Ch. 25
"Find it yet?" Francis called down the hall. Alfred was kneeling on the bedroom floor in front of his bag, the contents spilling out messily after he frantically rummaged through it for the past twenty minutes.
Alfred was fishing through his jean pockets, pulling them inside out and then tossing them aside when he found them to be empty. He was about to give up when he suddenly remembered that he had a shirt with chest pockets. Pulling out the plaid garment, he opened the front flap and saw a stiff corner of white paper peaking out.
"Yes! - Ah, yeah, I did," he called back, twisting uncomfortably to face the door.
He pulled out the paper, revealing the name 'G. B. Schmitz' and a phone number underneath it. He hadn't had the chance yet to contact the person that his professor had referred him to, his mind having been preoccupied lately. In fact, he had totally forgotten until Francis said something that reminded him after they had finished eating lunch.
Looking down at the name and number, he started to wander down the hall. He was just about to reach the end, when he grabbed for his phone only to find himself groping at air. Stopping, he looked unseeingly at the paper before him, and with a heavy sigh he turned back around on his heel.
"Where in the… Oh, there," he mumbled, spotting his phone peeking out from under the bed.
He snatched it, his triumph from finding it ruined by the loud sound of ripping. Looking down at his phone, Alfred saw a jagged strip of paper dangling from the corner of the casing that covered the battery. Prying it loose as gently as he could, he noticed that it was a glossy bar of solid light blue on one side and white on the other. Reaching back under the bed, his hand found purchase with a heavy object that he slid out into view.
He had a brief moment to see that what he had pulled was a stack of magazines before the top few went scuttling across the floor, pages flying open with a chorus of fluttering paper.
He picked up the one that used to be the top of the pile, a piece missing from the corner of the cover that had faded from age before spotting a yellow sticky note jutting out from the middle like a friendly hello. Looking back out the door to see if Francis was coming, he opened to the marked page and saw rows of small blurbs reviewing several restaurants. His eye was drawn to the one with the name highlighted in orange, the quote giving high praise to the small and newly opened establishment that the food critic had eaten at. Glancing at the date, Alfred recognized the place as Francis' first restaurant that he had opened and lost practically a life time ago.
Finished reading, his eyes wandered to the white gap between the column of letters and the edge of the page. There a note was scribbled in hasty handwriting that he didn't recognize, 'You didn't get it this time, but you're still the best!', followed by a hokey looking smiley face. Oddly enough, the note was written in black pen but circled by blue ink, as if to draw attention to it. He felt a strange ache in his heart, reading the snippet over and over again as well as the random note.
"Are you going to keep pacing up and down the hall like that all day?" Alfred heard Francis drone as he walked back into the main living area, not even having noticed that his feet had taken him back down the hall while he perused the rest of the magazine.
"Oh I was just-is that a type writer?" Alfred looked up from his reading, eyeing the desk by the wall Francis was sitting at. Earlier he hadn't paid attention to what was on it, a surprising amount of clutter making it the one part of the room he felt he should ignore because it intrigued him so much.
Books, papers, and other such items were either stacked by the ledges or piled neatly on the floor next to it, the centerpiece being a ridiculously retro typewriter sitting in front of Francis. The white plastic had been sun bleached into a faded light yellow and crisp multi-use paper jutted out of it with rows of black print stamped neatly onto them for contrast. If Alfred ever had to describe it to someone, he would say it looked like a keyboard and a printer mated to create a huge, mutated calculator looking thing.
Francis looked up from his hunched position, tucking the pencil he was using to scribble something down on a notepad behind his ear.
"What does it look like?"
"How old are you?" Alfred asked, mind still stuck on that… thing.
"Don't be rude. I'm typing everything that I've put in my journal." Francis frowned up at him, as if the entire proceeding was completely normal and Alfred was weird for questioning it.
"Would it even- There's a computer over there," Alfred sputtered, jerking his thumb at a laptop that sat unobtrusively on the coffee table.
"It's Maelys's," Francis countered huffily, crossing his arms over his chest.
"But you have a cell phone."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"I know how to use a computer."
"And?"
"I used to live on a farm with an outhouse."
"You're exaggerating. Besides, you were a toddler, how would you know?"
"I'm just… You do know how to use a computer don't you?" Alfred rolled up the magazine and stuck it in his waistband behind his back.
"Of course I do, I just don't like to," Francis shrugged, glancing at the magazine before it disappeared. He didn't react to the motion, only looking back up at Alfred with the same perturbed expression. "If you want to be outraged with anyone, make it the world. No one writes or talks anymore; it's all texting and e-mails. It's too out of touch and impersonal if you ask me."
Alfred was aghast. He never thought that out of all the things he and Francis had in common, an impressive ineptitude with random pieces of technology would be counted among them. Setting his fists on his hips, he looked over at Francis disbelievingly.
Francis sheepishly looked off to the side. "Alright, they keep breaking on me. But I don't know how! Maelys's old laptop managed to contract a fatal virus even though I was only looking up directions." He flung his arms up and down in a vertical motion, mimicking a two-handed judo chop and staring accusingly at the empty space in front of him like he could see the poor machine he had unwittingly ended.
"It's amazing you've managed to go through life unscathed," Alfred said, amused.
"That's not true. When I was young, my face helped Arthur become a better boxer. Shame he didn't keep up with his training when he went into Secondary School, I'm sure it would have loosened him up a bit," Francis responded absently, taking the pencil back from behind his ear and crossing out something down on his notepad.
"Ah…" Alfred reached back and fiddled with the magazine for a moment, contemplating if he wanted to say something about it. But when he went back to look at Francis, the older man was already back in the fold of his work. As sneakily as he could, he took the magazine out and snuck back toward the bedroom.
"Either pick a place to settle down or I'll sit on you," he heard Francis shout when he crossed the threshold again.
"Like you could hold me down," he yelled back, mentally cursing his poor verbal sparring skills. Stuffing the pile of magazines back under the bed, including the one he had been carrying around, he thumbed at the paper with the photographer's contact. Sitting on the mattress, he nervously hesitated over his phone. Well, if Francis was going to work on his career, he might as well too.
Mustering up the courage, he tapped in the number. He almost clicked 'End' when the phone started ringing, his heart beating wildly in his chest with every second his call went unanswered.
Just as Alfred was about to hang up, he heard the phone click and the rough sounds of movement of someone answering.
"Yeah?" Snapped someone who sounded distracted.
Alfred furrowed his brow when he heard the voice, wondering why it sounded familiar.
"Uh, hi, is this Schmitz? With the advertising company?" he asked as professionally as he could.
"You got it. Who's this?"
"Uh, I'm Alfred Jones. My professor-"
"Alfred? What the hell, are you drunk?"
Well, that explained where he heard that voice before. He was really starting to hate phones at this point in his life.
"Gilbert?"
"No duh. Why are you calling my work phone?"
"I was told to call you about a position in an advertising company?" He didn't know why he phrased his response in the form of a question, it just seemed appropriate for his confusion.
"You didn't know you were calling me?" A loud, witchy cackle forced Alfred to pull the phone away from his ear for a moment.
"The card said Schmitz. Your name's not Schmitz," he informed him before his brain made the reminder that he had no idea what Gilbert's last name was.
"Technically, it's Beilschmidt Schmitz, if you can freaking believe it. Me and Lud are half brothers, so I got stuck with the stupid name when my mom remarried."
"I had no idea. Um, about my professor-"
"Ah, man. You can't be that college kid Dee mentioned?"
"And you're the stock photo guy. What were the chances of that?" He said the last part more to himself than anything.
"Depends. How many professional photographers do you think live in Columbia?"
"I didn't know you were a professional photographer."
"What else would I be doing with all that darkroom equipment?"
"Uh… Hobby stuff?" So much for the kinky, porno mags theory. Served him right for having his mind in the gutter in the first place.
"Ohohoho, this is too good. I'll have you know that whatever you think of me, I actually run a tight ship. So if you think you're going to get away with slacking off because we hang out-"
"Wouldn't dream of it," Alfred cut in miserably, staring longingly out the window and wishing for a meteor to rocket out of the sky and hit him.
"Anyway, where have you been? Kinda missed you hanging around like a creep," Gilbert asked nonchalantly, barely covering his frustration at being the one interrupted.
"New York for family stuff."
"When will you get back?"
"When do you want me back?"
"Make it the seventh."
"Of January?"
"Well it wouldn't be the seventh of December, would it?"
"Uh, no. That's fine, Gil. I'll see you when I get back then?"
"Ah, man, your ass is soooo-"
Alfred never found out what his ass was going to be, considering he hung up. Dropping the phone on the bedspread, he fell back and splayed himself out. He was thinking his good and bad luck came to him in equally strong waves.
"Are you alright? I could hear you from the other side of the apartment." Francis was leaning over his comatose form, looking down at him in concern.
"Hold me," Alfred demanded, half joking with his melodramatic tone.
"What-herk!" Francis was pulled down on the bed, Alfred throwing himself casually over his stomach and settling his head below his sternum.
"Is something wrong?" Francis asked, his expression on of mild surprise.
"Nah, I was just thinking about how much I loved you," he answered, tracing a figure eight by Francis' collar.
Francis' face was blank, blue eyes trained on Alfred unblinkingly. Then his face relaxed, and he let his head fall back on the bed. His stomach started to jerk up and down, breathy laughter bubbling forth.
"Geeze. I'm honest with my feelings and you're laughing at me," Alfred said blandly, letting his head be bounced as Francis' laughter started to subside.
"Ha, sorry. I wasn't expecting you to be in such an intimate mood, considering this morning." He rested a hand on Alfred's forehead. Alfred closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, deciding to ignore Gilbert's existence. Well, until the next month.
"Hey, Francis?" Alfred asked after a short pause, cozying in on the bed further.
"Yes?"
"Where did you even find that typewriter?"
"It was my father's," he answered simply, petting Alfred's hair as they both lay quietly.
Alfred somehow felt reassured by the answer.
A/N: As a creature of habit, being this behind on a self-imposed deadline makes me cringe. D=
Anyhow, thanks for reading and criticism is fine by me.