would be best to stay quiet and let him think his way through. The hands kneading his shoulders were strong and warm, and they presently began to work their way down his spine. Suppressing a sigh, the angel leaned forward so as to give his masseuse better access. When he had worked to right under the shoulder blades, Alfred's hands froze, then gently patted around the upper back area. Arthur was confused for a moment, then understood. "If you're looking for where wings ought to be, you won't find anything."
"Oh," Alfred replied, embarrassed. "I just thought…I dunno. Sorry."
"It's alright." Arthur felt Alfred's hands move back to their original positions. "I guess I'd be curious too, if I were you."
Kiku and Matt laughed together from the kitchen and Arthur and Alfred paused to listen. When the laughter died away, Alfred spoke again. "So, are you, like, the normal size for an angel?"
Arthur made a face where his roommate couldn't see him. "I guess I'm about average for a male. Females are a little smaller." His tone clearly indicated that he found the question strange.
"Oh, it's just…I dunno, you're kind of…delicate," Alfred explained, catching on to Arthur's confusion. "Not in a bad way. Just, like, your bones are kind of small."
"They are not!" Arthur protested, feeling his own wrist. It felt as solid as always.
"Yeah, they are. Feel your collar bones." Alfred slid his hands over the angel's shoulders and tapped the bone structures there. Arthur felt them, as asked. They felt quite normal. "Now, feel my collar bones. Right here." Alfred pulled down the collar of his shirt and tapped the skeletal protuberances beneath.
Reaching his hand out, Arthur felt ridiculous. Just an hour ago he'd been sitting in a tree playing peeping tom on Elizabeta's boyfriend, and now here he was fondling his roommate's shoulders upon request. Pushing his discomfort aside, he laid his fingers on the skin beneath Alfred's collar and was surprised at how much larger and more prominent the clavicles were. His fingertips wandered into the hollow behind the bones and then ran into the wall of muscle in back. Slipping lightly over the tanned skin, his hand flitted the opposite way, over the bones again, and down his chest a small ways. He met the smooth, hot skin of the pectoral and then inhaled sharply, pulling his hand away. In the curiosity of the moment, he had forgotten that this was an actual person he was feeling up. Feeling the blood rush into his face, Arthur raised his eyes and found Alfred grinning. "What?" The embarrassed angel demanded tartly.
"See? I told you. Your skeleton is smaller." Alfred pulled the collar of his t-shirt back up and smiled triumphantly. When his companion didn't respond, he rolled his eyes and motioned for the other to turn around as before. "I'll finish your back therapy now." Arthur turned obediently, but stayed quiet. After a minute or two, Alfred began to talk again. "I don't really have a large frame myself. I'm average, which is why I'm a kicker on the team instead of any other positions. If I was bigger, I could be a linebacker. If I was faster, I could be the runningback. My dad was big. He was fast, too. He played a lot of different positions on his team."
"Oh, your father played American football as well?" This was an interesting factoid.
Alfred chuckled. "Yeah. He was sort of a star. His picture is hanging in the trophy room at the stadium I play in." His voice thickened with pride. "He was so proud of me when I joined the middle school team. Every day, after practice, he would go out to a field with me and train even more. Anytime we had a game, he'd grill hamburgers for me. I guess that's why I love them so much."
Facing away, Arthur smiled to himself. "That's splendid. Does he still come to watch you play? Could I meet him?"
"He definitely still watches me play," Alfred said forcefully. "but, no, you can't meet him."
"Oh. Er…why not? Not a friendly sort of chap?"
"He's dead," Alfred answered matter-of-factly. "so it might be hard to arrange." A strange look crossed his face as he looked at the back of Arthur's head. He stopped working his hands and just sat thinking for a bit. "Say, Arthur…" he finally began, his voice strained. "You live in Heaven, right?"
Arthur's heart sank. He knew where this was going. "Yes."
"Do you…I mean…is my dad up there with you? Do you think you could find him if you go back?"
Arthur cringed. "Alfred…I-"
"Just for a second. Not any longer than that. Just to tell him that Mom and Emily and I miss him. Ask him if he's proud that I got on his old team." The edge of his voice was like a razor, sharp and metallic.
Pain veined through Arthur's chest as the words were laid upon him. This notion had to be dispelled once and for all. "Alfred…Heaven…Heaven isn't what you think it is. It's…it's like Earth, but for angels. It's an entirely different dimension that became…worked into your human myths and legends before it was sealed away. When humans die…well, they don't go to Heaven. Or Hell," he added quickly, remembering the stigma attached to the Lower Dimension.
"Where do they go?"
"I…I don't know." Arthur stared at the floor, wishing he had something better to say. The truth was that he had heard something about where the souls of the three Beings went after they passed from their own dimension. There were rumours…whispers in the quiet places of Heaven…talk of a place beyond knowledge—a fourth Dimension where the three races mingled after mortal life. The gates to this land were said to be guarded by a most elite, secret group of beings, both angels and demons, that kept a watchful eye on the pathway at all times. In dark corners, angels would joke that the quickest way to find out if there was a fourth Dimension was to go looking for it. It was, however, a one-way journey. That was all Arthur knew; his information came from mere mutterings heard in doorways. It would not do to tell these tales to Alfred. "I'm sorry."
Alfred laughed unhappily. "No, forget about it. I'm being totally weird. Sorry about that, dude." He renewed his massage of Arthur's back with vigor. The angel still felt uncomfortable and tried to speak, but was cut off again. "I make decent money on the team," Alfred informed him. "It supports my life well. I'll probably stick with it until I can't play any longer, unless…I dunno. Unless I fall in love or something. As if that would happen." He snorted. "But if it did, I'd probably quit. I mean…I'd need a steadier job. Something that paid better. 'Cuz eventually I'd want to start a family, you know? Get our own place…move somewhere with a yard so the kids could play. I'd put my family first." His voice was determined and he dug into Arthur's back. "My dad put his family first. I'd do it too. If I fell in love, their happiness would be my number one priority, you know?"
Arthur squirmed away from Alfred's hands, which had become slightly vice-like in their grip, and turned to face the other. "Sure, I guess. Why are you telling me this?"
There was a pause, then Alfred grinned and looked away, taking his hands off of Arthur entirely. "I…I dunno. Sorry. I just…I thought you'd want to know."
"No, no," Arthur answered back hurriedly. "I do. Want to know, that is. You can tell me." The two stared at each other, then simultaneously looked away, both awkward with embarrassment. Arthur felt his face burning and his chest tickling not unpleasantly. He cast about for something to say, anything to say to relieve this strange tension. "I mean…only if you have no one else to talk to. Don't you have friends?" He regretted the jibe as soon as he said it, but didn't know how to retract the phrase that had come out so wrong.
Alfred glanced at him, a little shocked, and stood up. "Yeah. No, I have friends. I just…I just thought you…I dunno. Maybe I'll talk to, uh, to Keeks next time. It's cool. I hope your back feels better." With that, he left the room, a little unsure on his feet.
Damn it. This always happened. Arthur hit himself on the head. When he was unsure of what to do or feeling awkward or emotional, he always said something stupid. Now Alfred wouldn't talk to him about important topics again. You're a dolt! A complete prat! He hoisted himself off the floor, stretched, and found that his back did indeed feel much more limber than before. Looking the way Alfred had left, the angel found himself nervously energetic, something he wasn't used to feeling. He should apologize. He should say something. But, somehow, the thought of talking to the American again was daunting. Maybe he could sleep on the problem and would miraculously know what to do in the morning.
Miracles, he thought to himself with wry amusement. Aren't angels supposed to perform those?
oOoOo
It's hard to write fantasy as a STEM major…it ends up turning into a sort of science fiction as you try to marry your written world to physics rules…
