Sorry for the wait, junior year of college is crazy! Expect more soon :)

Arthur had never had a faster summer in his life. Three months sounded like so much time, but before he could so much as breathe, the days were getting shorter, the nights longer, and it was August. Arthur looked out his window, sighing as the sky turned orange. It was a little before eight pm. Arthur sighed, almost laughing. Was there a month more depressing than August?

Arthur watched in silence until it was broken. First it was scratching, like nails against stone. Then it was scraping, maybe a groan. Arthur stood from his bed, his heart leaping to his throat. Not this again. Sometime in June, the noises had started. Usually it was faint, barely enough to notice, something Arthur could pass off as the drone of everyday life. But sometimes it was loud, and unexplainable. And it was getting more frequent. Arthur took a few cautious steps and scanned the room, searching for an explanation.

"Arthur!" A banging on his window. "Art, buddy, a hand?"

Arthur turned and nearly had a heart attack when he saw Alfred's face in his window, his fingers barely grasping the ledge. "Good God!" screamed Arthur, his hand flying to his chest to clutch imaginary pearls. "Alfred, what in the world?" He rushed to the window, fumbling with it until the old, stubborn lock gave way. He grabbed Alfred's hand and Alfred leapt towards him, sending them both tumbling onto Arthur's floor. Arthur hit his bedframe with a groan.

"Thanks!" said Alfred, sitting next to Arthur and brushing his varsity jacket.

Arthur just stared at him. "Mind telling me what on earth you think you're doing?"

Alfred grinned in that easy way that made Arthur furious and flustered at the same time. "Visiting."

"You couldn't knock at the front door like a civilized human being?"

Alfred ran a hand through his hair, smiling even brighter. "Well, no. Not today. I have a plan!"

Arthur smiled. "And what would that be?"

Alfred crossed his legs, leaning forward on his arms and looking at Arthur mischievously. "Sneak out with me."

Arthur smirked. It was moments like this that reminded him of Alfred's naivety, of the simple way he saw the world. "I don't need to sneak. I am eighteen, Alfred. All I need to do is let my mum know when I'll be home."

Alfred's face fell in disappointment. "Oh."

Arthur raised an eyebrow – he got the feeling Alfred was doing this more for the thrill of it than anything else. He decided to indulge him. "I'm guessing your father doesn't know you're out."

"Nope!" Alfred smiled brightly. "The old man doesn't usually want me out Saturdays, since we got church in the morning and all that. But, what he doesn't know won't kill him."

"Let me guess, you scaled your own home as well."

"Yeah, well, I had to get down from the second floor somehow." Alfred pushed up his sleeve, revealing a small red scratch. He kept smiling, looking proud. "I caught the bush on my way down."

Arthur tried to shoot Alfred a scolding look, but it was more of a smile, he was sure. "What are you trying to drag me into?"

"Coney Island!" announced Alfred, waving his hand in the air. "I've been in this city for almost a year and I haven't been!"

Arthur's lip twisted. "That dumpy old carnival?"

"It can't be that dumpy! It's world famous!" Alfred was nearly shouting. Funny, his booming voice was just about the only loud sound Arthur could stand anymore. "Have you ever been there, Artie?"

"Once, years ago," said Arthur, recalling his mother's insistence to see the sights of New York shortly after they moved. "I don't recall it being all that impressive."

"C'mon, it's got rides and games and everything. It's even got a beach!" He grinned, and Arthur pretended to be contemplative, though he knew the decision made been made already. The phrase if he jumped off a cliff, would you? Came to mind. If Alfred went barreling off the nearest ledge, Arthur knew he would have no choice but to follow him. As Arthur mused over his, Alfred stopped speaking and looked around the room. "So, uh… when are you shippin' out, Art?"

"Oh. Um," mumbled Arthur, surveying the boxes littering the floor. He had made a few half-hearted attempts at packing but was never able to stomach it for long. "End of the month, it looks like."

Alfred nodded, a rare moment of silence. The silence lingered until he finally broke it. "Looking forward to the dorms?"

Arthur breathed in shakily. After much negotiation, he had convinced his mother and Alistair to let him move by himself. Of course, he would not be moving into University of Chicago. Thanks to a decent sum of money left over from his grandmother's inheritance, he was able to afford the security deposit on a shoebox apartment in the south of the city, a bus ride away from the community college he would be attending, and an even shorter bus ride from Alfred's house. It was the perfect opportunity to tell him. But Arthur had already lied so much, hid so much, that he wasn't sure where to start. He would jump off a cliff for Alfred, but he could not even tell him the truth. The words felt caught in his throat. Plus, there was no reason to spoil tonight. Arthur would tell him later.

"Quite," said Arthur, and, before Alfred could ask anything else, "I think the subway is still running."

…

By the time they arrived at Coney Island, the sun had disappeared. It was replaced with fairy lights and neon signs, dazzling against the pitch-black sky and massive spinning rides. Delighted screams filled the air, as well as laughter, crashing waves, and creaking metal. The smell of salt water and fried food wafted in the breeze. The late summer heat surrounded Arthur like a blanket. He looked around, dizzied by the throws of people racing in all directions around him. A year ago, Arthur would have been astounded by it. Now none if it felt real.

"This is incredible!" said Alfred, neck craned towards the sky as he walked. "Will you look at all this, Artie?"

"Yes, yes, I see it," said Arthur, making sure to stick close to Alfred. He could barely think straight in this crowd.

"We ain't got nothing like this back home." Alfred turned a full circle on his heel, blue eyes catching the rainbow lights. "We got… fields, mostly. And, like, two McDonald's."

Arthur chuckled. "London doesn't have anything quite like this either," he said, speaking less about carnival and more about the breathtaking, wide-eyed American before him. "We do have a rather impressive Ferris Wheel, though."

"That's it, the Ferris Wheel!" Alfred pointed spastically to a far-off fixture, the twinkling red letters on the side reading Wonder Wheel. "Man, I had no idea they were so big in person!"

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Have you never been on one?"

Alfred shook his head. "Tell you the truth, I never really went on a ride before. Our county fairs had 'em sometimes, but they never looked great." He craned his neck again, looking into the distance in wonder. "And we never had a Ferris Wheel."

"It's nothing terribly special, but…" Arthur stared at Alfred's open-mouth, unbelieving smile. "…I suppose it's an experience everyone should have once."

Ten minutes, a mad dash, and a rush of excited chatter later, Arthur was boarding one of the rickety metal Ferris Wheel seats with Alfred, who had not stopped talking since he had seen the thing. "Oh man, oh man!" cried Alfred as the bored-looking teenager shut the door after them. His legs bounced wildly, his fists pounding at his thighs. "This is so wild!"

"There's really no need to have a heart attack." Arthur tried to sound exasperated, but he could not peel his eyes from Alfred. He had never known someone so purely joyful, no matter how small the experience.

A few seconds later, the ride groaned to life. Their cart slowly rose from the ground and Alfred squealed. "It's like we're going to space or somethin'!" The wheel continued to rise and Alfred looked to Arthur. "Wouldn't that be amazing, if we could go to space?"

Arthur blinked, a bit stunned. "That would… certainly be something." An odd jolt struck Arthur's chest and he looked away. They had reached the top of the wheel, overlooking the carnival, the lights, the water. Arthur stared until it all blurred together.

Arthur spent the rest of the ride trying to ignore how close Alfred was, listening silently as he marveled at the view of the city, pointed out everything he saw, and called out to people walking around on the ground. Arthur attempted to follow what Alfred was pointing at, but found that his vision was bleary and useless. He wished this moment would last forever. That maybe this wheel would keep going higher, until he and Alfred really did reach outer space, where he did not have to worry about anything anymore, where he would not have to tell Alfred anything. But of course that could not happen. Nothing could ever be that easy and simple. Arthur had to tell him. Arthur closed his eyes, willing the tears away. The wheel kept turning. As the cart descended again, Arthur took a shaking breath, balled his hands, and forced the words out.

"Alfred," he said, his heart pounding painfully. "I need to tell you something."

"Alright, folks!" boomed a voice from below. The wheel grinded to a halt, and Arthur found himself back on the ground, back to reality. The words were knocked from him. "That's the end of the line! Time to give someone else a turn."

"Ah, man," said Alfred as the metal door swung open. "Oh well. That was mighty fun, I'll tell you what." He stood, stretched, and then looked down at Arthur. "Were you sayin' something, bud?"

Arthur stood and stepped from the cart. The ground swayed beneath him, as if his body was still in motion. "It was nothing," he said quietly, looking up as the next group of visitors boarded the ride. He stared until it started turning again, a blur of color and light.

Alfred, because he was too naïve and too good, believed him.

The trance broken, Arthur followed Alfred down the boardwalk, past the souvenir vendors and yellow-toothed carnies manning the game booths. Arthur was grateful as Alfred continued to babble on, mostly about nothing at all – commentary on the people they passed, reading all the signs, declarations to win Arthur a stuffed animal, which he politely declined. Arthur hung to his voice, wanting to focus on something amid the chaos. Eventually it all faded together.

"Ooh, you know what, I've always wanted to try one of those fried twinkie things," said Alfred, the statement no different from all he had been talking about. "I'll be right back."

And then, like a flash of lightning, Alfred vanished. "Seriously?" mumbled Arthur uselessly, a bit annoyed. Alfred never did give much of a warning before he zoomed off. Resigned, he scooted to the side of the masses and leaned against the wood frame of a booth, waiting. A sign a few meters away advertised Coney Island t-shirts. The "O" flickered in and out, buzzing intermittently.

Arthur watched it for a while, transfixed, until a perplexing thought entered his mind like a bullet: It was speaking to him.

And that was the first time he heard It.

A whisper, so quiet it was like a hiss, a far-off pot boiling over, coming for you.

Arthur whipped his head around, searching for whoever had the nerve to say something like that to him. It must have been a cruel prank. Must have been a radio, or a far-off conversation. But it felt so close. Close enough that it felt implanted in Arthur's mind, like a virus, or a fever. He looked back at the sign. It was flashing faster. Louder. It stung his eyes.

Again, coming.

Arthur's breath hitched, then stuck in his throat like a rag. He was not alone. He was not alone in his head. Suddenly he felt violated, invaded, a cold panic drenching him from the inside out. The sign flickered off for a long moment, then burst back to life with a shrieking crackle. Arthur watched helplessly as it burst into an inferno. Glowing embers erupted from the letters, spinning upwards in the sky like fireflies and then back down to earth. It's coming. Another. It's ending. Arms stretched out from the booth, spindle-like and reaching for him. Arthur took a quick step backward and tumbled into the wood frame. Someone shouted. And then the ground was alive.

It was a thrumming, like drums, but louder, closer. It shook the foundation of the world. It sounded like… horses.

And then, from the same new, terrifying spot in his mind, came the answer.

A unicorn.

Arthur could not explain it. Of course he could not bloody explain it. It was ridiculous, it was absurd. But it was his reality. And it was coming for him. Coming for him just like the buzzing and the flashing and the fires and pounding and the sky, that was falling. Arthur bolted from his spot and down the boardwalk, choking, pushing through the crowds, and it never ended. Everything was the same, running endlessly together into a limbo. Arthur was sure he ran for a year. And It never stopped approaching. Never went away.

And then, like the sun after a storm, Arthur was alone. Like two pictures in a slideshow, the boardwalk disappeared, and he found himself by the water. He closed his eyes and breathed in the salty air, breath coming too fast, his heart pounding. He focused on the give of the sand beneath his feet. Then, slowly, he leant down and cupped his hands, filling them as the tide came in. Shaking, he splashed his face. He did it again. And again. He did it until he heard footsteps behind him.

"Art, why do you keep doin' this to me?" Arthur turned to see Alfred standing behind him, clutching two paper boats filled with carnival food. "First you run away at prom, and now you're doing it again. I'm starting to feel a little insulted."

Arthur wiped a bead of water from his brow, staring at Alfred incredulously. "Didn't you see it?"

Alfred stared back. "See what?"

"The fire," said Arthur, the picture clear as day in his mind. "One of the lights exploded."

"You mean, like… fireworks?"

"No! No, not like bloody fireworks, Alfred. There was a fire."

"Art, buddy, I don't know exactly what you saw, but I can assure you there ain't no fire back there."

And then Arthur studied Alfred, his perplexed expression, his worried eyes. And then Arthur knew. That was he just experienced was unique to him, and it had everything to do with his foggy memory, with the untraceable sounds he heard at night. The humid air turned to tar. Arthur knew, with several layers of denial effectively shattered at his feet, that there was something very, very wrong with him. Something dark and insidious, that was growing by the day. And he could never tell Alfred. He could never tell anyone. Arthur's legs went weak and it took everything he had not to sink to his knees, to scream or cry that it just wasn't fair. He heard seagulls, a child laughing, the faint strums of music. But the world was ending. It had ended back on that boardwalk. Why did no one else seem to notice?

"Arthur?" said Alfred, taking a few steps closer. "Are you okay?"

Arthur almost laughed. How could anything ever be okay again? But he had gotten so used to lying, he could only do it again. "I'm fine," he said. "But I think I would like to go home now."

The ride home was silent. Arthur spent the entire time watching the water drip from his hair, forming a tiny puddle on the subway floor. He did it so he would not have to notice Alfred staring at him, or even worse, say anything to him. The panic he had felt earlier was replaced with a cold, heavy sadness. Arthur knew what he had to do. And it was the worst thing he could ever imagine.

"Oh, Arthur?" said Alfred when they reached Arthur's doorstep, the first thing he had said to him since they left Coney Island. "Do you have my yearbook?"

Arthur blinked, still deep in his stupor. "I beg your pardon?"

"My yearbook. Just before school ended, you took it home." Alfred grinned, and Arthur immediately looked away. That damn grin could not break his resolve. "You never gave it back."

"Oh, right." Arthur felt sick. This was the last thing he needed. "Hold on."

Alfred stepped forward. "Can't I come in?"

Arthur looked back at him, then away again. He was going to vomit. "No," he said, and then rushed inside.

It took a good bit of rifling to find the blasted thing, just like it took a ridiculous amount of effort to do anything these days. Somewhere in there was the stuffed unicorn Alistair had given him. Arthur hurled it across the room. And then he found the yearbook, buried beneath a pile of old sweaters, hidden like everything else he would rather ignore but couldn't anymore. He opened it. He had not written anything. Of course he had not written anything, because Arthur couldn't do anything. Tears rose in his eyes that he furiously wiped away. Finally, he grabbed a pen from his desk, and scribbled a throwaway message.

Meeting you was an… interesting experience, to say the least. Regardless, I'm thankful that it happened. You've given me a great last year, not to mention a great friendship. Good luck with the rest of high school. I'll be seeing you.

- Arthur

Arthur stared at the words, disgusted by them. All Alfred had done for him and this was all he could manage. It felt like a hallmark card, manufactured thoughtlessly and thrown to the masses, not a trace of anything genuine. And this was what Alfred would have to remember him by.

Maybe, that was fitting.

Arthur opened the door halfway and shoved the book outside. Alfred slowly took it, eyes wide and confused, almost hurt. "Here," said Arthur, not trusting himself to say much more. "I signed it. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm terribly tired."

"Artie," said Alfred, far too quietly and weakly for him. And then Arthur could not take it anymore. He slammed the door on his best friend in the world.

The house was silent. Everyone must have gone to bed. Arthur sunk to the floor, sliding against the door to steady himself. He kept going until he was lying down, his cheek pressed against the cold wood. He closed his eyes. The clock ticked loudly, horribly. He curled his knees to his chest. The last sentence of his message replayed in his head: I'll be seeing you. Arthur exhaled in what was almost a laugh, darkly amused by the absurdity of it.

He would never see Alfred again.

.

A couple days later, Arthur entered his room to find a slip of paper lying on the ground, likely slipped under the door. It was folded in half and secured by a paperclip. Arthur shot a glance at Ivan but knew he would not notice anything. These days Ivan did little else other than lie in bed, staring at the wall, his scarf twisted between his fingers. Arthur figured his catatonic state had something to do with the state of the garden but decided not to ask. Here, it always seemed better not to ask.

Arthur slid the paperclip off the note and placed it carefully in his pocket. Then, he opened it and read the words scrawled on the page.

Mayo Clinic, Jacksonville, Florida.

Arthur must have read the words five times. When he still could not comprehend them, he lifted his eyes from the page and sat on the edge of his bed, his mind going blank. Jacksonville, Florida. He had expected Manhattan. New Jersey, maybe. Though he had no basis for it, some part of him had expected close. At least close enough to picture. Arthur had not expected Jacksonville, Florida. But that was what he was left with. And that was what he had to do.

Arthur folded the note again and placed it with the paperclip, tracing the shapes with his fingertips. Two simple, everyday items, and they were his ticket out of here. Arthur walked to the window and looked out into the garden, at the decaying flowers, and then finally past it, towards the city skyline at the horizon. Even that felt so far away. It had been over a decade since Arthur had left this city, months since he had even left this building. His world had gotten so small. Alfred might as well have been in outer space.

But Arthur would go to space for him. He would go anywhere.

…

The sun was low in the sky. Arthur sat in the commons, tracing the groves of the paperclip in his pocket and trying to stay calm. Orange light cast the room in strange shadows, surrounding him and mocking him. A voice hissed at him, chastising this inane plan, but Arthur was filled with too much determination to listen to it. Sweat beading on his neck, he stared unblinkingly at Matthew's office door. Just a few more minutes.

Arthur heard the creak of an opening door and felt dangerously close to an aneurism. An arrow of panic striking his chest, he turned, the hard edge of the paperclip nearly piercing his thumb. Matthew emerged from his office, speaking softly, always softly. It was like earthquakes. Gilbert emerged a moment later, speaking back to him and laughing. Arthur waited breathlessly as Gilbert's fingertips grazed the door as he stepped out, almost closing it. Almost. Time stopped as Arthur could only stare at the tiny gap. Gilbert, a man he had barely acknowledged before his week, had left him just enough rope to hang himself.

A moment before he disappeared down the hall, Gilbert looked over his shoulder, locked eyes with Arthur and nodded sharply. Then, he was gone. And the door was open.

The world burst into real time again.

Arthur stood so quickly he nearly tripped over his feet, only able to steady himself by grabbing hold of the couch. Get it together, he thought to himself angrily. It had never been more important that he did not make a spectacle out of himself. He glanced about, and then speed-walked to Matthew's office. Heart pounding, he slipped in the door and shut it gently behind him, careful not to make a single sound. Arthur lent against the door and breathed in deeply but was not able to relax for long.

As Arthur stood in front of the file cabinet, withdrawing the paperclip from his pocket, he realized he had forgotten which drawer Gilbert had told him. He closed his eyes, willing himself to concentrate. This was so typical of him, how could he have forgotten, especially something this important… Arthur bit his lip and forced his mind to work. The second one from the bottom. That had to be it.

Arthur knelt and pried the paperclip apart until it was nothing but a thing metal rod. He jammed it into the keyhole, wiggled it around, and balked in bewilderment when it popped open. Well, that had been easy. Arthur nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. Then he yanked open the drawer to find nothing but tightly packed files, and the laugh died in his throat.

"Third one from the bottom," Arthur mumbled to himself, the memory finally hitting him. He repeated it, terrified to forget again, "the third one, the third one, the third one…" as he yanked the paperclip from the first keyhole and twisted it into the second.

Arthur held his breath, waiting for the pop, and released it in a huff when it never came. He shook it, rattled it around. Nothing happened. Arthur breathed out sharply through his nostrils, growing frustrated. More rattling, more twisting. Nothing. Arthur's hands began to shake and the paperclip fell from his hands. Biting back the urge to scream, Arthur slammed his hand into the side of the cabinet. It made a much louder sound than he had anticipated.

"Shit," whispered Arthur, a rush of anxiety ripping through him. What a stupid thing to do. He stopped breathing, afraid to, cold sweat blossoming on his forehead. He listened. A voice sounded but he could not be sure where it came from. Footsteps that he could not trust. Everything was too fast and too uncertain and for moment Arthur wanted to give up, to get up and leave and go back to his dull, grey existence in this hospital, to take whatever was coming to him like a piece of driftwood in the water. But then he remembered Alfred was alone and hurt and waiting for him. And then Arthur picked the paperclip up again and kept trying.

A few moments passed, every tiny sound sending shivers down Arthur's spine. He prayed no one had heard his outburst, but, like everything else, there was no way to be sure. In a last-ditch attempt, he shoved the paperclip as far back as it would go and then yanked it forward. And then finally, a pop. Arthur breathed out in powerful relief. He opened the drawer, even more relieved when he realized it was the right one.

Organized in labeled bags sat an array of personal items deemed unsuitable for inpatient. The bag marked Braginsky held a pair of knitting needles and a spool of yarn, Beilschmidt an iPod decorated with a large black eagle. Arthur sifted through them into he found the bag labeled Kirkland – all it held was a faded leather wallet and his old brown Oxford's. He pulled it out and held it over his head, smiling manically. Arthur could not remember the last time he had accomplished something meaningful.

Breaking free from his trance, Arthur slipped the bag under his shirt and rushed back to his room. The hard part had only just begun.

…

A good while after lights-out, Arthur buttoned the last button on his shirt, pulled on his sweater vest, and slipped on his shoes. It had been months since he had so much as looked at these clothes, the ones he had shoved to the bottom of his drawer and forgotten about around the time of his admittance. In this place he had existed in pajama pants and t-shirts. There was no point in putting any effort into anything, not here, never here. But now, Arthur was leaving. He had to at least pretend he was fit to be in the real world. Arthur patted his wallet in his pocket for probably the eighteenth time. Aside from the clothes on his back, it was all he planned to bring. Whatever he had managed to take here from his old life was just not worth the trouble.

Straightening his sleeves again, Arthur looked out the window and into the star-speckled sky. The stars were closely trailed by thick clouds. He had spent much of the day pacing about, tearing himself apart, trying desperately to come up with a way out of here. After exhausting every plausible option, a strum of fragmented memory hit out of the blue: Alfred climbing through his window years and years ago, back when he still lived at home. From that moment on, the window in his room was the only thing he could think about. And now Arthur waited on a knife's edge, knowing full well if he didn't do something soon, he wouldn't. That was how ten years of his life slipped through his fingers.

A crack of far-away thunder sounded, and Arthur decided to take it as a sign. He stood and charged to the window.

"Okay," he said to no one, and then again, "Okay, okay…" if only to drown out the buzzing in his ears. He grabbed the edge of the window and pulled. As expected, it was sealed shut. He tried to push from the top. Tried to push it in, pull it out. It didn't budge an inch.

And then, like a swift punch to the gut, Arthur realized he had no clue what he was doing.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, a whisper that should have been a shout. It was like being a child again, mixed up in an adult's game he had no part of. The trees outside blurred as Arthur pulled on the hinges, banged the glass. Stupid, said something, and then his own voice, "Stupid, stupid…"

The beginnings of rain dotted the glass. Arthur was inundated with the image of Alfred running in from the storm on family therapy day, his glasses fogged and his hair dripping wet, grinning… Arthur slammed his weight into the window and groaned when it did nothing but hurt. Why did he ever think this would work? All this planning and scheming and running around and it had all been for nothing, nothing but a silly fantasy. What was he supposed to do now? Forget this ever happened; leave Alfred to recover alone in Florida; rot here? Arthur clawed at the sealed closure, snapping one of his nails. He started to bleed but kept going, pulling uselessly, what was he doing, what should he do…

"What are you doing?"

Arthur turned and stopped breathing when he saw Ivan standing over him. It was dark, but Arthur could still see his eyes reflecting the light from streetlamps. They were the strangest shade of violet. They were darker these days, hollower, his face thinner than it was a few months ago. Arthur had never really spoken to him before. He had been too afraid. After what he had done to Gilbert… Arthur forced himself to speak, though it was useless stammering. "I was just, well, I was…"

"Are you needing help?"

"No, I…" Arthur stopped himself. What choice did he have? "I need to get out of here. Tonight."

Ivan nodded, the smallest of smiles twitching onto his mouth. He did not blink, his eyes glassy, unfocused. It was as if he was in walking dream. "I understand," he said. "What is their name?"

Arthur let his mouth fall open, taken aback. Perhaps Ivan was more perceptive than he realized. "Alfred," he answered unthinkingly.

Ivan nodded again, still without blinking or moving. The first flash of lightning hit and Arthur saw that his face was streaked with tears. "You are needing to break window," he said, his voice soft and wavering. "Stand back, please."

"What?"

Before Arthur could register what was happening, Ivan pushed him out of the way and slammed his body against the window in one swift strike. The sound of shattering glass erupted in the tiny room, falling to Arthur's feet and twinkling in the dull rays of light. The air was knocked from his lungs.

"Oh my god."

"You have to go," said Ivan. Bits of glass stuck to his sweater. A dark spot bloomed on the fabric.

"Oh my god," said Arthur again. "Are you okay? Oh my god, what the hell…"

A voice from the hall, "What was that?"

"You have to go now," said Ivan. He brought his hands to his neck and unraveled his scarf, which, come to think of it, Arthur had never seen him take off. Once he removed it, Arthur knew why. Ivan's neck was covered in raised scars.

Arthur looked at the broken window, at the shattered glass, and finally back at Ivan. A gust of cold wind brought a mist of rain. Arthur's breath came faster until he was hyperventilating. He was rooted to this spot, to this hospital. Another streak of lightning and Arthur saw black spots in his vision, his lungs refusing to fill with air. He stared at Ivan in desperation, barely forcing out, "What do I do?"

Ivan said nothing. He pressed one end of his scarf to Arthur's hand, still clutching the other side. He smiled.

It was time. It was too late; Arthur had gotten too far to back down now. He walked to the window, took a slow, unsteady breath, and swung his leg outside. A roar of thunder cut through the sky and Arthur felt a rush of rain. "Thank you," he said, looking to Ivan one last time. Ivan gave a tiny wave. Staring into his tired, surprisingly kind eyes, Arthur wondered if they could have been friends in another life, as he had wondered about Gilbert. But there was no time for any of that now.

Holding tightly to the scarf, Arthur pulled his other leg outside, looked up into the swirling storm clouds, and slid off the ledge.

The world turned to an odd mix of color and noise as Arthur fell for seconds that felt like lifetimes, his heart choking his throat as the air swirled around him. His fall was lessened by the tension of the fabric but broken with a slicing pain. For a long moment Arthur did nothing, untrusting of the stillness. A soft tumble of thunder and he opened his eyes. Slowly he focused them, the spinning world slowing down, and realized he had landed in a bush a few feet from the courtyard gate. He lowered a hand to the earth and squeezed the spongy grass. Panic gave way to reality. Arthur breathed in the damp air, smelling what was left of the flowers, and then looked down at himself. Aside from a cut on his arm, he was uninjured.

As Arthur watched the scarf disappear, he realized it in a gasping disbelief: He was free.

As a commotion broke out inside, Arthur rose shakily to his feet and tore off into the rain, far away from this place, far away from his old life, and one step closer to Alfred.

To be continued...