"America?" Arthur reiterated, "What do you mean, is he visiting Linda and Paul again?"
Matthew went silent, realising what he had done and not sure how to proceed. He gripped at the overlong sleeves of his hoodie, twisting the material between his fingers, as he felt the back of his neck become hot.
"No, not exactly, I mean…" he began to stutter, failing to find a way to recover.
Flailing on his own words, his brother continued to watch him, green eyes unwavering, making the whole situation worse.
"Matthieu, where is Alfred?" Francis saved him from the social vacuum he had created, coming to stand beside the younger man.
Looking at him through grateful saphires, he adjusted his glasses. "He's in the shower," he replied.
Calmly diffusing the mounting tension, the Frenchman suggested, "I think, perhaps, we should let him explain."
"Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?" an anxious Arthur cut in, demanding yet with a look of apprehension.
The other two locked eyes momentarily, communicating without words, then Matthew nodded.
"Al should be the one to explain all this, he won't be long."
"But explain what? Please, you're worrying me," Arthur sputtered, a sense of discomfort settling on him at being left out of the conspiracy.
"It's nothing bad, Arthur, it's just not our news to tell," the younger man tried to ease his mind, "why don't you guys sit, I'll go make some drinks."
Still with hesitation written on his features, Arthur relented and went to sit on the sofa, glancing over his shoulder at the other two.
"I will come and help you," Francis declared, chasing after Matthew as he headed towards the kitchen.
Squeezing past the armchair that had somehow found its way into the cramped space the night before, Matthew filled the kettle and flipped the switch, setting it to boil.
"God, that was awkward," he mumbled as he heard the inelegant entrance of the man behind him, walking into the side of the misplaced furniture with a pained hiss.
"Do not worry yourself, cherie, it will be fine," Francis reassured him as he clambered into the narrow room.
His back turned to the other, the taller man reached up to the cupboard above his head, retrieving three of the four mugs he owned. "Yeah, I know," he sighed, "coffee?"
With no reply, he glanced back to his companion, who was distracted, peering into the living room like a cat into a gold fish bowl.
"Francis?" he called gently, bringing the other from his daze.
Turning around, Francis met Matthew's gaze with concern in his own.
"You were right about him, Matthew," he murmured in a hushed tone, vaguely.
The switch on the kettle clicked down, signalling it was done, and Matthew began to fill the cups as he spoke, "What do you mean?"
"What you said last night," Francis elaborated, "you were right. He is not himself."
This gripped the full attention of the younger man and he turned his whole body to speak to him. "What did he do?"
"Nothing," the unease in the Frenchman's blue eyes said everything but he continued, "that is the problem. Last night he was locked out for hours because of me and, well, he did nothing. He was not angry."
Nodding as he thought, Matthew considered this new information before making a judgement. "That is weird."
"I am only noticing it now that you have mentioned it to me but there are little things…" Francis trailed off, again looking worriedly into the living room at his lover.
"I didn't mean to make you paranoid or anything when I said that, I just thought you should know," the younger man stirred the contents of the mugs slowly then handed one to Francis, the china warm to the touch. "I started to notice it over the summer while we stayed with you. He just seemed kind of quiet, you know? It was weird," he explained, holding his own mug close to his face, the lenses of his half-moon glasses steaming up.
Although semi distracted by his own thoughts, Francis hummed in agreement. "I do not suppose you would be able to say something to him?" he asked with a hopeful look, "You are more well equipped, after all."
"I know I study therapy, Francis, but I can't do that," Matthew shook his head, "I've barely started my second year, it would be irresponsible of me to try to council someone."
Knowing how seriously Matthew took his studies, Francis didn't press him further despite having wanted a different answer.
"Besides, shouldn't you be the one to talk to him?" the younger man added, giving him a look that, although they were not blood related, was pure Arthur.
Francis stared down into the rising steam, feeling the damp heat on his face and let out a deep breath, "He would only brush me off and say it was not important."
A wry laugh came from the other, "He does that to all of us," he pointed out.
The older man made the same kind of sad half chuckle but the expression on his face was something far more serious. Eyes becoming sympathetic behind their misty frames, Matthew picked up the third mug and made to go back to the living room.
"It's okay, Francis," he assured as he came closer to the other man, "all you have to do is talk to him."
Pulling the corners of his lips back into a tight line of a smile, the Frenchman spoke in a wistful tone, "If only it were so simple."
Whatever the other two were talking about in the kitchen they were being purposefully quiet about it, leading Arthur to the conclusion that it was probably about him. He strained to hear what they were saying but caught no mention of his name, only the clinking of spoons against china, and so gave up. Glancing down at the phone in his hand, he ran a finger along the deep crack that separated its surface, granules of shattered glass grinding against his skin, too small to cut. He had almost gotten it repaired that morning but decided against it out of a mix of apathy and laziness. Just another benign irritation to live with, no bother.
A bang and a curse in French sounded as Francis climbed back over the armchair, smacking his elbow against the doorframe and spilling hot coffee over his thigh in an uncoordinated display of movement.
"I told you to be careful," he heard Matthew tut from behind as lifted himself over the piece of furniture.
"I did hear you," the older man griped in return, holding his arm.
Following him with ease, Matthew came into the room and handed Arthur a mug of steaming tea with a smile.
"Thank you, Matt," he took the mug as his brother sat beside him.
There was a moment of quiet wherein Arthur was about to remark on the manners of his other sibling until a door was opened, spilling out the scent of wet cloth a shampoo, and Alfred, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, stepped into the hallway.
"Hey, when did you say they were getting here?" he called to his twin as he came into view from around the corner. On seeing more people than he had expected he stopped and smiled, "Oh, you're here. How you guys doing?"
"Alfred, what's all this about America?" Arthur asked bluntly.
The other man's face fell at the question, "You told him? I thought you wanted me to, I was going to, I swear," he whined in defence of himself.
"I mentioned it by accident but we left it to you to explain," Matthew informed him, a little guiltily.
Alfred snorted, "Jeez, thanks bro," he grumbled as he towelled his hair dry.
"I don't care who tells me, just tell me. Now," ordered Arthur, having had enough of the secrecy.
All eyes in the room were set on the young American, urging him to speak.
"Okay look, I was avoiding this because I don't know how you're going to react and that always scares me a bit, even when it's nothing bad, so just promise me you won't be critical?" he rushed, words tumbling from his lips in nervous succession.
"I promise," Arthur lied.
"Cool, so," Alfred mentally readied himself then began his story, "I was at practice the other weekend and coach called me over to the side to meet some guy, a talent scout all the way from America. He said our college has links with one of the best schools in Ohio and they're looking for new talent over here as part of some new foreign students' scholarship programme thing and he was really impressed with me, said I had potential that would be wasted here," his eyes, animated as always, were lit with excitement and pride as he went on in a rambling manner, "He offered me a place at try outs. They want me to fly out to America and, if they like me, I might get offered a place on their team for next year as well as a full scholarship and coach said I'm the only quarter back he's selected so it's kind of a sure thing," he ended with a shrug and a beaming grin, holding eye contact with his brother while the whole room waited for a response.
Arthur's expression remained unchanged, as though the words had not sunk in, until he opened his mouth.
"Alfred, that's wonderful," the tension was broken and relief swept over the other three men.
"You mean that?" Alfred checked.
"Of course, I'm delighted for you. Why wouldn't I be?" the older man frowned in confusion at the other's surprise.
"Well, you know, you just always said how sport isn't a reliable career and I'll be so far away and all," he rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit that Arthur recognised, "I thought you wouldn't want me to go."
A little shocked at this, the shorter man shook his head. "Why would I want that? It's an amazing opportunity, you have to go."
"Told you," Matthew voiced what he and Francis had been trying to convince him of all along at which the other rolled his eyes.
"Alright, fine, you were right. Happy now?"
A smug smile crept across the younger twin's face in answer to the rhetorical question.
"All is well!" sung Francis, putting an arm around Alfred's shoulder, grinning.
From across the room, green eyes, filled with anxiety, betrayed the smile on the lips below them. Doing his best to quell the brewing insecurity inside of him, Arthur said nothing more.
"Let me get dressed and I'll start on dinner," Alfred announced and bounded from the room.
They watched him go, bouncing with energized steps, without a word until his bedroom door audibly closed.
"Are you alright, cherie?" Francis addressed Arthur who held a forcefully subdued expression.
At the sympathetic lilt in his words, Arthur looked over to meet his gaze. "I'm fine," he replied, his voice a semi-tone higher than normal.
Francis recognised this immediately, along with the slightly widened eyes that meant he was lying. "Are you sure?" he asked again, firmly.
Scoffing, the Englishman rolled his eyes, his voice taking on an edge, "Yes, I am," he bit.
"Woah, who poked the bear?" Alfred chuckled as he walked past, now fully clothed.
The older two men continued to look at one another for a second, then Francis laughed, "It is getting late, I will help you in the kitchen," he offered.
"That's alright, I don't need help," Alfred moved towards the other room but Francis followed him eagerly.
"Please, for our sake," he begged, remembering the last time the younger man had tried to cook with a grimace.
The pair went together, leaving Arthur and Matthew who decided to pass the time by clearing the rest of the living room. About half an hour was spent quietly tossing crumpled red cups into bin bags as they chatted about nothing in particular, Matthew consciously avoiding the topic that had just been shared, before the smell of grilling meat drifted through. Another few minutes and Francis' head poked around the corner of the door to call them through.
"Smells lovely," Arthur commented as he was handed a plate.
"I salvaged it as best I could," Francis joked with a side glance to Alfred.
The other snorted a laugh, "Hey, it's not my fault I can't cook. We all know who I got that quality from."
An amused snort ran through the group and they went to sit in the living room, scattered over the limited seating, leaving Alfred on the floor. Eating at a leisurely pace, the mismatched family listened to Alfred enthuse about the future with a childlike glow on his lips.
"You're not mad I didn't tell you straight away, right?" he directed the question at his older brother, with an apologetic expression.
Flashing a warm smile back, Arthur shook his head. "No, it's alright. But I haven't forgotten last night."
The stern look he received reminded Alfred of the former girlfriend related incident and he let out an exasperated groan at the memory.
"It was an accident, Artie. Can't you just let it go?" he groused.
Arthur tutted, raising his eyebrows. "If that's how you want to treat a lady that's your choice but it is not the gentleman's way," a tone of judgemental superiority seeped through the scathing remark causing the younger blond to cringe.
"Come on guys, back me up here," he looked around at the others who ignored his plea.
"Sorry, Alfred, but he is right. You will never find a girlfriend by acting like that," Francis sided with his partner.
Glancing to his twin, Alfred got the same response.
"It was kind of shitty of you," he shrugged with a repentant look.
"I guess I should say sorry," Alfred reflected, "I'll text her or something."
Having heard what he wanted to hear, Arthur stood and collected the empty plates, giving his own, still half full, one to Alfred. "You're a good person," he muttered gently, ruffling the honey blond locks as he passed.
"Obviously. I'm the best," the younger man said through a mouthful of the scraps he had been gifted.
After washing up in return for the meal, the older pair didn't stay long as they all had a reason to be up early the next day. Saying goodbye at the door, Arthur was suddenly reminded of something.
"Mum's Birthday is coming up," he stated before he forgot again.
"Yeah, we were wondering what you wanted to do for it," Alfred spoke for himself and his twin, "we thought, maybe, Antonio's for dinner?"
Nodding in agreement of the plan, Francis looked at Arthur for affirmation.
"How about Friday," the Englishman thought aloud, "I know it's sort of early but things are getting a bit hectic at the office, I don't know when else I'll be free."
"No worries man, Friday is perfect," Alfred waved off his concerns, "see you then."
Plans set, the older two men descended the stairs into the dark outside. Although not late, the sun had set a while ago, as was usual for that time of year. Along the side of the street they walked down in silence were trees with leaves like fire, glowing as though they tried to make up for the miserable shadow that seemed to saturate everything. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, Francis shuddered as a chill ran up his spine and buried his chin into his turtleneck while Arthur was unaffected.
On approaching the door to their home, both men almost jumped as the shape of, what looked like, a person blocked the entrance. However, moving closer, they saw it was, in fact, the jacket that Arthur had left with Natalia the previous night, hung on the door handle with a note taped to it. Unhooking the coat, it's owner read the note. In neat, feminine writing it said, 'I apologise for the trouble I caused you, please enjoy my sister's bread as a thank you. Natalia.' Although signed with the younger woman's name, clearly it was the words of her older sister. It was something Arthur had been forced to do when he was younger and that he, in turn, had made his brothers do.
"That is so sweet of them," Francis cooed after reading the letter over the other's shoulder.
The corners of Arthur's lips tugged upward just slightly. "Restores some faith in humanity, doesn't it," he murmured, mostly to himself.
"Do not be so gloomy," the other tutted, picking up a shopping bag with a loaf of homemade bread inside and letting them through into the hall.
Francis turned left to take their present into the kitchen while Arthur went to hang up the jacket, stopping when he felt the pack of cigarettes in the pocket. He had been dying for one since yesterday and so went down the hall to the back door and let himself into the garden.
Stepping into the cold air again, Arthur sat down on the concrete step and lit up straight away. The rush of nicotine through his lungs helped to clear his mind and he allowed his tired eyes to slip closed in the solitude. He rolled the switch of the lighter in one hand while the other removed the cigarette from his mouth.
America. It was quite the opportunity. Once in a lifetime even. But why did it have to be so far away?
Taking another drag, he let out a sigh, smoke carried away on the wind. Sight adjusted to the dark, Arthur gazed over the fenced in patch of shadow. The small garden stood pretty much identical to how it was when they had moved in two months ago. They had plans for what they wanted to do with it but, as was always the case, hadn't found the time and there was no point planting anything now that winter was setting in. The grass needed a good trim, though, and Arthur scheduled that into his mental calendar, not that he'd do it.
From the kitchen and down the hall came the clacking of shoes on hard flooring and Arthur could feel his partner's presence close behind him. He inhaled the putrid smoke while Francis said nothing, his body blocking the light from the hallway.
"What?" he asked, not turning around.
The lean shadow that sprawled across the lawn shrugged. "Nothing," it replied, "just wondering what the matter is."
Sitting beside the shorter man, Francis observed him in profile.
"Nothing is the matter," he insisted, as Francis had known he would.
"You do not trust him," the Frenchman correctly deduced.
Arthur couldn't deny what he said and flicked the ashes from the end of his cigarette. "He's hardly the most responsible person we know," he admitted, biting his lip.
"No, but he is the most determined," Francis vouched, "and if he wants to do well I have no doubts he will."
"That's not what I'm worried about," the younger man shook his head.
Taking on his most understanding tone, Francis cocked his head, "What then?"
Looking him in the eye, Arthur blinked, "What if something happens?"
"I am sure a lot of things will happen," the older man tried to joke but the other wasn't in the mood to make light of the situation.
"Something bad, Francis. We won't be able to bail him out if he gets in trouble, no one will. He can barely make it through a week without some kind of emergency, how does he think he's going to get on in a completely different continent with no one he knows?"
It was a valid concern, one he had thought of at first, but Francis knew Arthur always blew things out of proportion when it came to Alfred.
"I agree, he will probably be a little lost at first but he will learn. You cannot let your worry get in the way of letting him go," he persuaded, placing a soft hand on Arthur's knee.
The action was met by a harsh glare. "It won't," Arthur snapped, "nothing is standing in his way, especially not me. I told him to go, I want him to."
Francis recoiled, not expecting the sudden outburst. "Mon amour, I did not mean anything like that," he attempted to retract his last statement but his lover only huffed angrily.
"Why do you all see me as some tyrant that wants control over your lives?" he speculated, flicking away the butt of his burnt-out cigarette that hit the ground with a spark, "I was only saying I was worried, like anyone would be. I'd never hold him back."
Frowning, bemused by this irrational behaviour, the taller man leant in, "We do not think that," he began but Arthur stood sharply to scowl down.
"Stop acting like you do then," he chastised then promptly went inside.
Left watching the smouldering remains on the floor, Francis ran a hand through his hair and let his head hang forward. He held in a growl of frustration, replaying the brief conversation in his mind to try and find what he had said wrong but found nothing that warranted such a response. He gave in and went inside, locking out the cold and the dark behind him.
Upstairs, he walked in on Arthur's nightly ritual, as the younger man stood in a state of half undress, trousers and shoes placed neatly on the chair in the corner with his work bag sat beside them, rifling through the documents he had taken home that afternoon. He looked over as the other man entered but turned his attention back to the well-practiced routine quickly, like he would forget what he was doing if his concentration was broken. Sensing he shouldn't interrupt, Francis went to his side of the double bed, stripped down and slid beneath the covers.
"Do you think we should make a reservation?"
"Quelle?" Francis looked up from setting his alarm.
"For dinner on Friday," Arthur clarified, "just in case."
"It will not be that busy," the other declined the proposal.
Arthur went back to organising his bag but Francis continued to look at the smaller man, studying him. There was something bothering him that he couldn't quite put his finger on.
"Have you lost weight?" he came to the realisation as he caught how the bones of the other's spine moved beneath the skin when he bent down.
"I don't think so," Arthur brushed off, pulling on a tattered old t-shirt he had owned since he was sixteen. It hung from his frame like it were on a coat hanger and Francis inwardly cringed at how thin his arms looked.
"I will have to start cooking more and make you take the leftovers into work with you like Mama used to," he smiled light-heartedly.
Opening the window a crack, Arthur mumbled "If you like," then climbed into his own side and faced away from his partner.
Face close the ashen blond head, unable to help the feeling of neglect that sunk in his chest, Francis snaked an arm over the narrow waist. Not sure whether he should mention what had happened out in the garden, he chose not to.
"Good night, mon lapin," he hummed.
"Night," was the curt response.
The screeching of an alarm at six thirty was what Arthur woke to the next morning, squinting at the offending source of light and sound as he reached to switch it off so as not to wake the man beside him. Lying still in that moment for as long as he dared, before the temptation to slip away again grew too strong to resist, he let out his first sigh of the day and peeled himself from the sweet caress of the duvet. Frigid air struck his skin, sending a shudder through him, and he closed the window with a scraping sound.
Dragging his reluctant body to bathroom only a few feet away, the feeling of early morning depression set itself aside to give way to dull ache of mundanity. Cold bathroom tiles stuck to the soles of his feet as he took off his clothes to step into the shower, avoiding the sight of his exposed body in the mirror. Beautifully warm water eased the persistent soreness in his neck and back for a few minutes while he lathered his hair in Francis' overpriced, brand name shampoo. Standing under the stream, motionless, to let the bubbles rinse away, Arthur enjoyed one of the few pleasures of his day as the steam rose, swirling past the ceiling light like a poltergeist.
However, this elevation from the crushing weight of life couldn't last long. He switched off the water and wrapped a towel around his midriff as he exited the cubicle into the foggy room. Wiping the condensation from the mirror, he roughly dried his hair off with a hand towel, brushed his teeth and went back to the bedroom. Skin tingling where beads of water were collected, he dried off as fast as he could, dressing in the same trousers as the day before with a white shirt and blazer.
Giving himself a once over in the mirror, Arthur saw the reflection of his lover, still blissfully asleep, behind him. Steps light, he went over to where his sleeping face rested, mouth slightly open, hair tangled like a haystack and strewn over the pillow. Crouching so their faces were level, he brushed the golden strands from the man's face and planted a kiss on his forehead. The other didn't stir, gentle puffs of breath dusting Arthur's cheeks, and he envied him a little. He rose and checked the time at which Francis had set his alarm, changing it to go off fifteen minutes earlier, knowing full well that he would underestimate how long it took him to leave the house. Not that anyone ever seemed to care how often he was late.
Downstairs, Arthur boiled the kettle to make his morning flask of tea and retrieved the book he was currently reading, refreshing his memory of where he had left off while he waited. Tea made, he screwed on the top, picked up his keys and was out the door.
The city air was thick with smog that stuck to the inside of Arthur's nostrils like foul smelling treacle. Damp patches on the paving slabs proved it had rained at some point during the night and puddles scattered the road, putting him on edge whenever a car passed. Turning onto the main street, he watched as the little, white body of a cat sped across the road to leap onto the wall that he walked beside.
"Good morning," he greeted under his breath for fear of someone hearing.
His daily morning visitor mewed in reply, rubbing its silky head on Arthur's sleeve. A few hairs clung to the material but he didn't mind, scratching it on the black strip of fur that ran around its neck like a scarf. It didn't take much for a deep, rumbling purr to be coaxed from the affectionate creature.
"Have a nice day," Arthur smiled down and went on his way, hearing a meow of complaint as he left.
The bus stop was only around the corner and, with his routine perfected to the second after four years of practice, the bus pulled up only a moment after he arrived. Taking a seat by the window upstairs, Arthur put in his headphones, letting his playlist play quietly, and resumed reading for the half hour journey.
The office building came into view, dark and looming. A block with the occasional window.
Polished stone floor adorned the entrance foyer, slippery with the damp brought through on people's shoes. He handed out polite, tight-lipped smiles to the ladies on the front desk as he sped past on his way to the lift and heard a high-pitched giggle when he was presumed out of ear shot but forced himself to ignore it.
Stepping through the sliding metal doors on the sixth floor, Arthur turned right and went directly to his office, not interested in socialising with the few people that scattered the hallway. His office, well, cupboard really, was just as grey as everything else in the building, dark slate blinds blocking out the window behind him, rickety, graphite desk chair creaking as he sat in it. A splash of colour illuminated the room momentarily as he switched on the monitor and was greeted by a picture of himself, Alfred and Matthew on the beach nine years ago on a family holiday. However, the screen saver was gone when he logged in.
Several new sheets had appeared in the mail tray he kept on his desk, letting him know that Ludwig, his head of department, had already been round. Flicking through them he put the stack to one side to deal with later and placed the documents he had completed the day before in the tray for outgoing mail. As he sat back in the dilapidated old swivel chair, there was a light knock at the door and a mousey voice spoke.
"Good morning, Mr Kirkland. These are for you."
Arthur looked up to see one of the new interns, Erika he believed her name was, hovering just over the threshold, files clutched to her chest. Her circular, moss coloured eyes stared like a startled hare as she waited to be acknowledged.
"Oh, thank you," Arthur reached over the desk to take them from her doll-like hands, "I'll leave them for you to go through later."
Nodding quickly, the tiny woman smiled and scurried away.
With nothing else to do, Arthur started going through the pages, methodically signing and addressing each one for the interns to send off. After what felt like an eon, but turned out to be two hours, the task was completed and Arthur had another three hours to kill before his lunch break. Closing the door to indicate he was busy, he spent the rest of the morning replying to e-mails, scrolling through Facebook and trying not to fall asleep.
When one o'clock did finally occur, he wasted no time in going straight to the office cafeteria. Ordering something small and cheap, Arthur sat alone at a table by the window and pulled out his defence mechanism in the form of a paperback. He wasn't exactly enjoying the story, finding it had become quite boring towards the middle, but his stubbornness would have him finish what he started. Nonetheless, his eyeline continually drifted from the page to the street below where people bustled about their days, looking like black and white sprinkles on a rather dull cupcake. The sky remained the same stark sheet of cloud that it had been for at least a week, teasing the idea of rain. Perhaps that new folding umbrella he had bought a month ago would finally get an outing.
Leaning a shoulder against the clear pane, Arthur looked directly down from the dizzying height. His thoughts drifted, as they had been for much of that day, to Alfred. He wanted the best for his brother, absolutely, but doubts were only natural, especially when they had never lived more than two miles away from each other. He wasn't sure why the distance bothered him so much, it wasn't as though he would be forgotten about, that was absurd. Then again, Alfred did have the attention span of a hyperactive puppy and tended to only be able to focus on what was directly in front of him.
Arthur pushed the impending thoughts away, there was no use worrying himself over the hypothetical. Despite not having eaten that day, he only took a few bites of the rank pasta salad he had bought before dumping it in the bin and returning to his office. The papers he had left had been collected while he was out and so, absentmindedly, he saw to the rest of the workload for the day. Set up a meeting that catered to three different time-zones, solve the filing crisis on level four, read the new reports from the Zurich office and make a shortlist of candidates to be promoted above himself. Although not difficult work in itself, having to concentrate so hard on something so immensely tedious was enough to turn a brain to mashed potatoes.
By five, a familiar pain had flared up in his back and crept its way up to his neck, soon to reach his head. Watching as the minute hand clicked to one minute past, Arthur gave a sigh, sitting back in his seat. He rolled his shoulders and neck and switched off the monitor before leaving. Barely able to see straight after staring at that glowing box all day, he blinked hard a few times as he made his way towards the lift through the, almost empty, office. About to press the button for the ground floor, someone called from outside.
"Hold the lift, please," came the same, high-pitched voice from that morning.
Halting the doors, Arthur made the effort to smile at the younger girl as she stepped in, a little breathless from her short sprint down the hall.
"Thank you for taking those papers down to Ludwig for me," Arthur conversed out of politeness.
Erika, clearly happy that her work had been appreciated, returned his smile sweetly. "You're welcome. Mr Beilschmidt isn't in until the weekend so I took them straight down to the post room. And I made sure to change that address."
"What address?" the other asked, beginning to frown.
The petite woman looked up, her head cocked. "You changed Amsterdam to America so that's what I put on the posting address," she explained.
A moment of confusion then Arthur realised his subconscious mistake. He felt a heat through his face as a tingle of panic set in.
"Why did you do that?" he demanded, some of that stress seeping into his tone, making it harsh.
Reading the older man's expression, Erika shrunk back, her voice becoming, somehow, even more timid. "I just did what it said, I'm sorry," she stammered, intimidated.
Rising anger was quashed by guilt at the look on her face and Arthur sighed deeply, never having meant to upset the girl.
"No, it's fine, it's not your fault," he crushed down his frustrations.
They reached the ground floor and Erika hurried from the lift, afraid that Arthur would change his mind. The other bit at his inner lip nervously, those were important documents and, with Ludwig gone, he couldn't fix the situation, leaving him to await his sentence. It was unlikely he would be fired but surely, sometime soon, someone would have to notice that Arthur really had no clue of what he was doing and that probably wouldn't go down too well.
Night was descending as he journeyed home and he gave up on reading to watch the murky sunset. Through the pollution, the fading light appeared a sickly orange, the skyline jagged like ripped paper. Someone came up the stairs and Arthur glanced at them, willing them with his eyes not to sit in the free seat beside him but his mental command wasn't obeyed. He drew into himself, squeezing tighter into the wall of the bus so as not to make any contact whatsoever with the stranger, as was his introverted instinct. Forehead almost touching the glass he leant on, the cool surface fogged over with his hot breath, blocking his view. Through its translucency, the horizon could have almost been beautiful, ugly square buildings and sharp corners softened by the condensation.
Reflexively knowing the number of stops to his destination, Arthur stood with a stifled "Sorry," to the person next to him as he slid past with as little hassle as he could manage. Roads less empty this time of day, Arthur looked both ways and crossed over to walk home.
The windows were dark as he unlocked the door, meaning Francis was not yet home and he presumed he wouldn't be for some time. Arthur was used to this, however, as their schedules left them more as flatmates than lovers. Too exhausted to do anything productive, he fixed himself some dinner and ate alone at the kitchen table to the monotonous tick of the clock. Some time later, Francis arrived.
"Bonsoir, mon cher, how are you?" he greeted, sweeping into the living room where Arthur was watching the news.
"I'm alright," was the supressed reply, "how was your day?"
The other leant over the arm of the sofa and placed a soft peck on his cheek then retreated back to the hall to put down his gear.
"Very productive," he called from out of sight, "they are considering making me the head of the yearly calendar shoot."
"That's great news," Arthur attempted to enthuse.
"It would make a nice change from weddings," the photographer smiled from the doorway, "What about you?"
Gaze flitting over briefly, Arthur said the same thing he always did. "Fine."
"Just fine?"
"Just fine."
They settled in for the night, not speaking much but, at least, in one another's company. Barely awake by the time they went to bed, Arthur fell asleep instantly, dark and dreamless, while Francis lay awake, treasuring the limited time he had to feel as though they were doing more than just coexisting.
Days went unaltered, as per usual, every morning as draining as the last, each night seeming shorter and less restful. Little more than a moving lump of mass by Wednesday, Arthur was simply going through the motions, waiting for the temporary respite of the weekend. He didn't know when the constant, throbbing hollowness had set in, quite some time ago by his estimations, but he had learned to live with it. This was how things were and how they would be for the foreseeable future, he had made his peace with that.
Friday came at a snail's pace, dragging its feet through the week like thick mud, and Arthur couldn't have been more grateful when it finally arrived. A week in the office without Ludwig there to oversee had proven near catastrophic and, with any luck, things would be put right by Monday. All Arthur hoped for was that his little slip up would be solved without being attributed to him.
Arriving at his usual time, the Brit's hopes were dashed at the sight of a post it note stuck to his office door, calling a meeting that morning, unmistakeably his boss' writing. Leaving any thoughts of a pleasant day at the door, Arthur entered and stared blankly at his computer screen until the appointed time was at hand.
Meeting room C was long and as painfully bland as any other room in the building, floor length windows running along the outer wall to let in the minimal light of the overcast day. Tables ran down the centre of the room in one, continuous line with enough chairs for about twenty people. Some employees had already taken their seats, scattered without order, in small groups or alone. Taking an available chair with no one close to it, Arthur laid out the notepad and pen he had brought along to make him look invested.
It wasn't long before the man they were waiting for showed up, on time to the second as expected, and switched on the projector.
"This shouldn't take long, just a few things to cover then we can all go to lunch," he addressed the room from the head of the table.
The projection flickered then displayed the image of a graph. Clicking a remote so that several differently coloured lines, representing the previous year's profits, appeared on the graph, the German began to speak. Clearly something important, Arthur knew he should have made more of an effort to pay attention, but however hard he tried, the words sounded alien to him. A muted sense of anxiety clouded his head, filling up the gaps in his brain with fluff so that the cogs couldn't turn.
To the right of him, the frantic scrabbling of a pen as the young, Estonian man from accounting took notes, from behind, the laboured clunking of the heating system. A frigid wisp of air cut through a gap in the window seal and blew past Arthur's cheek like a ghostly caress. Pen rested lightly in his grip, he let it glide across the blank page in an uncalculated pattern, the tool twisting in his fingers. Small movements created an intricate puzzle of straight lines, almost like a spider's web.
"Now, on to the European trade circle," another click and the image changed, Ludwig, again, going over the significance of the scrambled lines.
Eyes unfocused in the direction of the presentation, Arthur let the words wash over him, blocked out by his own inability to care. Against the background drone of the German accent, he became astutely aware of a deep, internal thumping as the beating of his own heart became noticeable, stronger than usual.
"Unfortunately, we had a slight problem with the Amsterdam figures," the stern voice broke through Arthur's private solitude, "What exactly happened, Mr Kirkland?"
All faces turned to him as he was glared down by his head of department. Body heating up, he could feel the palms of his hands become clammy, mouth suddenly without moisture.
"Oh, yes, I apologise, there was a small postage issue," he struggled to maintain composure with so many eyes on him, "I may have sent them to America by mistake."
"I see," was the reaction of the taller man.
An awkward silence fell, those icy eyes dead on him. Blood pounded past his ears and the air seemed to become thinner while the moment wouldn't end.
"Their office needs that report by tonight," the usually short-tempered man calmly stated, "can you have that done?"
Swallowing thickly, the other nodded. "Yes," he croaked, startled by how his breath stuck in his throat.
"Good," Ludwig muttered, about to end the excruciating exchange but stopped as he began to turn back to the projector, curious gaze fixed, again, on Arthur. "Are you alright?" he asked, words sounding too human for such a mechanical person.
Eyes darting away from catching anyone else's, the Englishman wiped his sweating palms on his trousers under the table. Tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he opened it to speak he could find no air in his lungs to do so.
"Yes," he managed, half strangled by his own throat.
"You are rather red," Ludwig remarked, blond eyebrows frowning as his full attention, along with twenty other co-workers', was focused on the smaller man.
Every eyeball was a pin in his flesh as Arthur could think of nothing to divert the scrutiny from himself. The back of his neck burned, the heat running over shoulders and chest, constricting.
"Fine. I'm fine. Sorry," he apologised out of panic, too hot to think.
Above the hammering in his head, Arthur detected the sound of someone whispering and whipped his upper body around to catch them. The man to his side jumped at the erratic action and the near distraught man looked away again, just as quickly, to realise the entire room held a myriad of bewildered expressions.
"Perhaps you would like to step outside for a few minutes," the straight faced German cut through the stifling atmosphere.
Chest too tight to draw in full breaths, Arthur nodded, shakily rising from his chair and leaving the room, daggers piercing his back as soon as it was turned.
Door firmly shut behind him, he speed-walked down the hall a short way to be sure he was out of sight of the small window through the door then stopped, leaning against the wall gasping for breath. Air moved through his lungs but it wouldn't satisfy. The pounding of his heart was all he could hear.
Hands and back pressed into the wall, Arthur's whole body felt weak. He became light headed, knees bending of their own accord, and he slid to the floor. One quivering hand clutched his chest, the other gripping his hair, he leant forward. His heart sped faster than he thought it possible, resonating through all of him with every thud, so hard it hurt. His limbs went numb. On the verge of hyperventilation, it was as though the air contained no oxygen, he was in a vacuum. Short, forced inhales and painful expulsions were all he could do to stop from suffocating to death. Mind panic stricken, there seemed no way to stop it. Perhaps he would die.
Over the sound of his own, malfunctioning body came something louder. One that, at first, Arthur believed to be a delusion but then realised was the vibration of a phone in his pocket. The sensation of it slowly reminding him of the world outside of his head, his rasping gulps began to even out, becoming slower, longer, restoring his brain function enough that he was able to process thought.
Left disoriented, Arthur relaxed, not having realised every muscle in him had been tensed, and stared into space as the tingle of pins and needles restored feeling to his extremities. A tear ran down his cheek and he wiped his eyes, which had become blurry. His overheated skin rapidly cooled, leaving it sticky with dried sweat. Running a trembling hand through his hair, Arthur let out a long, shuddering sigh, silently reassuring himself that whatever had just happened was over now.
The phone had long since stopped ringing and he pulled it out to see what he had missed. Caller ID told him that it was Francis who had been trying to contact him and a text above it from the same man asked if seven o'clock was okay for dinner. Sending a one worded reply of 'yes', Arthur could hear movement from inside the room he had come from. Not wanting any of his peers to see him in such a state, especially after the scene he had just caused, he stood, with the help of the wall, and staggered to the closest bathroom.
Dizzied by the experience, he clutched the side of the sink for support as he splashed some cool water onto his, still pinkish, face. Bloodshot eyes looked back at him from the mirror and he watched in a state of disconnect as the broken man blinked slowly. Despite his haggard appearance he couldn't muster the slightest pinch of empathy.
Wishing to avoid anyone who may have been in the meeting with him, Arthur decided to skip lunch and returned to his desk, where he stayed for the rest of the day. Time passed in an odd sort of blur, both speeding and crawling at once. Tasks that should have taken a few minutes took an hour and, if not for the buzzing of his phone against the desk, Arthur wouldn't have realised it had gone five.
Another text from Francis stating he was about to leave work. Flipping through the pages he still had to finish, Arthur chewed his inner lip. He didn't want to be late but there was still a lot to do and so he resolved to complete as much as he could in the next two hours and hope the traffic wasn't too bad on the way to the restaurant. Through the window of his door, the lights on the sixth floor went out one by one as his co-workers went home to their happy little home lives, probably helping the children with their homework, kissing their wives, petting the dog.
Still with a small mountain of paperwork, Arthur relented, shoving what he hadn't completed into his case and leaving. Head spinning a little as he walked, he went and waited at the bus stop, not sure how long he would have to wait now that his routine had been corrupted. Luckily, it didn't take long for a double decker that stopped near the high street to come by and he hopped on.
There was a certain calm to be found in the unfamiliar. Arthur only followed the same daily pattern out of necessity, it worked so why change it, not out of some fear of the new. While he may not have been a thrill seeker like Alfred or as spontaneous as Francis, he would often find himself wondering 'what if?'. The path that led where he wasn't meant to go always looked more appealing but he had responsibilities and that came first.
Staring through his reflection out the window of the empty bus, his ring tone sounded for the third time that day. He contemplated letting it go to voicemail but knew who it was calling without having to look and would feel bad for doing that and so answered it.
"Bonjour, mon cher," Francis lilted down the line.
"Hello, sorry, I'm running late," Arthur muttered, his voice drained, "you can go in and start without me if you like, I'll only be a few minutes."
From the other end, the muffled complaining of an American accent sounded, "Come on, Artie, it's freezing."
"No, it is not," shushed a similar, softer voice.
"Alright," the older man cut through the background noise, "we will see you soon."
"See you soon," the other replied and hung up.
Enjoying the rest of the way in a zoned-out daze, he let his head rest back against the rattling seat, the hum of the engine filling his head. The shopping promenade came into view, it's warm glow alluring, the streets filled with people ready to start their weekend. Vibrant store fronts began to close their shutters while neon signs buzzed on, changing with the clientele.
The closest stop was around the corner from the group's meeting point and Arthur got off there, walking to where the little restaurant was hidden. It's red and yellow front was homely to see, having been there since Arthur was just a child, and a heat, both inside and out, lifted his dreary spirits on entering.
"Finally! I'm starving," Alfred exclaimed when he saw Arthur standing in the doorway.
"It's nice to see you too," the older man retorted with characteristic sarcasm, sitting with the waiting party.
"I ordered for you," Francis told him as he leaned in for a kiss.
Awkward, Arthur remained still while the Frenchman's lips were pressed against his, chastely. "Thank you," he acknowledged the action but not the affection.
"Bad day at work?" Matthew perceived, seeing the cold interaction.
Shaking his head and putting on a smile, Arthur rebuffed his concerns, "Just a long day."
From across the table, Matthew and Francis caught gazes and the older of the two looked ready to say something but was overpowered by the other twin when the door to the kitchen swung open, much to his delight.
"Oh my God, yes!" he rejoiced at the sight of their order being brought over.
Plates piled high with authentic Spanish cuisine were placed on the table, aromatic steam rising from them, and Alfred, fork prepared, barely let the waitress pull her hand away before he started shovelling the food into his face.
"Table manners, Alfred," Arthur disparaged as bits of rice and pepper littered the table.
"I was at practice all day, I'm hungry," the younger boy continued to pack food down his throat, barely chewing, and Arthur rolled his eyes, ready to start lecturing.
"Come on, guys, this is meant to be a nice night," the quietest of them stopped him, "remember why we're here."
The poignant statement prevented the developing tiff and the atmosphere became sombre.
"I can't believe it's been six years," Alfred commented retrospectively.
Naturally, conversation turned to the woman whose anniversary they were there to commemorate. The others nodded, not quite sad but introspective.
The death of Alice Kirkland had been unexpected, her illness taking over in a matter of months, and she had left behind three young boys, Arthur only eighteen at the time and her two adoptive sons just turned thirteen. As shocking as her passing had been, the ultimate surprise came when Arthur had taken up the role of legal guardian to the children. He and Francis, together almost two years at the time, had made the decision to live together in the family home to raise the twins as best they could. Neither could say it hadn't been gruelling at times but Arthur had been willing to do anything to keep his brothers out of foster care.
"Well, you boys know that, if she were here now, she would be saying how proud she was and how much she loved you," Arthur stated a little stiffly, as he did every year, with a forced smile.
Both the younger men smiled back from across the table with a raw sentimentality that made Arthur uncomfortable.
From that point, the evening progressed pleasantly, remembering old times and conversing about their days, the oldest Kirkland letting the others do most of the talking while he picked at his food, disinterestedly. The establishment's relaxed atmosphere lent itself well, Arthur almost forgetting about the stress of the day in the familiar place. Although he could remember the restaurant opening it seemed as though there was never a time without it being there as the local custom had accepted it immediately.
Staying longer than they normally would have, the conversation began to die down and the sense that the night was coming to an end descended.
"How do you guys want to split the bill?" Alfred asked as he reached for his wallet.
"It's alright, I'm paying," Arthur refused his offer.
"But you two always pay, we can afford it you know," Matthew insisted.
"Nonsense," the older man stood to show his word was final, "I suggested it so it's only fair."
Knowing better than to argue with the stubborn Brit, the others stayed seated.
There was no one at the desk when Arthur reached it and, although there was a bell on the counter for the express purpose of gaining someone's attention, he opted to wait patiently to be noticed for fear of seeming rude.
It was several seconds before a face popped up from behind the window that looked into the kitchen, an easy-going smile on its lips.
"Arthur!" Antonio laughed at seeing the other so unexpectedly, "Wait there, amigo."
The Spaniard disappeared for a moment then came through the kitchen to the front of the restaurant, still grinning as wide as his face.
"It's been a while," Arthur gave a polite smile back, "I didn't expect to see you here so late."
"A good boss doesn't just do paperwork," Antonio wiped his hands down the grease stained apron he wore, expression never lessening. He had recently taken over the business after his parents had moved back to their home country and the look on his face told Arthur that he was happy with his decision. What he wouldn't have given to feel that way about his own job. "Dios mio, how long has it been?"
His happiness was infectious and Arthur let slip a breath of a laugh. "I don't know. A few months, I think."
"Si, si, that's right! I haven't even seen your new place yet," the other continued to ramble, "and I'm sorry to hear about all that, amigo, it's a shame."
A twinge caught Arthur off guard at the well-meant comment, the wound of losing the old family home to mortgage repayments not yet fully healed.
"It's fine, we all knew it was going to happen eventually," he played down what had, in truth, been a fairly devastating event.
"We still have to throw you a house warming party, no?" Antonio suggested.
"I don't know about that," Arthur tried to turn down the idea.
"Some time after next weekend," the excitable brunette pressed, "You are coming next Saturday, aren't you?"
The look Arthur gave him must have explained his confusion as the other elaborated.
"Gilbert finally got that promotion, we're celebrating. Everyone's invited."
Dreading the thought, the younger man began to rummage for his credit card. "I'll see if I can stop by," he made a flimsy promise he had no intention of keeping, "How much do I owe you?"
With a dismissive hand gesture, the other laughed again. "You know your money is no good here," he exclaimed, "and don't try to argue, I won't take it," he added when Arthur was about to object.
Taking some coins from his pocket, the Englishman left them on the counter. "For the waitress," he said.
"See you next weekend," Antonio scooped the money from the surface with a nod of thanks.
"Yeah," the other gave a hollow smile and went back to the table.
"Was that Toni?" Francis questioned, craning his neck to see as Arthur approached.
Readying himself to go, the younger man nodded. "He said something about Gilbert having a party, did you know about that?"
"Sorry, I meant to tell you," the Frenchman apologised, "we were talking about it before you got here."
"I can't wait, Gil always throws the best parties," Alfred grinned eagerly.
Last to know. Typical.
"I'll see if I'm busy or not," Arthur made the same non-commitment he had to Antonio, "Shall we go?"
Outside, the group went their separate ways and, alone together, the couple fell mute, as though they needed others around to find one another interesting. Strolling side by side, Francis reached out in a weak attempt to hold hands but felt Arthur pull away as their fingers brushed together. Whether he did it on purpose or not, he didn't know, but, from the way things had been going recently, he wouldn't assume it was by accident.
As much as Francis wished he could deny it, whatever was going on had started to have an effect on the couple's relationship. They barely spoke anymore, or communicated in any manner. Acts of affection were completely absent and they hadn't been intimate in quite some time. What had started out as a passing conversation had become a very real concern and Francis had no idea what to do.
Once home, the older man expected his partner to go straight up to bed and so was unsure why he went into the living room.
"What are you doing?" he enquired, following.
Arthur knelt beside the coffee table, rifling through his work bag. "I have some things to finish," he stated.
"Come now, cherie, you can do it tomorrow," the other attempted to dissuade him but Arthur stayed in place.
"I don't want anything to pile up, go to bed if you want," he said without turning around.
Slinking closer, Francis came to stand behind his lover. "But I want you to come with me," he hummed low and enticing as he slid a hand up the others back and over his shoulders in a way he knew would induce a shiver.
"I'm too busy, Francis," Arthur snapped, shooting a look back.
Retracting his hand, the Frenchman stepped away, swallowing his hurt.
"Don't be too long," he uttered and went upstairs alone.
Many things crossed Francis' mind that night, things he didn't want to consider. As he stared at the ceiling like it held the answers he was looking for, he knew that things hadn't been right for some time now. To a certain extent it was his fault, a relationship was made of more than one person after all, but he couldn't solve anything if Arthur never told him what the problem was.
Sleep alluding him, he decided to venture downstairs, hoping for some kind of insight, and found Arthur unconscious, having exhausted himself. A solicitous smile crept across the older man's face at the sight, how the downy head lay asleep on an arm he used like a pillow, pen still in hand. If he tried to rouse the younger man he would only go straight back to working, as though he had something to prove, and so, instead, Francis found a spare blanket to drape over his bony shoulders and left him to sleep.
The bed too big without the smaller body lying next to him, Francis remained awake that night, troubles multiplying with every hour.
Well that took a fucking while. Sorry about that. Thanks to everyone who read, followed and reviewed the first chapter (your feedback is still appreciated) I hope this second one was just as good.