It had been a few days since Arthur had seen Francis, and the man was perfectly content. The Englishman's heart had been so filled; it was tearing at the seams. Now, that chest was allowed to empty and Arthur felt absolutely fine.

So, he broke his stupid promise to Francis and he went to visit Alfred.

It was Saturday after all.

The knock occurred softly against the door.

And what do you know? It opened right up.

"Hello, Arthur. Have you come to surprise me?"

"I suppose I have, Mr. Jones. That is, unless you're unwilling for a visit. I just wanted to drop by and say hello. It seems as though it's been a long while."

"Well, it has been." The young man stepped aside. "You're welcome to come in, Arthur. I was simply doing nothing."

"Perhaps it's fortunate I decided to come then." There was a slight smile on the poet's face, and those brightly shined shoes made their way through the threshold.

It was at this moment that Alfred took the entirety of his friend into consideration. Something about him seemed incredibly new. No more distress made his face churn and writhe and a great calmness possessed him. The man even had a more handsome appearance with the misery lifted.

"You seem much happier, Arthur."

"Oh, yes. I followed your advice." They looked to one another. "I moved out of Francis' home. And now I live in a handsome apartment not too far from here. Don't have any furniture. Just a mattress and a few pieces of silverware and what-not. But I'm feeling much better. Definitely less insane."

"Well, that's wonderful to hear."

"You know, Francis even told me not to come here, but I'm allowed to do as I please. I'm not a child and Francis isn't my mother."

"Certainly not. But are you sure he won't be upset?"

"He's not going to find out. So no; there's no possible way for him to react badly."

"That's one way to go about it." There was a naughty smile about the American's face. "You've certainly gotten more daring since I've seen you last. What's changed? Just that you've gotten out of that stupid Frenchman's presence?"

The Englishman even laughed. "I suppose so. Everything has gotten better since I took my own place. I've even stopped being bothered by those awful creatures-or creature, I suppose. As I said, I've been less insane. And, not only that, but I've been writing as well. Oh, I can't tell you how lovely that is. I was attempting to produce something or other before hand, but it always turned out to be utter shit. I'm telling you- that actor is almost like opium. It's wonderful at first and then a month later you're losing your goddamn mind trying to figure out what exactly happened three days ago…"

"Have you ever tried opium, Arthur?"

"Heavens no! I'm not that daring. I can barely move out of an old lover's house and you're accusing me of being an opium addict." Mirth. "Oh, that's ridiculous."

"I had to wonder. The description you gave really seemed to fit the cycle."

"Well, have you ever tried opium, Mr. Jones?"

"Of course not." There was a sunshine flavored grin about the boy's luminescent face. "I'm just a silly American who writes silly stories for a silly paper. Does that sound like the sort of person who would be smoking opium regularly?"

"I don't know; anyone has the capability to be an addict. It can't be that difficult."

As they spoke, either were moving nearer and nearer towards the sofa, eventually taking a spot against its worn, yet incredibly comforting cushions. Upon the arms, one could see where the fibers were wearing out, stuffing leaking from thin material. But that merely served to give the ancient thing character. This couch- it had seen some shit.

Such an article was something to be proud of, but only if the owner had kept it such a long time. Buying a sofa in such a shape was nothing but shameful.

"Alfred, how long have you had this couch?"

"A few years now. I got it when I first moved to Paris. I bought it used, but it wasn't this beaten up then."

"So, what happened to it? Fifteen years in a matter of months takes effort, wouldn't you agree?"

Alfred shot that horrible little curl toward his guest. "I should really kick you out of my apartment for saying that, Mr. Kirkland. You come in here, entirely unexpected, and the minute you sit down you're insulting my couch after asking an innocent little kid like me if I've tried opium. You're quite piece of work, and you're lucky I like you so well."

"Maybe you're the lucky one. It's not every day that you have Arthur Kirkland sitting on your century old sofa."

"Oh, excuse me your majesty. I didn't realize what a privilege I had."

"No, no. it's fine. I understand; truly. Not many people do."

"Are you certain you bought yourself another apartment? You're behaving like a pretentious old homeless man who's convinced he's related to royalty."

"Maybe I'm just hallucinating. But my clothes aren't all too tattered yet, are they?"

"No, I suppose they're not. They look quite nice, actually. Well. For a homeless man."

The author merely laughed. "You be careful, Alfred. One of these days I'm going to write a book about you, and it's not going to be very flattering. I can do that, you know."

"Perhaps that would be a good thing for me. After all, libel can be flattery as well. You're bothered by me enough to produce a mess of lies. I'm obviously doing my job."

"I won't then."

"Please do. Maybe you'll actually get my work published. The population will be so offended by me, they'll have no choice but to see the horrendous things I have to say."

"You've already been published, Alfred."

"Oh please." Those pretty blue gems rolled. "Published. Right. I don't think tiny newspapers full of nonsense really count. Anyone could be published in a paper like that."

"Excuse me; that's certainly not true. I read through an entire edition and I thought it was wonderful. Granted, I couldn't understand most of it, but it was still splendid. Your writing is just fine, and if you truly want to be famous, then you should take a boat over to England and start writing your little heart out. After all, the French won't appreciate your work properly. You should really stick to your native tongue, as spectacular as your Français is."

"Thank you, Arthur."

"Of course." A brief kiss to the cheek. "Don't even concern yourself; you're doing a fine job, Alfred."

Oh, Arthur realized what he had done. He almost did it intentionally. All the entertainment came when those sweet American cheeks lit right up and a look of blooming confusion made itself dominant all over the child's eyes. It was as though the elder man had simply taken a pot of red ink and threw it all over his opposite's visage.

Oh, what a mess.

It got worse when the American decided to kiss back.

And then the train derailed.

In a quick fever, either of them was smashing their lips together in wild passion and pulling each other in closer. Sparks lit up the whole damn room and hearts beat in an off rhythm, entirely erratic. That tiny peck-that was a chain reaction. Alfred was an open vat of gasoline and all Arthur had done was light a match.

Hands held the sides of faces and that cluster fuck tangled even more so than it had.

Tongues tied together. Saliva was shared. And the poor, innocent lad was pushed into the couch's beaten up rim with Arthur shoving his sickly sweet experience right down that pink throat.

And goddamn it felt good.

Then it stopped.

Neither had breath left in their lungs.

"I'm sorry…" Alfred's chest rose and pushed gently into Arthur's. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's the matter with me."

I've liked you for a very long time.

Loved you, even.

Your green eyes are intoxicating.

And you're so damn handsome in no matter what you wear.

You don't know it.

But everyone else does.

That's what his expression said.

"That's alright." A peck to those soaking mounds. "Listen, I'm going to leave you alone now."

"No-please. I've missed you." Those blond brows furrowed. "I won't do that again-" Those spectacles were bent. Arthur took a moment to adjust them. "I just-"

"I know." Peck. "I'll come back next Saturday, but you should sort this out, don't you think? The Bible says-"

"I don't give a damn what The Bible says!" A great breath was taken. "Don't you understand? I can't bear to see you go back to that stupid French bastard again. He doesn't care about you-"

"I know."

"Stop saying you know!"

"Alright." Arthur rose from the century old couch and its unfortunate owner. "I won't say that anymore. I'll see you next week, Alfred."

"Why are you going?"

There was not an answer.

And the angered American could not muster any words. That entire visage was a pool of solid emotion. He was simply too young to know how to express all of it properly. His sweet, saccharine eyes could only beg the man not to go.

But Arthur did not have a choice.

"Listen, you think about what you want to say. Then you can tell me when I come back next week."

"Fine…" Alfred gave up. "Fine."

"Good-bye, Mr. Jones."

"Good-bye."

And the door closed behind the poet.