"Aaand whats this?"
"That's um, uh, P!"
"Yes! And what does P remind you of?"
"It reminds me of Papa!"
"Yeah, it does, doesn't it…"
Arthur brushed his fingers through Alfred's thin hair, both laying on the rugged carpet as it dug into their skin, it was near evening and the curtains were halfway drawn closed as the evening sun seemed to drift through the panes of glass, shrouding them in an orange light.
"Mhm," He seemed to agree as he shifted uncomfortably on the harsh flooring that didn't seem to want to leave his fragile skin alone. "Yeah, and D reminds me of you dad!" The child limped against the carpet with a giggle and a cough. The pine's outside seemed to be taking a toll on Alfred.
"I bet It does," Arthur seemed to smile before picking himself up from the floor as well as the book he was going through, it was well-used and a bit stained, the object originally found at a garage sale with Francis when they had gone looking through clothes for Alfred.
"When will Papa be home?" The boy picked himself up as well, "I'm huunngrry…" Small voice sounded through their small apartment. Harsh creaking was sounded as the near grown toddler's feet thumped on the floor.
"I know, he'll be home soon, maybe I could make you something…?" Placing the book back into a box full of other used books that Arthur should probably give away or donate.
Shaking his head he bolted towards the TV remote. Typical.
"What, why not?"
"Because I don't like when you cook." He responds whilst realizing that Ninja Turtles was coming on.
He accepted it though, unfortunately common that someone would neglect his cooking abilities, but as Francis said 'lacked thereof. Even though Arthur had tried to learn the simple things in the past, having recent cuts on his fingers from trying chop carrots a week ago, his husband always like to comment on his inability to cook a decent meal on the stove, Arthur didn't think anything of it. Tea was his main dish and maybe soup reheated in the microwave when Alfred was feeling exceptionally tempted to sneak above the fridge and grab himself several handfuls of cookies or just under the weather.
Naturally, the clock was hitting 4:30pm. Francis was going to be home any minute.
As his theory was precise enough; the sound of a set of keys were heard outside the front door and a horrendous creak was heard from the door as it was pushed closed. Guess putting tea on the boil was a bad idea.
Steps could be heard walking into the kitchen, the floor was creaking under his legs that were stretched out and graceful. They never seemed to stumble. Warm arms wrapped around his waist lazily. Long hair seemed to trickle down and rub against Arthur's cheek and Francis decided to connect his lips with the Brits cheek.
"You seem distracted." The Frenchman murmured into the crook of his neck.
"Of course I am, how can I not be with you around?"
The French stronghold seem to give off a nice chuckle from the back of his throat, "I do have bad news."
Arthur groaned and slumped dramatically, forcing Francis to hold him tighter. "Oh please don't tell me the moving company cancelled on us…"
"Non, worse."
Green eyes dilated slightly before he was beginning to fill with anxiety. The man was thrown off when there was another husky laugh as the arms tightened even more, pulling Arthur even closer.
"Okay not that bad, but uh- "He cleared his throat, "I've been thinking these couple weeks and have come to a horrifying conclusion." Lips trailed his neck and breathed in slowly.
The water seemed to boil on the stove and was quickly removed to a burner that wasn't heated outstretching himself to reach the glass Arthur had chosen to use. "What would that be?" The teabag was added with sugar and a small bit of milk. A blush was forming on his cheeks.
"Promise not to get upset?"
His husband nods as he takes a long drink.
"I need to cut my hair."
Arthur sputter and almost spit out his drink.
"Wh-"
Francis gave off an exasperated sigh, "Well, it autumn, so that means wind. And it seemed that my hair doesn't want to leave me alone whether it's in a hair-tie or ribbon. It's unfortunately a huge distraction." He explained and almost seemed to snuggle the man.
Predictably Arthur slumped even more that he thought he could, but his husband was an undeniably strong man. Arthur cradling the warm cup in his hands. Actually it was making his hands burn.
The awkward silence finally broke the camel's back.
"…I'm sorry."
The dim lights from the kitchen was illuminating. The atmosphere wasn't dense or suffocating. It was more polite than most. They both felt content and love.
"It's not your fault," He sips his tea, "If you want to go ahead."
"I know, I know." He sucks another breath and exhales. He seemed to smell like that expensive cologne they could barely afford, but it lasted for days and that's when you know this was Francis.
Smiling, Arthur seemed to have forced his way out of his grip and set the half empty cup down.
"You should probably start supper, your child is complaining." Arthur began strutting out the room.
"He's yours too, can't blame just me for spoiling him."
"I can, and will."
Francis smirked, "How about we just order out, because I don't feel like digging into the boxes." Bone cold tiles brushed against his feet as he dug himself out a plastic cup from an open moving box and filled it was cold water from the sink.
"Might as well." He shuffled around the corner with a mumbled voice, "-can't wait to get out of this bloody apartment." Francis could only seem to hum in approval.
His head was lulling uncomfortably in the awful hospital chair, barely conscious but not willing to sleep because of his position, he let the bags under his eyes sag. Insufficient meals and the lack of daily nutrients he was typically used to. Bright and uncomfortable lights were the main horror though.
Many times he was tempted by Arthur to go home and get some good sleep. The Brit seemed to worry too much, and Francis wasn't one to give in like the other man had wanted. The Frenchman justified his intentions by planting a large kiss to his cheek and using his charm expertise. He bought it.
Not really.
"Why won't you go home and sleep…" Arthur was stroking his fingers through Francis' hair.
"I need to be here," He groaned and shifted. Violet like eyes shuttered closed.
"You can go home and be with Matthew, I can be here until we're given the 'okay' to discharge." He dragged his fingers gently from front to the back of his head. Francis noted that it was meant to be comforting, but his hair was greasy and grimy. Not him. Not pampered and pretty Francis who was so precautious as to how his hair was parted on shift.
Francis was almost convinced, but emerald eyes came closer as he situated himself unexpectedly in Francis' lap and buried his head in the crook of his neck. Hands snaked to wrap around his neck.
"…If you leave, we'll be okay." He whispers lightly, and lays his head on the cozy shoulder.
Francis was fully convinced that Arthur was desperate for a sense of relief and soft tempers. "…I know." He replied back softly. Wrapping his own hands around Arthur. Suddenly the room became more bearable. The lights were more forgiving, and as Arthur lightly closed his eyes, Francis joined in in the everlasting comforts of sleep.
Alfred eyes fluttered open. The lights seemed even brighter, time ticked on and as he breathed in the nightly musk softly through his nose with a yawn, he perked himself up, blond locks frizzled and interlocking creating a horrible tangle. Turning his head to the left of him, he wiped his eyes of sleep, viewing the curtains opened slightly in the middle to see a dark sky.
Internally he was punching himself for sleeping so much. It was clearly a waste of time because he needed to move, get out of bed, and get back to school.
The teen still had an awful headache that he refused to complain about because it could be worse, and it was just a silly headache that would eventually go away because they always do.
Alfred sighed, bored and the stress was unforgiving. Still covered in ruffled bed sheets, and a nasogastric tube within his nose, making head movements severely unwanted and even painful.
"-nurse came in a couple hours ago and said you're more than likely being discharged midday tomorrow."
The sudden voice made Alfred jump from his skin.
"Scare you?"
"Uh, yeah," He stated sarcastically, because it was obvious, "Why are you still here? Figured you'd go home or something."
The man next to him laid his book down, saving his page and folding his arms defensively. "Do you really think so little of me?"
His son plainly shrugs. "…Just thought you'd be smart enough to go home."
"The hell Alfred? Why would I go home? I'm not just going to leave you here." He scolds apparently flabbergasted.
His knees seemed to push themselves up to Alfred's chest as he sits up turning his face away. "…could have been better off…"
"I'm sorry?"
"Nothing." He tries to protect himself by closing his eyes or at least drifting his gaze elsewhere.
"It obviously wasn't 'nothing', what the hell did you say?" He was pressuring unwiltfully so, and if Alfred was going to make a bet, he would say that maybe his father wasn't realizing that his sudden compulsion to make his son talk was making it even worse for Alfred to get a grip.
"It was nothing, drop it."
Arthur scoffs and flops backwards, Alfred left himself in a very defensive position. His shoulders were tense and his eyes were felt open in a narrow glare towards the opposite wall. Awake and aware of the situation, he was almost tempted to lay back, the IV was tugging unbearably. Lights needed to be dimmed, but he mostly needed something to drink.
Clearing his throat, blue eyes awkwardly shot around the room, "Can uh – I have some water?"
Arthur shook his head, face was back in the book, "No, not yet." He mumbles turning the page and feeling the rough pages between his slender fingers.
Silence is golden, and the loudest noise was the silence itself. Arthur described it as a companion, and at time in his life, maybe it were like a solitude. It could even be like a prison. Because that's what silence was.
Arthur could feel his breathing be rasped. He was staring at Alfred not in anger, but in sympathy. He wasn't expecting his son to want a pity party. He understood. The emotion that was going through someone's head at a time like this. It was impromptu and if Arthur had the opportunity to disregard this – he still wouldn't. This was near torture, and not for him. It had nothing to do with Arthur except the way he handled it. Depression was a kidnapper, but as time goes on, it lets your soul drain slowly like it were a killer. Even if it's in your own head.
"Alfred," Arthur attempted to sound as upfront as possible, but it was impossible when there was quivers lingering in his voice. A sound that lacked any real merit if you asked him. "We need to talk." Why he didn't start the much needed conversation sooner was a mystery, but he theorized it was because they weren't alone properly like this for some time. It was uncanny and Arthur felt slightly uncomfortable speaking like this. Throwing away his confronting type years ago. Yet, the scars still lingered like a cloud.
It was time for an unexpected rain shower he supposed.
"Now's not the right time…" The teen tried to hold his walls of resistance. Shielding himself from what was a harsh reality that peers at school were so keen on regulating him to succeed. Because they said they were worried he was pushing himself too hard. Giving him so many chances to change and relax like he was supposed to.
He couldn't see the changes that needed to be made.
"No, this is the perfect time to talk about it. Why are you being so defensive?"
"I'm not being defensive!" Alfred gave a hiss and kept his eye contact to an all time low.
"Yes the hell you are! You're not even looking at me or hearing what I have to say! Why not!?"
"Because I don't need you and everyone else mocking me!" Alfred flung himself back towards the pillow and buried himself under the rasp blanket.
"We're NOT mocking you, Alfred. You have problems that you're not admitting to, even though you almost died." Arthur frustratingly groaned in a patronizing voice shaped by far too many advanced degrees. Fingernails nearly clawing holes through the thing faux-leather. Cockney accent was heavily creeping in his voice.
"I was doing fine! You're the one who wanted me to be here!"
Arthur was taking a bold step, and a leap of faith, because he thrusted himself towards Alfred. Adrenaline was rushing through him as he grabbed the stitched arm without any second thought; the Brit held it out.
"Then what the hell is this!? If you were fine, then what is this!"
Alfred gasped in pain and shot up from the bed in an attempt to clutch his arm. He was terrified, meeting his father's eyes, they were layered with frustration and anger, choppy nails almost digging around the wound painfully. Pulling in an attempt to release it from the grip, but the Englishman seemed intent to prove his point. More than likely just for pride so he can be right like the man always tried to be. The teen could do nothing but put as much resistance into the pressure that he could. Avoiding any more confrontation if he can but his father was far too persistent.
Coming up with the best response he could, Alfred tightly closed his eyes, "It was a minor setback."
"A minor setback!? For what! Alfred, you're hurting yourself for no reason at all, a week ago I had teachers worried that we are forcing you to work yourself to the brink of exhaustion! What the hell are you doing!? People are worried about you, YOUR FAMILY is worried that you're going to try and kill yourself." The tight grip hardened with his final set of words. "We love you and we always will, but this has to stop."
Alfred's breath hitched, "But I don't want to."
Arm was let go, and Arthur was reluctantly gathering his jacket, disappointed and at a loss for words and he raked his fingers through his hair. "I'm getting some air, don't do anything stupid." Cool off, that's what he needed to do.
"… couldn't if I tried."