Emma- Belgium
Vash- Switzerland
And… Brass in the grey is now back in action!
A month had passed since then.
Since he and Francis started therapy, they had slowly, but surely, started to get better. Francis had started to become more forgiving of himself, and had started to become less and less stressed, while the same could be said to himself. To be honest, Arthur was glad to see Francis starting to get better and become more content. Sure, he didn't busk as much as before, but otherwise, he was glad that he was happier.
By then, Arthur met Francis' two roommates, Antonio, a choreographer, and Gilbert, a coder. They were still somewhat stiff around each other, but otherwise, they were alright acquaintances.
On the other hand, he got his writing swing back. Even though he wasn't proud to admit it, crying the other day had collapsed the dam that had filled up his mind, allowing it to be free to muse and properly write again.
All was well. Until that email from last night came.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked. Tanner shrugged.
"Figure that one out for yourself, I suppose." Annoyance filled him immediately. was clearly drunk. The pungent smoke of tobacco filled the air as he lit his cigar, causing Owen to throw into a coughing fit and forgetting to clarify with him what he actually
"Ugh, FU-" He stopped when his plate shattered onto the ground. Realising that it was quieter, Arthur glanced up, and saw a lot of the other bakery customers staring at him. One of the co-owners of the bakery, Emma hopped forward with a dustpan in her hand and set to work on sweeping it up.
"You know, Arthur, maybe you could ease it up on the intensity next time," she suggested as she sweeped. "This is the second-"
"Third," her husband Vash called out.
"Yes, third plate already!" Arthur nodded.
"Right. Sorry about that," he apologised as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I tend to get riled up when I write sometimes. For, for the scenes and such." For such a stereotypically stationary job writing was, his experiences had proven otherwise. Emma nodded.
"Hm, very well. Maybe try some of the calmer scenes next time, and maybe work on your language. There are children here, after all," she jokingly said.
Arthur nodded, though he knew that it wasn't exactly the scene that got him riled up this time. Rather, it was an email.
Angus had actually sent him a wedding invitation, and the sheer anxiety over it was enough to steer him out of focus.
He had a feeling that there was an ulterior motive to it. Why would Angus want to invite him back now? In fact, why at all? He was far from the forgiving type in the first place. Maybe he planned some sort of revenge. Again, it had been 6 years since Arthur had seen hair or hide of him, maybe he had changed. His brother was the farthest that he could consider as a suitable groom. Maybe he had matured and forgiven him or something like that.
How was he now? In fact, how was his mother, Dylan, and Peter? How much had him running away affected them? Or had they already casted him off of their family? Both of them seemed frightening. This anxiety still gnawed at him sometimes, and the wretched email just awokened them all at once.
Arthur arrived at the bakery alone today. Usually, him and Francis would meet up at the bakery every Sunday, but he usually had his appointments on every other Sunday, (his own were on every other Monday) so they met up every other Sunday instead.
He left the bakery and walked back to the apartment block, shivering while he wrapped his scarf tighter. He hated the cold, and being cold in general. Sure, Winter was pretty, but he'd rather be in his apartment with the heating, all snuggled up in a blanket while reading Farenheit 451 and sipping hot tea.
When Arthur arrived at the apartment block entrance, he saw a familiar face on the opposite end of the street walking nearer, and felt excitement.
"Francis!" He greeted, and said person smiled.
"Hi!" Francis looked up and down Arthur's outfit with amusement. "I take it you don't like the cold?"
"No," he stated, annoyed. He noted that Francis was wearing much less compared to him, with his woollen peacoat and his thin, stylish scarf. Arthur, with his thick parka jacket and his Dr. Who scarf, looked like a ball of winter gear compared to him. "And… I take it that you're immune to it."
Francis gave out a short laugh. "I suppose. Well, I thought that you Brits would be more used to the cold, given that you're all further up north," he joked.
He dryly laughed as they walked up the stairs. "Well, yeah, but it doesn't excuse the fact that the cold's a piece of shit."
They kept on talking until they reached the floor where Arthur's apartment was, where he stopped. Can he invite him over? It was a good opportunity to talk more, especially about the wedding invitation.
"Is something wrong?"
"Erhm, nothing. I.. I have nothing on for the rest of the day, so… do you want to come over? Or…" Francis' look of confusion got replaced with a smile.
"Ah! Well, me neither, so sure."
Arthur nodded, and they walked into his apartment, and took off their coats and scarves. After they sat on the couch, Arthur twirled his thumbs as he crossed his legs. Bringing the wedding up was a bit too straightforward, so…
"So. How was your appointment with Dr. Turner?"
Francis raised an eyebrow. "Well… she suggested for me to take note of one positive thing each day or something like that. We're… also sort of thinking about medication."
"Ah. Never tried the 'note one positive thing each day' thing before, but… yeah, I took medication. It didn't exactly help, for, for me at least, so… I just sort of…" He grimaced. He wasn't exactly proud of it. " Stopped."
Francis noticed that whenever Arthur got nervous, he tended to fidget more, evident by how he fiddled with his posture and eye contact.
"You know, if talking about therapy's making you nervous, maybe we could change the topic," he suggested.
"Hm? Ah… erhm, sure." Arthur put his leg down and stayed stiller, though by the way he chewed his lower lip and how he looked around, he was still a bit nervous.
"Oh right! Tea!" Arthur realised. "Excuse me, what was I thinking?" He stood up and walked to the kitchen. "What kind of tea would you like? I don't have coffee, sorry."
"Hmm… mint, please," he replied. Arthur responded with a 'kay', and set to work.
And suddenly, it was a lot more quiet. He could hear the bubbling of the heaters, but otherwise it was quiet.
His eyes fell on the bookcase that stayed at a corner of the living room brimming with books. A biscuit tin as well as neatly stacked cloth and book boards were placed on the desk near it.
Cloth? Book boards? He remembered about the embroidery that Arthur worked on sometime during Christmas. Does Arthur embroid and bind his books?
He walked over, and true to his thoughts, his books all had embroided covers. That, or they were new or worn out. Arthur had an impressive collection of books, and to think that he embroidered all of them… wow. He personally tried embroidery once, but gave up from how slow and frustrating it was. Some of the books even had personalised covers, like how a corner of Fahrenheit 451 was cut off and embroiled with flames to give an illusion of burning. Francis pulled another book out.
The parchment yellow cover of The Scarlet Letter was embroidered with the same red thread as its namesake, with the brilliant A stitched intricately.
He placed the book back, and looked at some other books. All these books had the title and authors' names on the bottom of their spines. His eyes went over all the names of popular authors, but one name caught his attention in particular-
Arthur Kirkland.
Francis knew that Arthur was a writer, but it was still a bit of a shock to see his name amongst other well known authors. There only seemed to be one book, too. Driven by curiosity, he took the book out. Unlike most of the other books, this book- Edgar Vinn- still had its original cover. He opened the book:
London was a dump.
Sure, they say that the streets were paved with gold, but this street was paved with nothing but cobblestone, litter, filth, and people. To be rich, you lived off of the streets. For people such as me, you had no choice but to live on it.
I had an edge, however. I have supernatural abilities
"It's peppermint with- HOLY SHIT!"
Francis whipped his head around, and saw Arthur wide eyed and stunned.
He placed the book back into its space in the bookshelf. "Ah, sorry, I-I was just curious." Arthur blinked, and placed the teapot as well as the cups onto the coffee table.
"Ah, no, that's, that's alright. That's… just my old shitty writing, that's all." He gave out a nervous chuckle to ease out the tension.
"Ah. Alright, I understand. I think that it's good, though," he brought up. Arthur nodded, but was still unconvinced.
"Welp, tell that to the critics," he muttered while he poured the tea, the wintery aroma drifting out as he did so. Francis frowned.
"Did they leave out bad reviews? Or…" Arthur gave out a dry laugh.
"Yeah. They thought that it was too dark and such. Frankly, I agree. It was just plain edgy." He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Ugh." He picked up his cup and blew it before sipping it. To be honest, Francis agreed a bit. Even from the first couple of sentences alone, he could tell that it had a pretty cynical and pessimistic tone, which he personally wasn't a big fan of.
"Well… it does not necessarily make it bad, I suppose," he reasoned. Arthur paused. He drew a deep breath in, and huffed.
"You know what? How about let's talk about something else? Ugh, bloody hell, that book makes me want to throw up."
Francis nodded. From how Arthur talked about his book, he talked as if it was a mistake. He felt a bit sorry. Apparently, writers spend blood, sweat, and tears to tell their stories, not unlike many other artists. He remembered how Antonio would stay up well past midnight, eyes red and coffee cups stacked upon his desk, refining his dances over and over again until they were just as he envisioned them to be.
The tea was infused with honey, he noted, which was probably what Arthur was going to say earlier.
"By the way, the embroidery on your book covers are beautiful." Arthur spat the tea back into the cup.
"What?! Oh, erhm…" He looked around, alarmed as he exhaled, and Francis swore that he could hear him internally screaming. "Thanks. I just find random pictures on the Internet and just embroid them, though, I'm not that creative," he said with a laugh.
"Still, I think that it's pretty impressive, anyway, to be able to stitch all that. I'm not that patient myself." Arthur nodded while he looked to the side, and he swore that he saw him flush.
"You alright there?" He joked. Arthur nodded.
"Yeah, I-I'm good. I… just sort of did embroidery for fun and… yeah."
Francis nodded, and they drank some more tea. "So. Any new books in mind? Or…" Arthur put his cup down, and but his hand under his chin, as if debating with himself.
"It's alright it you don't want to talk about it." Arthur drew a deep breath in.
"It's about this violinist who tries to get to Vienna but ended up in New York City instead. It's still a work in progress, and… that's all i've got so far."
"Can I have a look at it?"
"No." Francis was a bit taken aback, but nodded, and continue to sip his tea.
Again, the atmosphere turned quiet afterwards. Arthur shifted. That response was probably a little harsh. On the other hand, he probably should say something. But what? He tapped his forefinger onto his knee. Come on, think think think…
He saw an advertisement somewhere the other day. It was advertising a jazz display going on at the British Museum. Maybe Francis wouldn't mind going there with him. Arthur reminded himself that sure, Francis liked jazz, but it wasn't like it was his whole life or anything, he had other interests as well. Ugh, fucking hell, he was overthinking again, screw this.
"Hey, I think that there's a jazz display going on at the British Museum right now, do you want to come?" Arthur mentally kicked himself. Why did he always have to say whatever was in his head after deciding not to give a damn? Of course he-
"Hm? Sure."