Arthur woke to the sound of quiet human activity and the gentle patter of rain against the window pane. Slowly peeling back his eyelids to a room he was not accustomed to waking in, he went to sit up from his crouched position but froze in place when a sharp, twinging sensation pinched the vertebrae of his neck. With a hiss, he clasped a hand over the afflicted area, holding his head at the same angle as he raised it from the coffee table that had been his bed for the night.
"Ah, good morning," a cheery Frenchman chirped from behind.
Having to turn his whole upper body to look around, Arthur lopsidedly glanced back at him. "Why didn't you wake me up?"
"I did not want you working all night," Francis shrugged.
"Would have been able to hold my head up straight, though," the other grumbled, twisting his neck while squinting in pain.
Coming to plant a quick peck on the thatched head, the older man showed some empathy for his actions, "Je suis desole, mon lapin. I will massage it for you later, oui?" his suggestive inflection not at all subtle.
Arthur made a vague sound of complaint in reply, blinking the sleep from his eyes. "You have work?"
"They called this morning," Francis went out to the hall and swung on his coat, "they made me head of the calendar project."
"Oh, well done," the other feebly encouraged.
"Merci," Francis thanked, "I should be home to make dinner, what would you like?"
"Surprise me," Arthur said instead of 'I don't give a shit.'
"Tres bien," the disembodied voice called as the door was opened, "See you later, amour."
"Have a nice day," the younger man muttered, too quiet for anyone but himself to hear, not that it mattered as Francis was already half way down the drive.
Left to his own company and the echo of receding footsteps, Arthur remained where he sat, adjusting to the day. Despite having slept until near noon, his whole being was heavy, his head feeling as though it were packed with cotton wool. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm to try and alleviate some of the stuffiness which only resulted in fuzzy, black dots floating before his vision. With no motivation to stand, he stayed in the awkward half sitting position a few minutes, staring at nothing in his glazed over state. Grunting as he stood, both legs painful to stretch, Arthur found himself at a loss of what to do with his freedom. The desire to be productive was there but the motivation was absent, the prospect of a day to himself not as pleasing as it should be.
Icy fingers rapped at the glass from outside, the cold seeping in through the gaps in the window seal. Falling straight down in fat globs, the rain became heavier, pelting the ground with a smack. As Arthur passed through the hall he noticed the household umbrella still leant by the door; Francis would be getting soaked.
Running on autopilot he made himself some tea, considered finding something to eat but didn't see the urgency and shuffled back to the living room where he stared down at the unfinished work he had left himself. There was quite a bit to do and, as he watched the orderly stack of sheets like they might decide to do themselves, he knew he shouldn't procrastinate. He squinted down at the jumbled scrawling of black ink, the words seeming to bleed into one another, all blurred and crumbling at the edges. As many times as he screwed his eyes shut to try and clear them, they refused to come into focus.
He eased himself onto the sofa, slouching back into its soft hold with the warm cup gripped in both hands. A buzzing static occupied his mind, unable to tell whether it was from something in the room or in his head, along with the rhythmic patter of the outside world. Switching on the T.V, he allowed whatever was on to play uninterrupted since he wasn't actually watching it, he just needed something to fill the void of white noise. An overzealous presenter harped on about some product on the screen but Arthur watched the box of wet sky instead. For a while he was able to ignore the nagging anxiety of unfinished commitments but eventually, knowing the feeling would not subside until he solved what caused it, its shadow loomed too close.
Hoping a shower may clear the fog that shrouded his thinking, and after several minutes convincing himself to do so, he placed the half-drunk tea, now stone cold, down and hauled himself from the seat. His movements lethargic, he shuffled to the staircase and ascended as though he had gained a ton in weight overnight. Body aching, every movement was a chore, his limbs creaking like the boards beneath his feet.
Once enclosed in the glass cube, Arthur wished he never had to leave, the steaming water a blessing to his strained muscles. For a long time, he remained motionless, allowing the stream to wash over him, hitting his neck and flowing downward across the whole of his body like the centrepiece of a Roman fountain. His hair, waterlogged and heavy, was glued to his skin, fringe plastered to his forehead. Running a hand over his head to sweep the sodden mop from his eyes, he let the water run over his face, getting into his mouth, dripping from the end of his nose. A whirlpool had begun to form around the drain and he watched as each droplet fell and rippled, indistinguishable from one another.
As though beaten down by the light dribble of the shower, Arthur couldn't resist the insurmountable urge to sit on the porcelain floor. Knees held against his chest, curled into a ball against the tiled wall, the overwhelming numbness was all consuming. It was almost as though he were not in his body, looking down upon himself and still controlling his actions yet disconnected from what was around him. An impossible feeling to define and one that he wasn't sure he wanted to.
The sensation of temporary heat was addictive and he dreaded to leave, but when he noticed his hands wrinkled, saturated with water, he forced himself to do so. Without washing, he spilled from the shower, apple cheeked, and went to find something to wear. The contents of his wardrobe were a depressing scale of black, white and brown in varying shades, a brief splash of green the only exception. As he dressed mostly for work, there was no real point in owning many clothes that weren't office appropriate, leaving him with only a few casual outfits which he kept in a draw. Throwing on his most worn in jeans and a jumper so old it was more holes that material, he deemed the clothing suitable for house wear and returned to his spot on the couch.
A knot had formed in his stomach, momentarily, tightening then subsiding to inform him that his body still needed food but Arthur ignored it, not that he couldn't feel the hunger he simply didn't feel like eating. Besides, he had other things to do. He stared down blankly at the coffee table, sheets piled neatly in a stack with a pen, ready for use, beside them. Taking one flimsy page, he held it closer to his face, looking at it in the same, indifferent manner. Still, the printed symbols didn't register as anything more than nonsensical scribbles, however, if he didn't get this done he would be left to catch up, something he had managed to avoid in his four years at the company. As he glared down at the page, the page seemed to glare back, mocking his inability to just get on with a simple task. It should have taken him two minutes, how hard was it to read something? Becoming annoyed, he could feel his eyes begin to wander but, out of sheer stubbornness, kept them locked on the job at hand. He read the same sentence over and over yet the meaning of the words wouldn't sink in, something in his brain prevented them from processing correctly. The strain began to hurt, his eyes aching, but he knew if he admitted defeat now then nothing would get done.
Half an hour of staring at the same few sentences, the increasingly frustrated man's white knuckled grip around his pen was causing pins and needles to travel up his arm but he remained laser focused, anger rising and blocking his thinking even further. God, he hated his job. He only took so much home because he knew no one else would have it finished by the deadline if he delegated it out and, even then, it would all come back to him as his responsibility to oversee the unit. It really wasn't worth the pay he got. The soul reason he had taken the job in the first place was to support everyone and try to keep up with payments on the house but now that was gone, the boys didn't live at home anymore and he wondered why he stayed. Probably because he had no qualifications and even less of an idea of what else he would rather be doing. Complacency had taken over his life and there was no reason to change it.
A growl of anger passed his gritted teeth as he swept the orderly pile onto the floor in a moment of impulsive rage. Fluttering onto the carpet like straight edged snowflakes, they landed unscathed, face up and laughing at him. A prick of moisture stung the corners of his eyes but Arthur blinked it back, refusing to let his emotions win, he wouldn't be some petulant child crying over not wanting to do their homework. Despite there being no one there to witness the outburst, his cheeks became flush with embarrassment.
Crushing those preposterous feelings down, he went outside for a smoke. A thin film of liquid filled the air as there was not much more for the clouds to give, as evidenced by the steady stream that flowed from the gutter's spout and into the drain which was overflowing, blocked again. Arthur sighed at the realisation, knowing he would be left with the job of unclogging it due to Francis' squeamishness. Slumped down onto the stoop of the back door, sheltered by the little roof that jutted out from the wall, he placed a cigarette between his lips, struggling to light it with the dank atmosphere. When the end of it glowed orange, he removed it, holding it between his pale fingers.
Crossing his legs, he rested his elbows on his knees, leaning on them, his whole demeanour hunched. However he sat, his neck still kept that tweaking pain and he twisted it to try and loosen the lingering sensation, to no avail. It was growing dark as dusk closed over the sky, folding inward to turn the blank white expanse black. No stars were visible, what with the amount of light pollution in the inner city, and the moon kept itself hidden behind the clouds that still lurked. Darkness came earlier each day now that they travelled further from the sun's life-giving warmth and the end of another uneventful year was around the corner.
His cigarette had burnt half way down in his hand by the time Arthur decided he didn't want the rest of it and he stubbed it out in the flower pot they kept by the door for that purpose. The brown paper was stained a crimson red in patches, like rose petals, and he licked his lip to taste a metallic flavour. Light fading fast, he went inside to the artificial brightness, squinting his offended eyes. Dragging his feet to the kitchen, he rifled through the cupboards until he found the pain killers he was searching for and swallowed two in hopes of dulling the pain. He shuddered at the sensation of the chalky blocks scathing the walls of his throat and had to force them down with some water which left him choking, he'd never been able to take tablets.
Gasping after the ordeal, Arthur meandered back to the sofa, where he collapsed into a heap. The T.V still played and, without the energy to do anything else, he began to flick through the channels, each one eliciting the same non-reaction. He settled on some cooking competition, reminding him of the fact he had not eaten that day, which he stared at, half taking it in. Any inklings of hunger from earlier had faded but Francis would be home soon and that meant a full-on meal. He could eat half and make some excuse like he usually did, no worries.
As he sat motionless, the sweet caress of the cushions enticed his body into a further state of fatigue and, despite not having done anything that day, he could have fallen asleep with his eyes open. Pulling his legs up onto the sofa, he laid on his side, head propped up on one of the ugly, decorative pillows he had begged Francis not to waste money on. The only source of light in the room now coming from the images on the screen, shadow crept through the house. One arm hanging over the edge of the sofa, Arthur half expected for a hand to reach out from under the furniture and drag him down with those shadows. He wouldn't have minded if it did. Vision blurry in the flickering light, it was easier to simply stop seeing and so his eyelids slowly descended, welcoming the dark inside.
Francis furrowed his brow as he approached the darkened house. The windows were black and he wondered if, perhaps, Arthur had gone into work after all but the door was unlocked, so that couldn't be the case. Inside was as cold as it was out as the heating hadn't been turned on and Francis rolled his eyes as he thought of his partner's insistence of not putting it on a timer, dropping his things on the floor and proceeding inwards, about to call out to him.
However, he stopped by the door of the living room and, again, frowned as he looked in. On the sofa was Arthur, asleep in a ball, with the television still on and the floor littered with paper. He was about to wake the other man but, on coming further into the room to see the pale, marcid face, he thought better of it. Collecting the mess from the carpet, he piled the sheets on the table then went to turn on the heating.
Although he had planned on making his favourite meal in the hopes of cheering Arthur up just a bit, Francis felt it may go unappreciated with the current state he was in and so, instead, settled for something easier. He checked the fridge to see what he had to work with and noticed that nothing had been disturbed since last he opened it, concern for his lover swelling in his chest at what that implied. He took some vegetables from the draw at the bottom, washed and chopped them and set them to boil in a pan, then tidied up after himself. A clean kitchen was a successful kitchen, as his mother always told him.
He went across the hall as he waited for the water to soften the vegetables, leaving the light off so as not to disturb Arthur, knowing he was a light sleeper. With the main sofa occupied, Francis sat in the armchair and began to browse the channels on offer, tutting at the low brow programming of afternoon cable. As he settled back into his chair, the body a few inches from him began to shift as Arthur woke, gradually.
"Afternoon, endormi," he smiled over as the other man lifted his head, squinting against the flashing light.
A muffled hum was the only reply, Arthur still not fully present. "How long have you been home?" he asked, his senses returning.
"Not long. I am making soup," Francis informed him.
"Oh," the younger man stifled a yawn, "How was your day?"
"It went well, although I did almost drown on the way in," Francis sounded pleased, if weary, and, if Arthur had found the ability to be happy for him he would have been, "Yours?"
Seeing the mess he made had been cleared for him, Arthur felt the slightest bit embarrassed. "The umbrella is by the door," he informed rather than addressing the question, not wanting to admit what an unproductive day it had been.
A bubbling sound came from over the hall and Francis rose in response. "Dinner will not be long," he announced and went to see to the simmering pot.
Still in the half daze he had been all day, Arthur shuffled up into a slouched sitting position and watched whatever channel the other had changed to. The electric whisk blared from the kitchen, loud enough to drown out the voice over on the nature documentary that played as some unaware, wild deer got mown down by a lion.
"Cher Seigneur, why must life be so brutal?" Francis lamented from the doorway, bowl under his arm.
"Survival of the fittest," Arthur quoted with a cynically blank expression.
Pulling a disgusted face as guts began to go flying, the more-faint hearted of the two turned his back on the gory scene. "Tell me when it is over," he fretted and went back to the kitchen.
Eyes glued loosely on the graphic depiction, Arthur chose not to think too deeply about what he was seeing. He couldn't really feel too bad for the deer, the lion had to eat after all, and, anyway, it was its own bloody fault for not paying attention. Not that it deserved to die but it should have known better. Life was relentless. One little mistake and that was the end of it.
"Is it finished?" the Frenchman asked from the safety of the hall.
The segment had moved on to something less violent and Arthur confirmed it was safe.
"You can come back now."
A steaming bowl of soup was handed to him as Francis came in to take his seat again. "How can you watch these things?" he questioned as though he had just witnessed some horrific atrocity.
"It's only a T.V show," the other put into perspective.
"It is all too bloody for my liking," the more sensitive man protested with a shudder, "The poor creature."
Unable to share his partner's empathy, Arthur quietly sipped at the liquidised meal.
"Alfred and Matthew are coming over for dinner tomorrow," Francis announced to keep the conversation alive, "I asked them what they wanted and Alfred said pizza," he scoffed at the offensive request, shaking his head disappointedly.
"What are you making then?" Arthur asked.
"Real food," was the scathing reply.
Chuckling through his nose, Arthur glanced over and caught eyes with the other who smiled in return. "You can be such a snob," he reprimanded softly.
Able to laugh at his own flaws, Francis shrugged. "I know what I am doing therefore I am entitled to be," he cajoled.
It was the most time they had spent together all week and, although they didn't speak much, it was good to just be a couple for a few, intermediate hours. They spent the evening on the sofa, watching whatever shit happened to be on, Arthur even allowing an arm to be draped across his shoulders, both tempted to fall asleep where they sat. However, Arthur was not willing to spend another night downstairs after what the last one had done to his alignment and so the pair trudged up to bed, ready for the next days cycle to begin.
Work was horrendous, as expected, with new projects coming in as fast as Arthur cold be rid of them, causing a perpetual cycle of slipping further and further behind. He couldn't have been happier to leave that claustrophobic little cube. Even on a Sunday, the office was bustling, stressed faces speeding about in a scramble to meet the weeks quota. A mine field of potential holdups to navigate. Avoiding anyone from his floor, for fear of them requesting his help, he was almost to the hallway.
Although barely scraping by, Arthur had called it a day, unable to stay another minute and keep his fragile sanity intact. As he made his way to sweet, sweet freedom he caught a familiar, stoic gaze from across the room as Ludwig looked straight at him with intent. Quickly turning away in the hopes that he could pretend he hadn't seen, Arthur kept his focus firmly on the direction he was going and picked up the pace. So near, teasingly so, yet he had hoped for too much as, upon reaching the doors, his name was called.
"Arthur, may I speak with you a moment," the authorative voice cut through the background noise, causing the man addressed, along with half a dozen of his nosey colleagues, to stop.
He bit his tongue to keep from cursing aloud and took a deep breath, that did little to calm the irritation, before turning to his boss with an expression of forced politeness. "Of course, what can I do for you, Ludwig?" he replied, sounding sarcastic to himself.
As the taller man weaved his way between desks, gossiping whispers began to trickle around the office, as they did whenever someone was called by name. Rolling his eyes, Arthur brushed off the prying minds of other's, never having cared what his colleagues thought of him. If he had learned anything from those miserable school years, it was that other people would say anything about you to seem interesting and if being the black sheep would keep them from bothering him then that was fine. Still, they could have been a little more discreet about it.
Coming close enough that their conversation was private, Ludwig remained quiet for a few seconds and Arthur could have sworn his cheeks were pinker than usual. He cleared his throat and spoke, frosty eyes itching to look away, "Ah, I wanted to give you this," he struggled, voice cutting itself off with scattered hesitations. A hand holding a pristine white envelope was extended and, briefly, Arthur was too uncomfortable to react. Such an item didn't belong in Ludwig's possession, the silver embellishment on the corners was far too frilly for such a pragmatic man, "I would like to invite you to our engagement shower."
Shock registered on the Englishman's face, unable to contain the sheer surprise at the statement. "Oh," he uttered, thick eyebrows raised rather unprofessionally, "Congratulations, I hadn't heard the news."
As the envelope was taken from him, Ludwig gave a curt nod, clearing his throat of mounting awkwardness to thank the other. "Danke, Arthur. We hope you can make it."
It was odd to hear him speak as a multiple, the way long term couples who had morphed into one being tended to, as Arthur could only remember seeing both Ludwig and his betrothed together a handful of times.
"I'll try my best," he gave his assurance having yet to decide whether he actually would or not.
"We look forward to it," Ludwig spoke sternly even then and left to escape the embarrassment he clearly felt.
People still glanced, their curiosity penetrating, and Arthur tucked the letter into his pocket to read away from probing eyes. He traced the smooth texture of the silver gilding with a rough finger on the elevator ride down and out onto the street, taking it out to look at once by the bus stop. Tilting it back and forth, he admired how the lamp's light glinted off the metallic finish, winking at him.
A bus pulled up and Arthur boarded it, going upstairs to sit on the front window. Now in peaceful solitude, he studied the envelope, the thick, pristine paper almost too perfect to unseal but he did to expose the letter, creased like a concertina, inside. He unfolded the paper, words in printed cursive sprinkled the page like footprints in the snow, politely inviting him to the event. At the bottom were both of the couple's signatures, handwritten, Ludwig's familiar, pointed penmanship in stark contrast with the swooping longhand of the other's beside it, showing how much care had gone into the invite. It made Arthur feel slightly bad of how little he cared, especially as he had known Ludwig for quite a number of years and really should have been more invested. He was happy for them yet, the sight of the date only produced a feeling of dread at the thought of another social obligation. With a sigh, he refolded the paper and tucked it back into its casing.
The blurred lights of second floors breezed past, revealing snippets of lives like scenes from corny American sitcoms. Arthur had always loathed those shows, they built up unrealistic expectations of adult life, not that he had ever expected much. From his pocket there was a buzz and he pulled out his phone to see a picture message from Francis that showed dinner in the oven with text underneath reading, "Guess what Alfred just taught me". A smiled tugged at the corners of his lips on reading the technophobe's message as another picture came through, this time of Francis and Alfred together, beaming into the camera, with a rather confused looking Matthew in the background. At this, a laugh escaped him, and he saved the picture. He gazed down at the endearingly goofy smiles for a while before he replied, "Looks great," and turned off the cracked screen.
To the left of him the seat remained empty while to the right sat his mirrored image, floating in a parallel world behind the glass. Catching the tail end of a smile on his reflections lips, he observed as his own face dropped, settling on complete deadpan, the lack of light behind his eyes no longer startling. He looked away, eyes fixed on the road ahead, void of motion this time on a Sunday, only the occasional yellow flash of a headlight speeding towards him which was soon lost to his periphery.
From the floor below came a raucous of voices as the bus stopped to let on, what Arthur assumed was, a group of boys, teenagers. They clamoured up the stairs, with more noise than was strictly necessary, and occupied the back row, leaning over the backs of seats to talk and laugh amongst themselves. In spite of the fact that he may have seemed the type to complain about that kind of thing, Arthur didn't mind, feeling even the slightest bit nostalgic. Everyone was young once, after all, and he was no exception, not that he ever went out with friends or really had many to start with but the memory of carefree youth itself was pleasant enough. He watched them, subtly, in the shine of the front window. Their smiles, so genuine, almost painful to reflect on when he wondered if his own had ever looked that way. Trying to eavesdrop only made him feel old, barely able to understand the nonsensical slang that could have been a different language for all he knew.
Almost so distracted that he missed his stop, he jumped up just in time to slide between the closing doors and escape out into the open. Stumbling over the curb before righting himself, Arthur sped down the road and to the welcoming lights of his home. The sound of conversation could be heard through the open kitchen window from the driveway and an easy laugh drifted through.
"You're letting the heat out," he criticised on entering as he pulled the panel closed.
"Afternoon to you too," his partner replied in a semi sarcastic drawl, in too much of a good mood to be brought down by his lover's nagging.
"I'm just saying, you complain that the house is always cold," Arthur continued, allowing a chaste kiss on the lips before he went back to the hall to take off his coat.
"Sorry, Artie, that was me. My glasses were fogging up," Alfred took the blame as he came through from the living room with Matthew just behind.
Met with those sky coloured eyes, always so alive and untroubled, Arthur's mood lightened slightly, and he smiled in greeting. "How are you two?" he asked, looking at each in turn.
As usual, it was Alfred who responded first, groaning theatrically. "Ugh, I'm so sore. Coach has us running a mile extra a day in preparation for try outs, the man's nuts."
"Well if you want to do well you need to show you're dedicated," he added a look to get his point across then directed his attention to the quieter twin, "How about you, Matty?"
"Oh, yeah, pretty good, you know," the younger boy nodded and nudged his glasses further up the bridge of his slim nose only for them to fall back down, as they perpetually did due to the sloping angle at which he held his head.
"Will someone give me a hand with this?" Francis requested from the stove.
Both the younger boys moved to meet the call for help, but Arthur stopped them. "It's alright, I'll do it," he insisted, going through before they had a chance to disagree.
Francis gestured to the cutlery draw as he entered and, after living together for so long, he knew this as the signal to help set the table. He laid out the plates and silverware in time for a steaming pot to be placed in the centre of the table, the smell of it luring the rest of the house form the other room.
"Smells amazing," Alfred complimented, taking a seat.
"Merci, mon petit," the Frenchman brought out several smaller dishes of various sides then seated himself, "Bon appetit."
Wondering how Francis had the time to manage something like this, Arthur helped himself to what he found appealing, as did the others and they began to converse about their weeks, despite having seen each other only two days prior. There was little new information to be shared but no one minded, just happy to be in the company of people who cared what they had to say.
"So, what are you guys going as this weekend?" Alfred asked around a mouth full of potatoes, "I've already got my costume ready and its bomb ass."
"I am sure I can pull something from the back of the wardrobe," Francis thought aloud.
Waiting for someone to elaborate it became apparent that, yet again, Arthur was the only one out of the loop. "Costume?" he ventured.
"Gilbert's, it's a costume party," Matthew explained, "Halloween is soon so he decided to make it seasonal, I guess."
"For God's sake," the older man sighed. There were few things worse he could have thought of.
"Come on, man, don't be a stick in the mud," the most vocal of the group chastised.
"It is just a bit of fun," Francis backed him up with a gentle smile to which Arthur rolled his eyes.
"I don't even know if I'll go but you can all enjoy yourselves," he muttered, wanting the subject to be dropped so that he wasn't peer pressured into going, as he usually was.
"But you have too," Alfred whined, pulling his most endearing face, "You never do anything fun anymore, Artie. When did you get so boring?"
"When I became an adult," was Arthur's impassive answer, remaining unswayed.
"You're just worried you'll lose to me in the costume contest," Alfred smirked jokingly, "Old man."
Shaking his head, the eldest of the Kirkland siblings breathed a sigh of a laugh. "That would be the reason," he humoured.
By the time they had finished, the trials and tribulations of every person's week had been discussed, some in more detail than others. As the group began to pile plates atop one another, Alfred snorted at Arthur's contribution to the stack.
"What are you, anorexic or something?" he drew attention to the considerable amount of food still left on Arthur's plate.
"Don't say things like that, Alfred," the other frowned and quickly took the plates to the sink where they could no longer be scrutinised.
Frowning back, the younger man persisted, "You barely ate anything though."
"Well, some of us don't like to continually shove food down our throats," Arthur deflected, somewhat more violently than he had meant to.
"Jeez, okay then. I was only saying," Alfred backed away both figuratively and literally as he left to go across the hall.
The other two occupants of the room remained quiet, sharing concerned looks which flicked to Arthur once Alfred had gone. Catching both pairs of eyes, the Englishman turned away, keeping his attention on the sink of plates as though that would shield him from the silent conversation that was happening behind him. He could feel the back of his neck burn out of awkwardness but said nothing and, eventually, two sets of footsteps moved away into the other room. Staying there a while, staring at the dishes rather than doing them, Arthur listened to the conversation from across the hall and, for some reason, as he stood alone, he couldn't help but feel his presence wasn't missed. It was a strange sensation to have such a weight of melancholy descend, seemingly, from nowhere but impossible to stop thinking about once it was there. The longer he stayed, the more he felt that his being there was of little significance to anyone other than himself. Perhaps he was being selfish.
An exaggerated screech of hysterics caught his attention and, momentarily, prevented him from slipping further into the pit he had begun to dig for himself. Afraid of what might come to mind if he stayed by himself any longer, he ventured over to find the rest of his family in various stages of amusement, Francis near doubled over and gasping for breath.
"What's so funny?" he asked, eager to be let in on the joke.
"We were just talking about something that happened at football, don't worry about it," Alfred brushed off with a wave of his hand, "You wouldn't find it funny."
His heart sinking slightly, Arthur made no visible reaction and went to sit in the free seat beside Matthew.
Wiping his eyes, Francis sniffed and righted himself, his laughs petering away. "Mon cherie, you make me laugh," he chuckled with a sigh.
"Speaking of football, is there any news from Ohio yet?" Arthur forced himself into the discussion, thinking nothing would come from it.
Instantly, Alfred sat forward in his seat in a way that indicated something important. "Yeah, actually I heard from them this morning," he started, "I got a call saying tryouts are just before Christmas while school is out."
"That's convenient," the other commented, "You'll be back by the 25th, I'm guessing?" his tone slightly hopeful as he struggled to keep his desperation from coming through.
"Uh, well not exactly," the younger man disappointed with his answer, "You see, I called Paul and Linda to say I'd visit them while I was out there, and they asked if I wanted to stay with them over the holidays and, since plane tickets are so expensive around that time of year, I thought what the hell?" he elaborated with an easy smile. "I mean, if I might be staying there for a whole year it would probably be smart to try to get a feel for it, right?"
Just over a year ago, the couple Alfred spoke of had reached out to him over the internet claiming to be his and Mathew's birth parents. It had come quite out of the blue and, of course, most of the family had been sceptical. However, Alfred had insisted on giving them a chance and Matthew, being the open-minded soul he was, had agreed to go along with it and so they began the process of getting to know the parents who had abandoned them almost two decades ago.
Before they had become a part of the Kirkland household they had lived just down the street from Arthur with their Grandmother, who turned out to be the mother of their biological father. Even as the couple explained, teary eyed over Skype, that they had done what they felt right at the time by leaving them with another family member, Arthur wasn't buying it. There had been no phone numbers or addresses left with the elderly woman, no way to reach them. It was only by pure luck that Alice had been close with the boy's Grandmother as she would often go to help her now that she was beyond the point of properly looking after herself, let alone two young children. If it weren't for her taking them in after the old woman died they would have been left to the care system and, no matter how sincerely the American's apologised, there was something not quite right with the situation. But, as expected, all was immediately forgiven, and years of heartache seemed to be forgotten in an instant. The boys had spent two weeks with them over the summer in Michigan and came back with endless stories, half of which were rather implausible, that Alfred had enthused over for weeks. Yet, as nice a people as they came across, Arthur would never trust them, not that he would admit to that.
"Oh," the sound passed Arthur's lips almost silently and without permission, dismay tugging at his chest.
"Amour, we will miss you!" Francis cried dramatically, "You must call us every day, especially on Christmas."
Laughing, Alfred shook his head. "Would you stop? It's only a couple of weeks, I'm not dying."
"Who will eat my leftovers?" the Frenchman continued to wail jokingly as Alfred rolled his eyes at his surrogate brother's theatrics.
"Arthur?" a quiet voice from beside the man in question spoke up, "Are you alright?"
Concerned, blue eyes watched him from behind their frames and Arthur blinked back before stating a quick, "Fine."
"I didn't think you'd mind," the older twin directed his attention towards his brother again, breaking the quiet moment between him and Matthew.
"Of course not," Arthur replied without missing a beat.
As one bespectacled gaze smiled and looked away, another intensified in its scrutiny. Matthew watched his older brother, observed him as a scientist might their test subject with an expression only he knew the meaning behind.
"Christmas in the States, that sounds exciting, non?" Francis mused.
"Yeah, I'm pretty psyched. Might actually get a real, traditional meal out of it, too," Alfred chuckled easily at his own comment.
Gripping his chest, Francis made an exaggerated hiss of pain. "Why do you insist on hurting me so?" he despaired.
"Your food is great, don't get me wrong," Alfred backtracked with a well meant smile, "but you always do that gourmet stuff, not like mom used to. Not that she was exactly a great chef," he added as an afterthought.
"You shouldn't speak ill of the dead, Alfred," Arthur immediately cut in at even the slightest hint of slander towards the sainted woman.
"I'm only joking, don't get you knickers in a twist" the other imitated in a horrendous English accent, "To be honest, Christmas wasn't going to be the same this year anyway, with the house and all," he admitted what everyone had thought at some point after the moving.
While the others nodded, Arthur mumbled, more sarcastically than could be taken as a joke, "I'm sure going half way around the world will fix that."
He had expected the comment to go unaddressed, however, he glanced up to find he was being stared at with uncharacteristic seriousness.
"Do you have a problem with me going?" Alfred asked plainly, his lips in a straight line as he waited for an actual response.
A tense silence descended, the room surprised by the change in attitude, no one knowing how to act.
Caught off guard, Arthur frowned in confusion. "No," he deceived too easily.
Raising an eyebrow, the younger man reiterated, "You sure about that?"
Scoffing at the question, Arthur forced nonchalance as though his whole family staring him down wasn't unnerving. "Yes, I'm sure," he faked, "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."
"Oh my God, do you actually believe that?" Alfred disbelievingly laughed, furrowing his brow slightly.
"Alfred, don't," the soft tone of the younger twin spoke but was ignored.
"Excuse me?" Arthur questioned, not asking but giving him a chance to change what he had said.
"Don't do that to me, Arthur, we both know you never actually say what you're thinking," Alfred called him out, leaving the older man at a loss for words.
Stuttering a little before anything made it past his lips, Arthur could only deny the allegations being so unexpectedly thrown at him.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"See!" the excitable American stood, eyes wide and exasperated, "You're doing it right now! You hint that there's something wrong then you deny it and then when I do whatever it is that you don't want me to do you get all judgmental like I should have knowns better when you told me it was fine!"
Again, Matthew's desperate attempt of avoiding conflict was unheard, "Guys, please don't fight."
"I don't do that," Arthur's stiff tone sounded, strained as lying became harder when the truth had been so eloquently laid out in front of him.
"Yes, you do. All the time. It drives me insane!"
"I wouldn't do that," shaking his head, the older man surveyed the room, gaze landing on his partner for some word of support.
Quiet for too long then Francis confessed, "You do not exactly speak your mind."
Betrayal evident on his face, Arthur stared, mortified, at the one person he would have thought he could rely on.
"Thank you!" Alfred exclaimed, justified, "I'm not going crazy."
There was a pause as he looked to his brother, his own, vindicated expression dropping on seeing the hurt on the other's face.
"Arthur…" he began, guilt in his voice, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel bad, I was only saying-"
"It's fine," Arthur cut through his apology, the brief expression of his real emotion quickly covered up, "I'm not telling you what to do, you can do what you like."
Alfred watched him, and he stared back. The way his eyes flitted between the forcefully composed green ones made it seem as though he may say something, confront him again, but, with a deep, nasal exhale, he relented. He knew he was right, anyone who had ever met Arthur would agree with him, but the irony of the situation was that it was because he was right that he could do nothing. Arthur would never admit to what he was accused of and that left them none the better.
"I have a lecture in the morning," the younger man turned his attention to the carpet, "we'd better go."
"Get home safely," Francis bid his goodbye and he and Matthew both stood slowly, like they were afraid of scaring the pair, and the group walked its youngest members to the hall.
Stopping in the doorway, Alfred sent a remorseful glance back to the man that lingered in the shadow of the unlit lounge, eyes directed at the floor. "See you guys soon," he ventured.
Gaze lifting from the ground momentarily, Arthur flashed a strained smile but said nothing.
Matthew followed his brother out the door, stopping on the front step to give an apologetic look to both his former guardians, Francis giving him a wry smile in return, Arthur having already gone back into the living room.
The older man stayed watching the two boys make their way down the street, their breath visibly trailing behind them like steam engines across the moors, and didn't close out the cold until they turned the corner.
Finally closing and bolting the door for the night, Francis sighed, running a hand through his hair and considering what to do before facing his partner. He, himself, wasn't sure how to feel at how the night had ended but was certainly becoming exasperated with Arthur's aloof demeanour. Wanting answers, he went through to get some.
"What was that about?" he asked, walking in on the other who sat, eyes glazed over as he stared into nothingness, in the darkened room.
"You tell me," he muttered, "you seemed to agree with him."
Francis folded his arms and raised an eyebrow, his tone low and sober. "Are you mad at me?"
Still looking elsewhere, Arthur bit his inner lip. "No," he seethed.
"Arthur, would you stop!" Francis couldn't help himself from snapping as the same argument started over again, "You are only proving his point. If you are mad at me then tell me you are mad and be done with it!"
"Why do you always side with him?" the other growled, making eye contact, his glare dark, twisted even.
The sight of it startled the older man, causing hesitation before he countered. "I do not always side with him," he tried to defend.
"You do, and you know you do," Arthur prosecuted, rising and coming closer, "Whatever the situation, you're always the first one to agree with him."
"What is so wrong with showing him some support occasionally?" Francis shrugged, gesturing his hands in front of him.
Raising a bushy eyebrow, the shorter man narrowed his eyes upwards. "You say that like I don't," he inferred.
"Well, you can be rather harsh at times," Francis didn't back down.
"Do you not think he needs it?" the man in question's older brother asked rhetorically, "Let's both try telling him he's always right and see how that goes." His sardonic sneer was biting, the worst of him coming out in his anger.
A frown scored the forehead of the other as he shook his head, confused now that the scorn had been turned onto him, too easily for there not to be an underlying problem. "Why are you trying to turn this into something against me?"
"Because, apparently, that's how you want it to be. You and him making me the bad guy," Arthur would have none of his lover's victimised mind frame, supressed frustration making him calloused.
"You think I am trying to turn him against you?" Francis construed, somewhat disbelievingly.
"Don't be stupid, of course not!" the other seemed to be frazzled as he pushed past him to pace a few steps in the hallway. "I'm just saying that it doesn't help when you're constantly undermining me," he contradicted himself, "What kind of message does that send?"
Increasingly confused, Francis stood in his path to stop his erratic movements. "Stop talking like we are their parents, you are their brother!" he forcefully reminded.
"I'm not just their brother, though, am I?" Arthur raised his voice, not shouting but enough that his boiling temper was unleashed, "Not since mum died and I suddenly had to be some impossible mix of their brother and their parent and I know I did a shit job with it, but no one ever said you had to stay!"
Mouth agape, the Frenchman shook his head, completely taken aback by the escalation. "I do not even know what it is you are angry about!"
"I'm angry because I'm constantly being shit on!"
Whatever the original argument had been it was left behind but, even though Arthur knew he had gone too far, something in him wanted to keep going. It had been a long time since he'd felt such a fire beneath him and he was afraid what he might feel once it went out, not even thinking of the damage that may be done as a result.
"This is more than just what I did then," folding his arms, Francis' voice took on a righteous edge, "Are you taking out some pent-up work frustration on me because I am the closest?"
A snarl curling the other's lips, he hissed, "I am taking out my frustration with you on you!"
"Well, quite frankly, I do not think I deserve it!" the older man challenged, "I do not know what has been going on with you lately, but I am sick of the way it makes you treat me!"
"How's that then!" Arthur wasn't shaken by the rare display of genuine anger.
"Like I am not important to you anymore!" his voice cracking as he let his feelings of the last few weeks spill free, Francis implored, earnestly, with pleading eyes for some kind of an explanation.
A moment of clarity seemed to pierce Arthur's red tinted vision as he saw the first inklings of a real, meaningful topic infiltrate the trivial fight. Blinking at the face, on the verge of tears, inches from his own he was confronted with what he was capable of and it made him loath himself.
"For fuck sake stop!" panic seared his tone, just wanting to end what he had caused, terrified of how it would end, "I'm not having this argument with you!"
"So, you admit there is something there to argue about," Francis, equally as distraught, urged to go on.
He reached out his arms to the smaller man who had begun to back away, shaking his head in denial of what was beneath the exterior of their relationship now that the surface had been scratched.
"Tu es tellement têtu c'est impossible, will you just speak to me?" he beseeched as he grasped the other's shoulders, close to literally trying to shake some sense into him.
"I said shut up, Francis! Shut up!" what little composure the other may still have maintained shattered as he screamed, shaking the gentle grip off and speeding up the stairs where the slamming of the bathroom door abruptly ended the scene. He didn't know how else he had expected things to end but, still, Francis felt that chilling emptiness creep in at knowing it would go unresolved for the night.
Perched on he rim of the bath, slumped over with his head in his hands, Arthur listened to the stairs creak as the weight of a person bent the old, bare boards. A solid form darkened the slat of light from beneath the door and, shortly after, came a quiet rapping on the wood.
"Arthur," his name was called softly from the other side.
Chewing his lip, he waited, hoping the other would go away but knowing he wouldn't without a reply.
"Amour," the voice outside changed its tactic.
"Piss off," Arthur half-heartedly bit.
"I am sorry," Francis began a dolorous attempt to right the evening, "things got heated, I admit, and I should not have acted like that, but I just want to talk to you abou-" the begging man didn't care that he sounded desperate.
"Fuck off, Francis," Arthur interrupted him, "before I say something you won't like."
It was an empty threat, he wanted almost nothing less than to cause more pain. The only thing he dreaded worse was to attempt to express feelings even he didn't understand.
Francis leaned his forehead against the door outside, fingers lingering over the knob that he knew to be locked. Defeated, he stood back, waiting a final minute for something else to come from the sealed room but, as expected, there was not a word.
Light from the hall permeated the crack under the door again as the body outside retreated. Steps descending the stairs could be heard, just another stab as Arthur realised his partner was going to sleep on the couch so that he could use the bed, his kindness only a twist of the knife he had used to stab himself.
He waited a while longer, picking at his nails, and felt the sting of tears which he sniffed back, screwing his eyes shut, until, eventually, he unlatched the door to let himself out. Stepping onto the landing he glanced down the stairs to see the lights off, meaning Francis was most likely asleep, and went to the empty bedroom. Anger had used what little energy he had and the hollowness in his chest willed sleep to come faster, as though his body's defence mechanism to such strong emotion was to force it away with the sweet release of unconsciousness.
Francis heard the other moving upstairs as he stared at the ceiling, salty drops trickling from the corners of his eyes, down his temples, falling into his hair. They had fought countless times through their years together, over everything from whose turn it was to vacuum to what school the boys should go to, but nothing had ever felt quite so dangerous before. There were deeper problems lurking not far beneath the skin and it frightened Francis. While he wanted to excavate them, from the way Arthur had reacted to his probing, he feared that once he started digging he may find himself in a hole too deep to get out of. Yet, at the same time, if nothing was done the damage may become irreparable. He wasn't sure which was worse.
I hate this chapter and I can't do pacing, sorry. Review and follow if you enjoyed. Thanks.