Chapter Two
The Flaming Creatures resided in a flat not far from the Last Resort. Arthur tagged along behind them as they trudged noisily down the streets of London. By the time they got there it was past midnight and Arthur was dead on his feet. The Creatures were still bouncing around, though, and showed no signs of slowing.
Arthur followed his new roommates into the apartment. They seemed to know how to weave their ways through the stacked up junk, but Arthur didn't and he banged his knee on the edge of something hard and cold.
"Sorry," Billy's voice rang out from a corner, followed by a soft click. Light blossomed around his head and revealed a sheepish smile. "We're just moving in."
Arthur nodded and glared down at the offending object, a heavy wooden crate. Then he let his eyes roam freely around his surroundings. A purple feather boa was draped across the counter of the tiny kitchenette and a pair of sequined pants hung carelessly over a lampshade. The carpet was barely visible under the mass of stuff piled on the floor. The other three doors were open, and Arthur could see more junk peaking out from the rooms beyond.
"Okay," Malcolm said, carefully stepping over a beaded beret. "Bedroom, bathroom, bedroom," he said, pointing to each of the rooms in succession. "That's the kitchen, but we never use it… And that's the grand tour."
"Uh… Where should I put my stuff?"
"Anywhere," Ray replied with a shrug.
"We're not exactly organized," Pearl added with a grin.
"And where do I sleep?" Arthur asked with a plaintive glance at the couch. It was already occupied by piles of clothes and magazines.
"You can sleep with me," Ray offered quickly, then added, "In our room, I mean."
Pearl and Billy tried to hide snickers- they failed miserably- and Malcolm nodded. "You *can* sleep in our room. Ray can take the couch."
"Hey!" Ray objected.
"No, I can take the couch," Arthur jumped in almost fearfully.
"Ray?" Malcolm asked expectantly.
He rolled his eyes and shoved a pile of clothes off of the couch. "I'll sleep out here." He collapsed on the ratty sofa with a grunt.
Malcolm grinned triumphantly and said, "Follow me." He headed into the left bedroom- the one that had the least amount of overflowing jumble.
Clothes were strewn across the floor. Out of the clutter rose two small beds and a dresser, with makeup and knickknacks heaped atop it. It didn't seem to bother Malcolm, who merely sidestepped the obstructions and began pulling off his black layers. Arthur quickly turned his back and dropped his bag on the bed closest to him. He turned back around when he figured Malcolm was in bed.
He was, his slim frame tucked under the covers. Arthur kicked off his shoes and sat on Ray's bed, his eyes on Malcolm. "Thanks," he said quietly.
Malcolm didn't move, didn't open his bright blue eyes. He just murmured, "You're welcome."
*
Arthur woke up at nine, completely confused, staring around his messy surroundings with bleary eyes. It took a moment for the events of the past thirty-six hours to come back to him, and once they did, he fell back against his pillows with a depressed sigh.
He closed his eyes and tried to fall back to sleep, but after five minutes of staring at the inside of his eyelids, he was bored and even more depressed. Worse, he was filled with doubt.
Was he doing the right thing? Should he jump up and run to the depot, buy the ticket for Stratford and enroll at Aunt Phyllis's unofficial school for the horribly dull?
Arthur's eyes opened and moved to Malcolm. He was sprawled across his bed, covers falling off. The remnants of mascara clung to the skin around his eyes and his hair was tousled, with a touch of curl. Everything about the tiny singer screamed adventure, screamed candor and wild abandon. Arthur wanted that.
He slipped out of bed and pulled his sweater on over his head. He grabbed his shoes and carefully made his way across the room, careful not to knock over any strategically placed piles of rubbish. He paused outside the bedroom door to stare at the empty couch and wonder where Ray had gone. Before he came to any conclusions, he crossed the room and crept out the door.
Once in the hallway, he slipped his shoes on and headed for the stairs. He vaguely remembered passing a payphone on their way back to the flat the night before. He retraced their steps and sure enough came to a the booth.
Arthur swallowed hard and stepped inside. He pulled the change from his pocket and dialed. Ryan answered on the second ring with a laconic, "Yeah?"
"Ryan… It's Arthur. Can I talk to Dad?" he asked, not pleased to find his voice shaking as hard as his hands were.
Ryan scoffed on the other end. "You know, you're putting us through hell here, woofter. Mum's crying, Dad's yelling… And the townsfolk won't stop talking about this till Christmas."
"Just let me talk to Dad, Ry!" Arthur cried.
There was muffled arguing in the background, then his father's gruff voice came on the line. "Arthur, why aren't you in Stratford?"
"I missed my bus," he murmured.
"You get on the next one then. I want you at your aunt's by sunset."
It took everything in him to say his next word. "No."
"No?"
"I don't want to go."
"Don't want to go?" His voice sounded shocked, like he couldn't believe Arthur was defying him. Arthur couldn't believe it either. "I don't want my son to be a faggot! But I don't seem to have a choice in that! You get on that bus and go to your aunt's or you are not welcome here again!"
He could hear his father's labored breathing. It seemed in time with his straining heartbeat. "I can't, Dad."
"Then you're dead to me," his father said simply.
Arthur pulled the phone from his ear, stared at it in mute disbelief. Then he hung it up and turned slowly from the booth.
The Flaming Creatures resided in a flat not far from the Last Resort. Arthur tagged along behind them as they trudged noisily down the streets of London. By the time they got there it was past midnight and Arthur was dead on his feet. The Creatures were still bouncing around, though, and showed no signs of slowing.
Arthur followed his new roommates into the apartment. They seemed to know how to weave their ways through the stacked up junk, but Arthur didn't and he banged his knee on the edge of something hard and cold.
"Sorry," Billy's voice rang out from a corner, followed by a soft click. Light blossomed around his head and revealed a sheepish smile. "We're just moving in."
Arthur nodded and glared down at the offending object, a heavy wooden crate. Then he let his eyes roam freely around his surroundings. A purple feather boa was draped across the counter of the tiny kitchenette and a pair of sequined pants hung carelessly over a lampshade. The carpet was barely visible under the mass of stuff piled on the floor. The other three doors were open, and Arthur could see more junk peaking out from the rooms beyond.
"Okay," Malcolm said, carefully stepping over a beaded beret. "Bedroom, bathroom, bedroom," he said, pointing to each of the rooms in succession. "That's the kitchen, but we never use it… And that's the grand tour."
"Uh… Where should I put my stuff?"
"Anywhere," Ray replied with a shrug.
"We're not exactly organized," Pearl added with a grin.
"And where do I sleep?" Arthur asked with a plaintive glance at the couch. It was already occupied by piles of clothes and magazines.
"You can sleep with me," Ray offered quickly, then added, "In our room, I mean."
Pearl and Billy tried to hide snickers- they failed miserably- and Malcolm nodded. "You *can* sleep in our room. Ray can take the couch."
"Hey!" Ray objected.
"No, I can take the couch," Arthur jumped in almost fearfully.
"Ray?" Malcolm asked expectantly.
He rolled his eyes and shoved a pile of clothes off of the couch. "I'll sleep out here." He collapsed on the ratty sofa with a grunt.
Malcolm grinned triumphantly and said, "Follow me." He headed into the left bedroom- the one that had the least amount of overflowing jumble.
Clothes were strewn across the floor. Out of the clutter rose two small beds and a dresser, with makeup and knickknacks heaped atop it. It didn't seem to bother Malcolm, who merely sidestepped the obstructions and began pulling off his black layers. Arthur quickly turned his back and dropped his bag on the bed closest to him. He turned back around when he figured Malcolm was in bed.
He was, his slim frame tucked under the covers. Arthur kicked off his shoes and sat on Ray's bed, his eyes on Malcolm. "Thanks," he said quietly.
Malcolm didn't move, didn't open his bright blue eyes. He just murmured, "You're welcome."
*
Arthur woke up at nine, completely confused, staring around his messy surroundings with bleary eyes. It took a moment for the events of the past thirty-six hours to come back to him, and once they did, he fell back against his pillows with a depressed sigh.
He closed his eyes and tried to fall back to sleep, but after five minutes of staring at the inside of his eyelids, he was bored and even more depressed. Worse, he was filled with doubt.
Was he doing the right thing? Should he jump up and run to the depot, buy the ticket for Stratford and enroll at Aunt Phyllis's unofficial school for the horribly dull?
Arthur's eyes opened and moved to Malcolm. He was sprawled across his bed, covers falling off. The remnants of mascara clung to the skin around his eyes and his hair was tousled, with a touch of curl. Everything about the tiny singer screamed adventure, screamed candor and wild abandon. Arthur wanted that.
He slipped out of bed and pulled his sweater on over his head. He grabbed his shoes and carefully made his way across the room, careful not to knock over any strategically placed piles of rubbish. He paused outside the bedroom door to stare at the empty couch and wonder where Ray had gone. Before he came to any conclusions, he crossed the room and crept out the door.
Once in the hallway, he slipped his shoes on and headed for the stairs. He vaguely remembered passing a payphone on their way back to the flat the night before. He retraced their steps and sure enough came to a the booth.
Arthur swallowed hard and stepped inside. He pulled the change from his pocket and dialed. Ryan answered on the second ring with a laconic, "Yeah?"
"Ryan… It's Arthur. Can I talk to Dad?" he asked, not pleased to find his voice shaking as hard as his hands were.
Ryan scoffed on the other end. "You know, you're putting us through hell here, woofter. Mum's crying, Dad's yelling… And the townsfolk won't stop talking about this till Christmas."
"Just let me talk to Dad, Ry!" Arthur cried.
There was muffled arguing in the background, then his father's gruff voice came on the line. "Arthur, why aren't you in Stratford?"
"I missed my bus," he murmured.
"You get on the next one then. I want you at your aunt's by sunset."
It took everything in him to say his next word. "No."
"No?"
"I don't want to go."
"Don't want to go?" His voice sounded shocked, like he couldn't believe Arthur was defying him. Arthur couldn't believe it either. "I don't want my son to be a faggot! But I don't seem to have a choice in that! You get on that bus and go to your aunt's or you are not welcome here again!"
He could hear his father's labored breathing. It seemed in time with his straining heartbeat. "I can't, Dad."
"Then you're dead to me," his father said simply.
Arthur pulled the phone from his ear, stared at it in mute disbelief. Then he hung it up and turned slowly from the booth.