Phone heavy as lead, thumb hovering over the number pad, Arthur looked at the copied down number in his other hand. It was a new one, as it was every time, and he didn't bother to add it to his contacts list after typing it out. One last button to press and the call would be connected but his resolve wavered, and he dropped the phone onto his desk, raising both hands to rub his face and moan softly into them.
He really didn't want to do what he was about to, a feeling that made itself very much known in the pit of his stomach. A visceral wrongness about the situation twisted his insides, not in the same way that apprehension might but more akin to dread. Foreboding, perhaps. The same uneasiness he got whenever he grew too attached to a character in a book, knowing that meant they were probably not long for the story, the same dire pang he had felt whenever he got a call from his mother's doctor asking for a private meeting.
Chewing his bottom lip as he stared, unseeing in his deep contemplation, at the broken screen, he sighed and swallowed his anxieties, reaching out to grab the phone. Without looking, he hit the call button and raised it to his ear, leg bouncing in place as the other end rung.
By the fourth tone, he was beginning to think, with a glimmer of hope, that it was a wrong number and the whole ordeal might be avoided out of no fault of his own, but he had jumped to conclusions too soon. The fifth ring was cut off with a click and the sound of a thickly accented voice caused his thudding heart to sink.
"Hello?" it croaked with the distinct mumble of someone half asleep.
"What did you want, then?" Arthur got straight to the point, wanting the conversation to be over with.
A pause down the line, shifting sheets and a grunt before the other spoke confusedly.
"You called me," he seemed in no state to understand what was going on and Arthur had to move the phone away from his face to take a calming breath in order to carry on.
"You told me to," he reminded him, an edge to his tone, "It's Arthur."
He could sense the frown on the other's brow as radio silence showed Alistair struggled to recall his own actions.
"Shit, right, fuck," he blasphemed in realisation, "I sent that card a month ago, I thought you hadn't got it."
"Well, I did, and I'd like to know what this is about," Arthur was short with his words, no patience for the other's sluggishness.
"Aye, alright, calm down," Alistair brusquely propitiated, the sound of more movement followed by a hacking cough that caused Arthur's lip to curl, almost able to smell the alcohol that perpetually seemed to be on his breath, "It's about dad."
Rolling his eyes at the obvious statement, Arthur tried to hurry them along. "Yes, I assumed as much, what about him?"
"He got arrested."
He said nothing more, as though this were sufficient information.
"Okay? Are you…expecting me to do something about that?" Arthur's irritation mounted.
"As if you would," the other scoffed.
"What then?" the younger man had to keep from sniping too loudly as someone passed by outside his office.
"Look, I don't know why, but he was in your area when he decided to try and steal a car. He's going to court after Christmas," Alistair grew defensive, "I'm coming down to be there, that's all I wanted to tell you."
"Wha-why was he in London?" Arthur reactively asked despite what the other had said.
"I told you, I don't know," the older man reiterated with increased stress.
Looking to wrap things up, Arthur moved on.
"Fine, was that it?" he pressed.
A derisive laugh came down the line as Alistair spoke with sneering condescension, both men having had enough of one another's company.
"Aye, that was all, so you can get back to putting that stick up your a-"
Arthur hung up and put the phone screen side down on the table with more force that was necessary. A breath drained him as he slumped in his seat, head falling back against the headrest, eyes closed. While the content of the conversation didn't faze nor startle him, the act of speaking to the other seemed to have quickly taken the little he had been willing to give and the idea of going on with his day made him want to curl up in bed all the more.
However, he remembered with some relief that it was his last day of work until after boxing day as he had managed to book time off a few months prior. What he was planning to do in that time, he still wasn't sure. They had never solidified any plans with Matthew, although it was assumed they would be spending Christmas day together, and there still seemed to be no date of when they would be seeing the rest of their friends, but Arthur didn't mind. He was happy to simply be left in peace.
Having been so productive of late, the usual seasonal tsunami of projects he would have normally had the pleasure of dealing with was absent, and the day remained relatively stress free. For him it was, at least, as he found quite a different picture when he left his office that afternoon, the rest of the floor consumed by utter carnage. Panicked faces stood in line at photocopiers and the strained beeping of the printer grew hoarse from overuse.
Weaving around the flurry of bodies that darted back and forth between cubicles, Arthur made a conscious effort not to look them in the eyes for fear of being asked to help out and managed to make his way unhindered to the lift. He made his way down, stopping one story short of the ground level where he got out just in time to miss the person he had come to find.
Erika made her way through a door at the far end of the room alongside a man, both of them looking equally as overworked and dishevelled. Rather than chasing her down, though, he made his way over the mail units in the corner. Searching the rows of shelf like slots for her name, he found the corresponding compartment, decorated with several glittery stickers of rainbows and love hearts, and left the Christmas card he had bought for her inside. A small gesture but one he was sure she would appreciate, one that she undoubtedly deserved.
His business on the unfamiliar floor concluded, he made his way back to the lifts through the disarray that seemed universal throughout the building, eager to be away from the mess. Surprisingly he had never worked that floor as an intern, joining the company at a regular desk position before being promoted to his current role after two years of working there, and looking back on the down-trodden faces that occupied the space, he was glad.
Doors opening on the foyer, bare of any decoration save the sprinkling of tinsel along the top of the reception desk, he walked out into the saturating mist that drifted heavily from the sky. The streets were yet to hit capacity, but several early commuters waited under the shelter of the bus stop with him and hurried onto the first one the came along, wanting to be out of the miserable weather. Not that it was a lot more pleasant on the bus, the seats and floor moist with the wetness brought in on people's clothes and the windows steamed over.
Wiping the condensation from the pane with his sleeve, Arthur peered down at the pavement from the top floor as the bus pulled away. It seemed the whole world was in a rush as people bustled between shops on the high street, most likely attempting to complete that last-minute gift shopping, heads down and umbrellas up. Luckily for Arthur, his other half had completed the last of the seasonal shopping back in November and he himself did all of his buying online, so he was spared the crush.
His breath quickly caused the window to steam over again and he left it, none too interested in the dark, wet streets below. Instead he flicked through various, unused social media accounts, seeing that Alfred had uploaded some pictures of himself at different locations: on a football field, with his teammates, wearing the university jersey. He liked the photos but neglected to comment, not knowing what to say, and savoured the sight of the sunny face until he got off the bus.
Still a way off from the office he was slowly making his way towards, he ducked into one of the shops that bookended the road, a pet shop where he intended to get a few things that Queenie could amuse herself with. Getting briefly distracted by the array of colourful fish that swum in in glimmering clusters, he went further in to browse the selection. Picking up some fluffy, jingling, mouse shaped things as well as some treats, he payed and was back out into the dank air.
Walking the quickest route he knew despite the fact the gutters along it were overflowing and cars frequently missed them by a hair, he managed to reach the glowing doorway still relatively dry. He paused before going in, taking a moment to spruce up his reflection mirrored in the dented, metal post box. Although his sense of confidence had never really been linked with his outward appearance, he found it helped him to be at least hallway presentable.
He swept his choppy fringe back and straightened out his shirt, the crumpled material hanging loosely over his body. The metal surface in which he examined himself showed back a distorted image, his face concaved and blurry from the grain of the manmade substance, and he met the steely tinged eyes only briefly before stepping away. Smoothing his collar down as he turned to the door, welcoming the blast of heat that erupted from inside the toasty building as he entered.
The suspense of sitting in that waiting room was something he was sure he would never be at ease with as he urged along the minutes until he was no longer on public display. As sure as his more rational side was that no one he knew would come in and see him there, the paranoia was persistent. He pictured Antonio, Ludwig, maybe Alistair appearing in the doorway, meeting his eye with shock and amusement before he melted into a puddle of sheer humiliation.
Not that he had anything to be humiliated about. It wasn't the 1700s anymore, therapy was a highly respected practice that plenty of people sought help from. Matthew was studying it, for God's sake, how would he have felt to know that his own brother was embarrassed to be associated with it, Arthur realised with some remorse. For someone who liked to consider himself a fairly open minded individual, he had to admit his own views were rather contradictory at times.
But it was the implication of it that he couldn't gouge from his brain. The stigma that came with it all, that a person was incapable or crazy or attention seeking. Things no one thought of him, things he would never think of another yet, nonetheless, that he thought firmly of himself. There was no reason that he should seeing as he had gone following the advice that numerous loved ones had given him, but he did. Because he hated himself.
Mind whirring as Tino opened the door to greet him, Arthur did his best to quell the tempest of concerns that swirled within him and went through to his regular seat. His bag made a jingling noise that he hoped the other hadn't heard as he set it down and engaged with routine pleasantries, watching the smaller man come to sit opposite him.
"So, how is your week going?" he started off, already prepared with his writing tools, "You told me before you left last time that you were about to see your brother off, am I right?"
Arthur was caught by the abruptness of the question, having been expecting the regular small talk to guide them in, and glanced across the space between them to see he was being studied intensely.
"Um, yes we took him to the airport on Sunday," he went along with the topic.
"How did that go?" the other's tone was still light and pleasant, but he neglected to jot down any notes from what they were saying as he usually might have done, lilac hued eyes stuck fast on his subject's face.
Suspicious of the force with which he was being watched, Arthur tried to look elsewhere but found his gaze drawn back again.
"It was alright," he glossed over the event, "I'm not overly fond of airports but we had no problems."
"That's good," Tino acknowledged, nodding slowly, "How about the rest of the week? Do you notice his absence much?"
His line of fire was notably more direct than normal, as though he were looking for straight yes or no answers.
"I do, in a way," Arthur was guardedly honest, "but it's not so bad, really. I speak to him every day."
Tapping his pen against his lower lip as he listened, Tino leant forward in his seat, elbow balanced on the knee of his crossed legs.
"How about work then?" he probed a different area, expression unchanging.
Arthur's already uncomfortable frame had stiffened subconsciously in response to his stance and he had to stop himself from actively edging away.
"It's been easier," he, again, told the basic truth without filling in any impactful details, "I have almost a week off now."
"Good," the smaller man repeated with a hint less enthusiasm than the first time, "Anything you plan to do with your time?"
"Well, Francis and I recently got a cat, I suppose I'll be spending time looking after her," Arthur eased up when talking about the frivolous topic, one without any deeper meaning that the other could delve into, "and we'll probably see some of our friends at some point."
"Was getting a pet your idea?" Tino took interest in the information, instantly putting his patient back on edge.
"No, it was Francis'. He surprised me," he explained.
The other hummed, nodding again. "Animals make very good support, you know," he informed thoughtfully, a brow quirked as though he expected something to come of his telling this.
"Oh, yes…I've heard," Arthur gave a stilted reply as he picked at a hangnail on his ring finger.
"Any other plans for the holidays?" Tino pressed on without missing a beat, "Seeing family? Going anywhere?"
"It'll just be Francis and I and the b- and, um, Matthew," Arthur inwardly cursed as he corrected himself.
He raised his hand to his mouth to bite on the flap of skin he'd been further ripping up, averting his gaze from the one which refused to budge across from him.
"It must be difficult to not have him around at this time of year," Tino's caring words went straight for the jugular as he almost seemed to be goading some kind of a reaction from his client.
Eyes flitting over then quickly back down to the carpet, Arthur tried to collect himself, lowering his hand and clearing his throat before he spoke.
"It's…not ideal but of course we'll make time to see him when he gets back," he attempted to ward off the notions the other was trying to implant in him, despite their already being engrained in his psyche.
Rolling his lips together, he pinched the dry skin between his teeth, still not looking directly at the man he sat with as he waited for something to be said.
However, silence hung heavy around them. A moment or two spent marinating in the deadness of the atmosphere and Arthur grew anxious, still biting at his mouth as he glanced up, curious as to what the pause was for.
An odd expression adorned the face of the other as he sat, leant forward over his lap, pen tapping against his chin, in contemplation. His attention was half set on Arthur, who watched him with unmaskable apprehension, thoughts clearly running behind his eyes.
With a sigh, he pulled himself upright, pushing himself back to cross his legs over the opposite way and clasp his interlaced hands over his knee, arms straight. He glanced to the side of himself then back at his patient, eyes levelled.
"Arthur, I really want to help you. I want to help everyone that comes to see me, that's my job and that is my purpose here," he eventually came out with, his voice lowered, phrasing deliberate, "But I can't do that if you're lying to me."
"I'm sorry?" Arthur blinked in shock, mouth agape.
The earnestness of his words and the softness of his face betrayed no hint of a lie as Tino continued.
"Well, perhaps not lying but you're not telling me the whole truth and I think you know that," his well-meant challenge landed a blow directly on the other's chest, hard, "I hate to do this this but there are certain things I know about you. Matthew used to speak about you and your family quite frequently and there are things I believe we should discuss but we can't unless you work with me."
Throat closing, blood pounded past Arthur's ears, his face burning as the edges of his vision blurred out. The room was thick with the festering sensation of claustrophobia, he was stuck fast within it, the master of the hellish domain waiting, ever sympathetic, for him to speak.
"I'm miserable," he surprised himself in saying, "and I don't know why."
He watched the other nod, his scrutiny relenting as something real was said.
"And you're here to work on that," he gently urged.
"Yes," Arthur's voice trailed off as he looked away, his composure leaving him.
But the admition was made, the feeling owned up to in front of a person that could maybe do something to help. No immediate sense of peace came to him, relief was far from his mind yet still a release of something deep inside, small but poignant, was evident. A key turned while the door had still to be opened. A contingent point on which he would make his next move in whichever direction he chose and although it could have been as easy to go back as to go forward, he supposed that things in motion tended to stay that way.
Therefore, when Tino suggested, "Perhaps we could start over. Try this all again but be a little more…open this time."
It hardly pained him at all to agree with a quiet, "That would be good."
Discarding his notepad, perhaps a sign of good faith, Tino smiled, subtly shifting the sternness from his brow, and relaxed his stance to rest against the arm of the sofa.
"I'm really happy to hear that," he clearly meant what he said, "Why not start now? Tell me, how do you feel?"
Far too broad a question for him to wrap his scattered head around, Arthur stuttered, failing to start, but the other continued, reassuring him.
"In this moment or in general, it doesn't matter, I only want you to be honest."
Mouth opening, in a hurry to prevent the quiet that paralyzed him, Arthur closed it again, allowing himself a moment to think.
"I don't know," he uttered, "I…try not to think about it."
"Which is it, though?" the other rebutted, causing him pause to which Tino pointed out, "What you said, both are quite different things. Not knowing means you have never considered it. Actively refusing to think about it says you know there is something there that you are not willing to deal with. Both are fine, but which is it?"
"I…" again Arthur took a moment to organise himself before he let anything loose into the world, the language needed to make himself understood escaping his tongue, "I suppose I choose not to…dwell on things where I can avoid it."
"It is a natural reaction," Tino mused, "A lot of people repress the things that hurt to think about. The question that brings up is how long have you been doing this for?"
A sad laugh blew from Arthur's nose, barely audible, as he cast his thoughts back, then back some more, trying to recall a time he had been open with his feelings, and came up blank.
"…Always," he said plainly, thinking not much of the fact until he felt the touch of pity from the other's gaze. "That is to say that telling people how I felt was just never something I thought to do," he revised, turning his eyeline away.
"I think there's more to it than that, Arthur," Tino pushed, "It may be true that your first instinct is not to talk to people about how you feel but to repress emotion is a learned reaction."
He wasn't sure if he liked being questioned the way that he was, but Arthur felt a certain security in being guided through the experience. It was no longer a case of being tossed head first into murky waters, as it had seemed when he first entered that room, but more a stroll along the river bank. A turbulent river for sure, but the water was clear and the ground beneath him was solid. Still, the kinks he saw ahead were worrisome.
Filling his lungs to exhale his words as he shifted uncomfortably, he went back to focusing on the irritated skin around his nails.
"I just don't like people worrying about me," he confessed.
"Why is that?"
Arthur couldn't see what he was doing but was sure there was some empathic expression waiting for him.
"They have their own problems to worry about."
"And you don't want them to waste their time thinking about you?" the smaller man purposefully worded the query to reflect Arthur's own views of himself and succeeded in getting the introspective reaction he had wanted.
"Yeah," Arthur almost whispered, receding further into his own thoughts.
"What could they have to think about that's more important than a person they care about?" Tino asked of him only semi-rhetorically.
Expected to answer, Arthur shrugged lightly. "Themselves," he replied.
"You worry about other people," Tino was quick to highlight his hypocrisy, "and you seem to have very little regard for yourself. Why are you different?"
Arthur's own outlook made no sense, of course, but even when confronted by the concrete logic of the other's argument he still felt the need to defend his flawed reasoning.
"They have more important things to worry about," the increasingly insecure man reiterated.
"So, it's your job to worry about them while no one worries about you," Tino laid out for him once more, his own words being used to counteract themselves.
A headiness seeping in, Arthur couldn't resist the urge to cling to the mindset he had leant upon for so many years. For as long as he'd had people to worry about. However, it was slipping through his fingers, disintegrating the more they spoke about it, Tino's words slicing through it with ease.
"In a way," he still tried to hold on, to force the tattered shreds of thinking back together yet somehow the pieces wouldn't fit.
"But why?" seemed to be all that Tino was interested in, his flaxen head cocked to one side.
"Because I'm their older brother," Arthur subconsciously related the situation to the people he worried over the most, having seen their faces in the back of his head the entire time. Their smiling mouths hovered there, in the ether of his mind, as he tried to reword it, but nothing came out.
"Is that how you see yourself, Arthur?" the other addressed him by name to bring him back into the room as his eyes grew hazy, "A brother, guardian, the one who is responsible?"
"I have to be," Arthur spoke disconnectedly, forehead beginning to furrow with the effort it took to stay present.
"Have to?" a voice echoed from somewhere far across the room, the space between them expanding by the second.
"I want to," he corrected himself, mentally scolding himself for making it appear as though caring for his family were some sort of chore, "It's just, when my mum died, I had to, but I want to. Of course, I want to."
"What are you outside of that, can I ask?" the voice came to him again, fainter still.
"Outside?" he restated.
He wished he was outside; the room had run out of air. The lack of oxygen had caused his light headedness to worsen and dark patches floated before his eyes. In his head, the faces still watched him, as did the other person he sat with who was simultaneously a mile away and close enough to smell. A dainty fragrance, of clean sheets and fresh air.
"Arthur."
At the sound of his name he raised his gaze from where he had been focused unblinking on the carpet. Thoughts incoherently buzzed through his mind, playing on a muffled loop as he waited for the other to speak, unable to do so himself.
"Are you still with me?" Tino checked, looking between the glassy, green eyes.
"Yes," Arthur's own words were distant to his ears.
The concern displayed upon the professional's face was palpable as he moved forward in his seat again, hands clasped as though beseeching his patient. His hunched position mirroring that of the other man's, Tino manoeuvred to ensure that his eye contact was unavoidable.
"Arthur, may I share my opinion with you?" he requested calmly.
Apprehensive of what that opinion might be, Arthur agreed, nonetheless, with an unsure, "Alright."
Taking a breath before he began, the solemnity in his eyes told Arthur that what was to be said was irreversible.
"I believe you are holding on to a lot of things which you have never properly dealt with and that they are preventing you from moving forward in life," he proposed, kindly expression shifting subtly with his words, "You relate yourself and self-worth to how well you fulfil certain roles, giving yourself standards too high to ever live up to despite the fact nobody expects that of you."
Arthur couldn't tell if it was the sentiment or the way it was said that compelled him to stay quiet but either way, he found himself incapacitated. A sombre trance gripped him, forced him to listen and listen only, the whole of his being absorbing what was said as though his body were porous. The words were cold as they sunk in, shards of ice that settled in his core and wouldn't melt, lodging there.
"For example, you stay in a job that you find unsatisfying because you have become so accustomed to the role of provider, yet your brothers don't live with you anymore and, from what you have told me, Francis could support the both of you. So, you have every reason to leave but you don't because you would feel as though you were not doing what you are meant to," Tino went on spewing frozen daggers.
It was as though he could feel himself dematerialising. Just as it had to his thoughts earlier, the plain truth cut through Arthur, severing him limb from limb, mind from body, until nothing but a husk in his form remained. Although that was what he had been all along, he supposed. Nothing but a front of nonsensical justifications, the person under it all having been smothered years ago.
"These arbitrary roles you have given yourself are all you see yourself as since they are what you had to be for so long but now that it isn't' necessary and so you feel, perhaps, that you have no place to fit in."
The man across from him paused, granting him a moment to process it all, and in the silence of the room Arthur was sure the sound of himself shattering would deafen them both.
He was nothing, a non-human, he knew as much, but being told directly to his face was something else.
"It is common in people who have been forced to act maturely at a young age," Tino speculated, his posture straightening out as he gestured vaguely, "The lack of responsibility is equated to a lack of purpose or worth. But that is not the case."
Breath catching in the back of his throat, Arthur struggled to take in air, having to force it through his lungs. The bridge of his nose aching with the pressure that built behind his eyes, his downturned gaze flicked up to the consoling face across the table then directed itself to his lap.
"Are you alright, Arthur?" Tino turned his head to study the other's face despite his trying to hide it and Arthur could see him out of the corner of his vision.
He regretted cutting his hair, missing the way it would flop over his face to shield him from looks like the one he was being given. Unable to avoid it now, though, he gave up on trying to avoid it.
"I just wanted to take care of them," weakness permeated his voice but there was no judgement for it to be found in the other's expression.
"You did," Tino assured, "And now you can worry about yourself."
Finding himself hesitant to believe what he was told, Arthur looked between the smaller man's rounded features, imploring with his eyes as though asking for permission to feel the way he did.
The benign face of the other replied with encouragement, the corners of his lips turned slightly upward, coaxing him to try out the new sensation he was experiencing. Telling him to accept the acceptance.
"I understand how hard it is to move on from things that are so completely life changing but being stuck in a situation that hurts you is surely worse," Tino rationalized, "I only tell you all of this because I think it will help."
Biting at his inner cheek, Arthur nodded. "Of course," he assented.
Mimicking the action of his client's head, Tino checked his watch.
"We have another five minutes, but I think maybe you want to go and…think it all over a little," he sensed he would get no more from the man that disassociated before his eyes.
Stuck somewhere in between a state of hyper self-analysis and mental static, Arthur bobbed his head again, lingering a beat before he moved to stand. Doing so, his body clunking to life like an outdated machine, he reached for his bag and headed to the door, his exit interjected by the man that stood behind him.
"You should be happy with what you did today," he congratulated, causing Arthur to cast his eyes back over his shoulder, "I know you aren't finding this easy, but you did very well just now."
Restraining the cringe he could feel trying to break through, the taller man simply gave a quick thankyou and slipped out of the room, the feelings he had hoped to leave in there following him. Like a ghost he could feel them looming just behind, peering over his shoulder, misty hands caressing his mind, cold fingers prying apart the cracks in his brain to slip inside. They rifled through his stored memories, tainting everything they touched, smearing them like fingerprints would a photograph, smudging his own image out of existence. He tried to shake free their grip as he walked but they had a firm hold, one that constricted with each breath. Tighter and tighter still until he had to stop to keep from passing out on the pavement.
Slowing to a halt in the middle of the street, Arthur made an attempt to calm himself, giving up quite quickly when he grew even fainter. He raised a hand to his head, running it through his hair, gripping the short strands in his fist as though he hoped to rip the thoughts out with them, and moved to the side of the empty pathway. Leaning against the brick wall there, he let his arm drop and stared blankly ahead.
The moon looked huge, enormous, unnaturally so. He half expected it to grow even larger as it came closer, colliding with the earth, pulverising it instantly. Such a thing was impossible, or so science would tell him in words he didn't know the meaning of, but for a split second he entertained the notion. It seemed a fitting end. The randomness of life could be demolished just as randomly, nothing lasted and that was how it was meant to be. Days and relationships and people all stopped at some point, some unjustly so, and there was nothing anyone could do.
'This too shall pass'; he was reminded of the phrase. Although he couldn't recall its original author it was something his mother had said from time to time, usually in response to something that probably should have been taken more seriously. Not that she was a frivolous person, he tagged on to the criticism, refusing to recognise a flaw as such. In all fairness he could rarely think of a time she had been wrong, her faith in the goodness of the world coming through for her while he would fret himself sick over every little thing.
Pushing away from where he leant, some clarity having been returned to him, he stumbled forward and moved on. Actually seeing what was around him, he recognised the little promenade of shops his legs had carried him to, their shutters drawn for the night as they had been the last time he had run across them. With some curiosity he began walking again, slowly this time, meandering his way to the last in the row that Matthew had spoken about, and found it quite different from its previous state.
Its hollow interior had been filled out somewhat, new floor boards put down and the walls patched up, the wires stuffed back inside. Covered in a layer of white wash it looked ready to be moved in to already, however, a sign stuck against the inside of the glass stated it wouldn't be opening until after the holiday season had passed. There was nothing in particular to look at but Arthur remained watching the space a while more and again found himself thinking of how much his mother would have liked it.
Wondering how his brother's application had gone, he peeled himself away and floated on, his footsteps as quiet as those of the imagined spectre that continued to stalk him. The night seemed barely dark at all, street lights glowing artificial orange on either side of the road and the moon in its exaggerated size illuminating the world as though the sun had never set. Even the sky had cleared, not cloud in sight yet not a star either. A vast, unbroken expanse, open to the heavens and beyond. The same sky that looked blue to his brother half way across the world.
His body taking him the rest of the way home as his head remained a mile away, Arthur came across his front door and looked at it a moment before opening it and going inside. As usual, he was welcomed home by his lover's sweet calling, accompanied this time by an animal's voice. Queenie trilled one of her raspy mews as she trotted into the hallway from the kitchen, following her owner into the living room.
"She has been very chatty today, I think she was looking for you," Francis chuckled as he saw the two of them come in.
Arthur only hummed, however, dropping his brief case to fall heavily onto the sofa.
His body language saying it all, Francis immediately frowned. "What is it?" he straightened from his relaxed position and shuffled closer to the other.
Sat as though still waiting for Tino to let him leave, the younger man's pensive state held him in place, unmoving, unspeaking, too absorbed to react.
"Amour?"
A hand was laid on his back as the form beside him gravitated to his suffering.
"What is wrong?"
"I, um…" Arthur was stifled once more by the blockage in his throat as he picked at his nails, "there were some things that I thought about."
"What sort of things?" Francis entreated, taking one of his partner's hands in both of his.
Glancing at their joined fingers, Arthur swallowed back the rising obstruction and looked the other in the face.
"Just what things have been like the last few years," he mentioned vaguely, without the heart to talk about it in depth any longer, "and since, you know…"
Able to deduce what he was alluding to, Francis nodded, giving the frozen hand he held a comforting squeeze.
All went quiet until a frustrated meow at their feet caused both men to pay attention. From the way Queenie scratched at his bag, Arthur assumed she could smell the treats through the fabric and a smile curved his mouth for the first time that day. Pulling his hand from the warming touch, he opened up the brief case and pulled out the few things he had gotten her, tossing them onto the floor. The cat regarded them with some suspicion, sniffing at the foreign items before reaching out a paw to bat at the jingly mouse.
Endeared by her innocent game, the couple watched her play, Francis taking the toy from her to toss across the room so that she dashed after it. Looking to the side of him to see the way the older man smiled wider after her, Arthur felt his own expression dropping once more and turned his attention back to the cat that raced after her new possession. The mild warmth that touched his chest at the sight did little to fill the cavern that had been carved out, a tiny flame that tried to light the depths of the abys. It flickered, wavered, threatened to go out from the slightest gust and leave him in the dark, alone.
"I know you're meant to be back at work tomorrow, but would you mind, maybe, staying home again?" Arthur asked at the idea of being left to his own devices the next day, the silence of an empty house to accommodate thoughts.
Concern pricking his eyes, Francis turned to his other half who still focused on Queenie.
"Oui, I can take another day if you would like me to," he complied, refraining from questioning the request.
"Thanks," Arthur would have left it at that had the worried look he was receiving not been hopeful of some explanation, "I just don't really want to be by myself."
He didn't care to see what the other expressed, unable to take another ounce of pity, but leant into the kiss that was pressed against the side of his head.
Francis didn't seem to mind what terrible company he was for the rest of the evening as he emitted only the odd hum in reply to conversation, trapped within the web he had spun himself inside his head. Picking at his food as they ate, he regaled how his conversation with Alistair had gone, a distinct lack of enthusiasm to his words, Francis only nodding along as he sensed it wasn't the time to open a dialogue on the subject.
Despite his mental exhaustion, sleep would not relieve him, and he lay straining to keep his eyes closed for several hours. Even in an unconscious state he was plagued by dreams too incoherent to make sense of, so much noise in his head that it woke him more than once. At half aware intermissions he saw day break, late and stark, over the rooftops, a pale sun emerging to disperse the nights fog.
He was awake as Francis got up, saying nothing, only listening to the sounds of his day beginning whilst procrastinating the start of his own. Finding he could no longer do so, however, he turned his face to look through the window. The white sky hardly inspired him but there was no way he was getting back to sleep and so he saw no point in waiting.
Heaving himself upright, his small hope that a shower could rinse his head clean from the previous days shit proved futile and he got out feeling exactly the same, only damper. The unheated air of the landing caused his bare skin to tingle as he sped between the bathroom and the bedroom, towling his hair dry on the way. Contemplating his need for more variety as he chose between his collection of identically dull jumpers, he settled on the least washed out shade of dark green he had available, slipping it on and avoiding the mirror on his way out, knowing it hung from him like he was made of wire.
Still misty eyed and distracted, he drifted into the kitchen where the rest of the small household resided, Francis at the table seeing to work with a slice of toast in his hand and Queenie enjoying her own breakfast. Going directly over to the kettle, steam still visibly trailing from the spout, Arthur set it to boil again and stood waiting without a word, leaving the other to spark an interaction.
"Do you want the rest of this?" he half turned to offer the toast he had only nibbled at.
"Not particularly," Arthur muttered back.
Supressing a grimace as he watched his other half reaching into the cupboard, jumper lifting to show his protruding hip bones, Francis coaxed him gently.
"Perhaps you should try to eat breakfast sometimes," he recommended, "It really does improve the beginning of the day."
Almost nauseated at the thought of eating before midday, Arthur declined with an excuse.
"I'm never hungry in the morning."
"You are never hungry at all," Francis rebuffed.
The switch on the kettle flipped, vapour pouring steadily upward, and Arthur set his attention to one of the few skills he had and took pride in; making tea to absolute perfection.
"What will you do today?" the older of the two spoke again, biting into the slice of bread he had changed his mind on wanting.
Stirring the contents of his mug thoroughly, Arthur clasped it between his hands, heat surging up his arms.
"I don't know, write some cards maybe?" he considered, guilty at the fact that he had made Francis stay home again despite his disinterest in talking to him.
"That would be helpful," Francis nodded, "There is a list on the table."
Happy to have something to occupy himself with, the younger man reciprocated the action and took his tea across the hall, glancing down to see he was being followed. His furry shadow taking a seat on the floor beside him as he tried to find a comfortable position at the coffee table, he found the list of names for cards not yet written and rummaged about under the tree to find the box of Christmas cards.
Coughing up glitter as he emerged from under the gaudy decoration, he brushed the pine needles from his clothes and set to work. The list wasn't long as they didn't know many people and so he made his way down it quickly, reaching the bottom where one last name had been tagged on in a different coloured pen. Neglecting to write a card for Alistair, Arthur counted himself done, stacking the filled and sealed envelopes into a pile, and found himself at a loss of what to do.
Preoccupied, he scratched Queenie behind the ear as he stared off into space. She quickly grew bored of not being the centre of attention, however, bumping her head against his knee and rubbing her cheeks over his trousers so that they became clad with white fur. Her attention seeking was only half rewarded as Arthur scooped her up into his lap, petting her as his eyes glazed over, directed at the window.
The way that the clouds formed a sheer layer across the sky made the sun visible behind them. It still stung his eyes a little to look at, but the outline was crisp. A hot, white ball blazing billions of miles away, appearing more like another moon than the sun, its light seeming cold. Vision burning as Arthur apparently forgot one of the most basic animal functions, he blinked and stopped inadvertently blinding himself. His scorched corneas throbbed, showing him blobs of colour, until his sight readjusted itself.
Shifting back and up onto the sofa, bringing the cat with him, Arthur turned on the TV, switching the channel to some radio station as he thought maybe listening to other people's problems might drown out his own. Queenie swatted playfully at his hands, apparently in a restless mood, and rolled over onto her side whilst the larger creature failed to fight off the introspection.
Head lolling against the cushions, he listened to the mindless chatter of the radio hosts, their back and forth punctuated by gratingly faked laughs. Whatever they spoke about was instantly undermined by their unfunny commentary and it didn't take long for Arthur to reach his limit. Switching to the next station over, another radio channel, he stood up and went to go and find one of the many books he was part way through.
Mum would have scolded him; the thought came into his head as he picked up a novella, he was no more than two chapters into, from beside the bed. She had been a firm believer in finishing what was started before taking on anything new, perhaps the reason she had always seemed to so effortlessly manage herself in a way Arthur longed to emulate. Taking care of three boys, a demanding job, her endless charity work and other projects, all things she had taken in stride, like it was second nature to her whereas Arthur couldn't handle his own wellbeing.
The cat that had followed him up the stairs gave an impatient meow from the doorway, calling her owner back from the place his memories were leading him. Tucking the paperback under his arm, Arthur picked up the clingy animal, carrying her back downstairs with him and setting her down on his lap as he opened up to the page with the folded edge. She readjusted, aligning herself with the line between his thighs and settled, allowing him to rest the spine of the book on her back.
Although both the main ceiling light and the lamp that was half obscured by the Christmas tree were on, the print appeared fuzzy and he was unable to squint it fully into focus. He made his peace with the part legible font, however, and read with only minor difficulty. Processing the words in sequence, interrupted every now and then by the odd intrusive thought, that was all they were to him. Words on a page. They made sense, even sounded nice, but the images they meant to evoke never came into view. He wondered if that was the reason other people didn't enjoy reading, because they couldn't see the story properly.
Alfred had always complained that books were just words, that they were like comics but boring, something both Arthur and their mother had taken grievance with. Hours had been spent trying to get the hyperactive child to just sit down and read one chapter, all in vain as he'd lose interest and bound off to whatever caught his eye next. He had never made it past the midway point of a book probably ever and Arthur was ashamed to say he had written more than one book report on his brother's behalf.
He could remember their mother tutting, rolling her eyes and lamenting the fact that he didn't appreciate literature the same as her elder son, something Arthur had admittedly taken as a compliment. A shadow of a smile graced his lips in the present day as he pictured how she would look out into the garden from the doorway, the sun blessing her pale face, her eyes, her hair, everything about her radiant. Her favourite, blue summer dress swaying in the gentle breeze as she watched her two younger sons playing on the lawn before she would join him in reading on the shaded patio. Many a summer day spent that way, summers that seemed longer in his memories.
"Ah, thank you for finishing the cards for me."
Francis' voice jolted him as his other half entered the room carrying a plate.
"No problem," he replied, the scene in his head dispelling.
"Here, a reward," Francis joked as he set the plate down on the arm of the chair.
Arthur looked at the sandwich he had been gifted but didn't touch it.
"You didn't have to," he said by way of thanks, feeling the sweet gesture would be going to waste on him as he wasn't hungry in the slightest.
Shrugging, an odd expression twisting his lips, Francis' eyes flicked between the food and his partner.
"I thought you might be hungry," he offered.
An awkward stretch of quiet crept in as the conversation dropped, Arthur going back to his reading material as Francis remained in place, his attention still set uneasily on the untouched food.
"Are you alright?" Arthur broke it after a few seconds.
"Oui," the older man still waited, glancing away then back at the other, brows furrowing in the centre, "You will eat it, yes?"
Taken aback by the desperation, Arthur lowered the book.
"Okay," he confirmed perplexedly.
Building up to say something he was unsure of how to word, Francis let out a breath.
"Do you know…how you look, cherie?"
Arthur couldn't help but sigh as he diverted his gaze, knowing full well how grotesque his appearance was.
"I will always think you are beautiful, but please," Francis saw the affect his words had and attempted to soften their impact, extending another of his solicitous looks, "it is not healthy."
"I know," Arthur accepted without argument, "I know you worry."
Turning to man that stood anxiously over him, Arthur tightened his lips in as much of a smile as he could muster and took the plate.
"I promise it will make you feel better," Francis swore with a nod of assurance before leaving his other half to eat in peace.
Despite the evident lack of hunger, or any physical sensation at all, Arthur knew his disregard for his own health was undoubtedly having an affect on him. After a time, the human body gets so used to starvation that it no longer feels the effects of it, and it was clear that that was the case for him. The solution was the simplest thing it could be, all he had to do was eat, yet Arthur still had his doubts in his ability to do so.
Not particularly caring what was in the sandwich, he took the bread in his hands and lifted it to his face, taking a restrained bite. Lettuce crunched and the contrasting texture of processed meat grazed his tongue, although the flavour was obscured by an abundance of tomato. Cloying clumps of white bread stuck to the roof of his mouth, a spreading of mayonnaise glueing it fast so that he had a hard time dislodging it. While the whole thing may have been somewhat overpowered by tomato, he had to admit that it actually tasted alright and that finishing three quarters of it wasn't as much of a chore as he had worried.
Leaving a few mouthfuls worth, he set the plate aside where, sensing an opportunity, Queenie took great interest in it. She sniffed at the plate, interested in the unidentified meat, tail swishing. Taking the hint, Arthur catered to her and ripped off a small piece, holding it up for her to smell some more. A tiny, barbed tongue poked out from her mouth and licked the new food but seemed to decide that it wasn't to her licking as it quickly retracted, her face turning away.
Breathing a laugh at the picky eater, Arthur dropped the sliver of meat onto the plate. He knew that human food was bad for animals, but he always caved to their sweet faces, their eyes pleading with him as though their owners never fed them. It was something he would often be told off for when around the twins' Grandmother's house.
She had owned a fat little Jack Russell, its eyes clouded with age, barely able to move on its stiff limbs, but it had been a darling animal and Arthur would usually sneak something from dinner into his pocket to give to it when his mother wasn't looking. More often than not, however, she would catch him and tell him the poor creature didn't need to be any fatter. Of course, that wouldn't stop him. In retrospect he saw that he was probably the reason it got so big in the first place.
Again, he found himself smiling at nothing but the thoughts in his head, a melancholic delusion of happiness that grew more bitter still as he pictured the faces of the two long dead women, the elder of them sinking further back into his mind until only the other remained. Where he had once been able to recall every detail to perfection, Arthur realised, much to his horror, that certain things were leaving him. The precise curve of her cupids bow, the exact arch of her brow, the prominence of the beauty spot just below her left ear, they were all things he could only part way recreate in his head.
Why the woman in question seemed to be the underlying current to all of his thoughts that day, Arthur couldn't say but it didn't feel wrong to indulge in them. It was perhaps necessary in fact. The things he could no longer bring to mind about her had been lost out of his lack of maintaining them, after all. It was his fault she was fading, he was letting her, he wasn't doing his job of taking care of her.
A cold hand gripped his heart as the thought rang over on a loop, the air squeezed from his lungs as he lived what Tino had explained to him not twenty-four hours prior. He felt guilt over not caring for a dead woman, that was the extent to which he had driven himself mad. Feeling badly over not paying enough attention to a figment of his imagination. That was surely not the thinking of a sane man.
Heaviness in his stomach, his chest, throughout all of him, a state of something akin to shock held him in place. As though it were the first time he had experienced self-awareness, he pondered frantically upon the implications of it all. He could almost see Tino beside him, his office materialising around him as he stepped only semi willingly into that mind set, feelings both past and present rearing their ugly heads, demanding to be recognised.
Yet there was no one to drag the truth from him. Francis was in the next room, he would surely want to help but Arthur just couldn't explain, nor did he want to. He wanted to go. The need to get out he would feel as Tino closed the door behind him now finding him in his own home.
With no one to tell him he couldn't, though, no therapist there convincing him to stay, he saw no reason not to listen to that impulse. As much as it was surely a step backwards, he chose to run and to isolate himself, thinking it better to be out in the world full of people that didn't care rather than at home with the one that did.
Shifting the cat from his legs, Arthur stood and put on his shoes and coat before speaking to his other half.
"I'm going out for a little while," he somewhat shakily announced from the doorway.
Looking around from his work, Francis regarded him with light confusion.
"Where?" he reasonably wanted to know.
"Just up to town," was all Arthur gave him, an answer but not one that helped too much.
"Alright," Francis saw nothing so odd that it required and interrogation and only added, "Do not get cold."
Not that Arthur heard as he was already letting himself out, oblivious to the frigid smack of static air he walked into.
He sped down the road, away from the darkening clouds on the horizon and towards the only place it seemed to make sense to go. He went to the resting place of woman that had made herself a home within the depths of his subconscious as though making sure she was still there, checking she hadn't risen and come looking for him. He pictured her, a phantom gliding from the cemetery gates to the family home and finding it occupied by strangers. A lonesome spectre that paced the halls of his empty head, seeing the world through his tainted eyes. He wished that on no one, least of all her.
Shaking his head, he reprimanded himself for thinking of her as some sort of ghoul, she had never believed in such things. As far as she was concerned, she was heaven bound. Joining a God he could never believe in, and just as well he couldn't for he'd never have been able to forgive him. Then again, he lamented his cynicism to the notion that they might meet again one day. Had he been able to disregard his sense of reasoning and have faith for the sake of that one simple aspect, he would have done in heartbeat.
But even as he willed himself to think so, his mind told him he had missed his chance to commit, that he had turned his back on it and there was no way to reverse what he had done. His rationality barred him from believing as much as he was surely barred from heaven should it all turn out to be true after all.
Dull thuds sounded on the damp paving with each step as he made his way up the path, each one a knell, the rest of the place deserted as always. No one but the crows and the corpses for company. Even the gate that would usually give out a mournful wail seemed to have nothing to complain about that day as it swung open without a sound. The path turning to packed earth, Arthur entered the fenced off piece of land, past the cracked and crumbling walls of the church hall, between the headstones decorated by decaying flowers and moss, to the one he had come for.
He stopped before it, looking down with heavy eyes, making no attempt to smile or fix his appearance as he normally would have done. Lips tightly sealed, he didn't greet her, had no roses to offer, didn't kneel to fuss over the weeds that had begun to sprout between visits, only staring. In that moment it was as though he had forgotten why he had come. What had he expected to do, force her memory back into the grave and tell her to stay there?
The soil over the coffin no longer looked new or bald in comparison to the rest of the plot, grass having grown over it and blended with the rest of the overgrown lawn long ago, the raised mound where the hole had been filled in having levelled out. His bouquet of white blossoms that he had left well over a month ago were gone, replaced by a small bunch of wilting, violet coloured blooms.
Alfred had been. That was what he always brought but Arthur forgot what they were called. They were simple but pretty, far sweeter in scent and less lavish than roses. In a way they suited her better than the opulence of the rose, despite that having been her favourite. Understated and plainer in their beauty, they were befitting of her modest tastes. Tied together with a thin length of ribbon around the delicate stems, they rested against the headstone.
He wondered if his brother still spoke to her or thought that she listened. If he looked at her gravestone as though it were her face. Whether he touched it like it was her hand, laying still and frail beside her broken body in a hospital bed. The image manifesting itself into action, Arthur reached out a hand to lay atop the smooth marble.
Icy against his fingertips, a shiver ran up his spine. Hard and cold stone, as cold as the skin of her cheek as she lay dead. The sensation of it repulsed him. He drew his hand away and felt it trembling, her face, void of emotion, void of life, etched into his mind.
Dead. She was dead. It didn't matter what he said to her or what flowers he brought or whether he thought he would see her again some day because she was dead, and nothing would change that. For the rest of time she would be in that box under the earth, nothing but photographs and a slab of rock sticking out of the ground with her name on it to show she had been alive at one time and that somewhere in the world there were people that had known her.
People remembered her, of course, but as he had come to see earlier, a memory was hardly the most tangible evidence. The people who remembered would be dead one day too, himself included, and with them would die the last echoes of her existence.
Vision becoming cloudy, he blinked to dislodge the tears that had formed and felt them spill over and down his cheeks, a flood of them soaking his face. He tasted salt on his lips as they ran in random trails and a sob cracked from his throat. The whole of him trembled now, both hands raised to his face, failing to block the sounds of his choking.
Unable to stop, he didn't try to force himself to. Each picture and thought that flashed through his mind only worsened his grief and he simply cried until he had nothing more in him. He cursed himself, cursed the powers that be, cursed every moment she was alive that he hadn't spent with her. He regretted every time he had angered or upset or disappointed her, well aware that it wouldn't change a thing, rage flaring in him at the idea of her spending her every waking moment helping everyone but herself. Selfish though he knew it was, he'd have traded every good deed she had ever done for the chance to tell her he loved her just one more time.
He couldn't though and as much as that made him want to rip out his insides and scream, that was that.
With nothing else inside of him and no more past moments to relive, he stepped away, chest emptied like he had left his heart in place of roses and retraced his steps back out of the desolate place. Not sparing a glance over his shoulder as he closed the gate behind himself, Arthur turned his back on it wordlessly. There was no one there he needed to bid farewell to, he had said his goodbyes enough already.
A smattering of rain told him not to dawdle on his way home, but his pace lacked urgency still. Droplets washing his red stained face, artificial tears following the tracks left there until the clouds had passed and he was at the end of his own road. Between the rows of houses the sun was mid-way through setting, its bleak light tinged with yellow, the slightest hint of colour causing something to stir in Arthur.
He paused to look at it briefly when outside his door, turning his head to acknowledge it as it seemed to have acknowledged him as the only person outside in all the world on that miserable day. Its pale rays were still frozen, however, and gave no warmth to the earth they reached out to and so he didn't hesitate too long before going inside.
"Mauvais chat! Naughty!"
He walked in to angered French coming from the living room and peered around the archway to see what the fuss was about. From the scene he saw it was fairly easy to deduce what had happened, Francis crouched on the floor over a pile of broken glass with Queenie watching on, indifferent to her actions, but he asked for clarification, nonetheless.
"Is everything alright?"
Apparently having been too busy to hear his significant other coming in, Francis looked around at the sound of his voice and tsked.
"She knocked it from the mantelpiece," he told him, picking up pieces of the shattered rose ornament that Arthur had almost forgotten he had purchased, "Lord knows what she was doing up there, the troublemaker."
He directed his irritation at the animal which perched serenely on the arm of the sofa, looking down at him as though it were his place to be cleaning up after her.
"Such a shame," he continued to grumble, more upset over it than Arthur who had yet to react.
The pile glittered on the carpet like diamonds, some pieces bigger than others, edges jagged enough to cut. Seeing the sculpture reduced to sparkling rubble, Arthur wondered why he had bought it in the first place. He hadn't looked at it once since it had been placed on the mantle and now it had gone to waste.
Air flowing laboriously from his lungs, he dragged his feet over the threshold, took the cat into his arms and sat to bury his face in her soft fur. He could hear her tiny heart beating, more rapidly that a human heart, and above the sound of that came a sigh from the floor. The seat next to him dipped and an arm wrapped around his shoulder. Saying nothing at first, Francis took another heavy breath and spoke.
"Will you tell me what it is?" he requested gently.
Raising his face from the soft body that allowed itself to be used as comfort, Arthur sniffed and let his words falter from his mouth.
"I just miss her. I miss mum," he filled in, knowing his other half would understand from the little he gave.
As he had hoped he would, Francis didn't try to extend any words of solace or give some reason for why bad things happened as others might have done, only offering the other arm to clasp his partner tighter. Over the firm shoulder he was pressed to, Arthur looked again, mournfully, at the small puddle of broken glass, reconstructing it in his mind, supposing it was inevitable.
Some things just weren't meant to last.
Another quiet evening had passed, the odd tear escaping to be quickly pressed away by a pair of tender lips, the suns consolatory hue of gold fading into orange, red and finally darkness. Queenie had stuck close to him the way an animal does when their person is not themselves, pawing at his hands to be petted every now and again. She made herself quite at home in between them in the bed, despite Francis' reluctance to have her there, and was the first to fall peacefully asleep, the tip of her tail twitching as she dreamed.
Francis too seemed to have no trouble getting to sleep as the arm he kept draped over his partner's waist grew heavier, as a person's limbs do when they are not in control of them, uncomfortably so. Twisting away so that the dead weight slipped off of him, Arthur turned to face the window. Eyelids firmly closed, he could still see the light of the moon through them and had to focus on the action of doing nothing.
It worked for a while but was short lived as he found himself awake by midnight after barely an hour's rest. Doubly as awake as he had been when getting into bed, he couldn't force himself back to sleep nor could he bear the thought of a night spent waiting for sunrise and so sat up, accepting he would have to do something about it.
Both other occupants of the bed numb to the world, he took great pains in escaping the confines of the duvet and once freed took himself downstairs. The house motionless aside from his gaunt form, traipsing through the hallways like a detached shadow, he needed something to occupy himself with, feeling, as he had done the previous day when he asked Francis to stay with him, the need for company.
Beside the sofa in the living room his laptop sat on the coffee table. Doing some quick maths in his head, he considered whether his brother would answer and decided it was worth a try to call. Blue light flooded the room as he flipped up the screen and laid back along the sofa, head propped up on the arm rest, laptop balanced against his bent knees. The first call rang out and he felt that should have been enough to dissuade him, but he tried again and was surprised when the first tone was cut off by a moving picture coming to the screen.
"Hey, Art. What are you doing up? isn't it, like, three in the morning over there?"
Unable to hold back a smile of relief when his brother's face came into view, Arthur adjusted the screen and shuffled to sit more upright.
"Not quite, but I couldn't sleep," he admitted, "I thought I'd see if you were around. Haven't spoken to you properly in a few days."
"Yeah, sorry about that," the man on the monitor pulled a remorseful face, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, "had a lot going on, you know."
The older man shook his head to show no offence was taken. "You don't have to apologise, I just wanted to see how you were. You look tired," he observed.
"Says you," Alfred retorted.
Supposing he was probably right, Arthur breathed a laugh from his nose.
"Well it's your fault. Keeping me up at night worrying."
"Sounds like a you problem," the younger man jokingly shot back, "How's stuff going over there, though?"
"Everything is fine," was all Arthur had to say, "What about with you?"
"Busy," Alfred groaned, tipping his head to the side to stretch out his neck, "Today was the last day of practice so we went pretty hard. I think I kept up alright, though. At least, I hope I did."
"I'm sure you did just fine, Al," Arthur assured him, catching the slight glint of self-doubt in the tilt of his lips.
"Probably," the other replied, "Have to wait and see. You know I head over to Paul and Linda tomorrow, right?"
Too drained to feel a spark of anything towards the foreign couple, the elder Kirkland found what he was saying came out with an unintentional bite.
"Yes, I remember."
He hadn't meant it to sound vicious, but it did, something that Alfred picked up on.
"How come you don't like them?" he chuckled, curious.
Caught, Arthur didn't bother to try and deny his obvious feelings, biting the inside of his cheek as he exhaled, "I just can't trust them."
"Hm, that's fair I guess," Alfred contemplated with a shrug, "but try not to stress over it, dude."
"I'm not stressing over anything," the older man denied, prompting a raised brow from his sibling.
"You sure about that?" he called out.
"I'm fine," Arthur ensures him, looking to change the subject, "I went to visit mum today, you didn't say you'd been recently."
"I thought I should before I left," the other mused, "Felt bad. I should go more often."
It was something he would have agreed with a few weeks ago but Arthur shook his head, knowing better.
"You shouldn't think like that, it doesn't matter how often you go so long as you think about her sometimes," he paused, "You do think about her, don't you?"
"All the time," even when his smile was sad it managed to radiate the warmth of summer.
"It's just that you never really mention her," he pointed out, feeling badly for doing so.
Another tightened expression crossed his brother's features and he glanced away before speaking.
"Well, me and Mattie do but, I don't know man, don't feel bad but, we're always kind of scared of upsetting you," he confessed.
Eyebrows lifting, Arthur was taken aback slightly.
"Why would you be afraid of that?" he enquired, brow lowering to furrow in confusion.
Uncomfortable but wanting to tell the truth, Alfred squirmed a little more then answered, "Whenever we mention her you just get all…uptight and defensive and stuff. It's like you think we're slandering her or something."
"I don't think that," Arthur immediately contested.
"No, I know you don't really but, I mean, she was human. Sometimes she did stuff wrong. Nobody's perfect so you shouldn't try to make out that they are, that's all," the younger sibling pondered with unexpected depth.
Something intelligent coming from his younger brother's mouth shouldn't have been out of the ordinary to Arthur, but Alfred just never seemed the deep-thinking type. Time and again he proved the contrary, however.
"You're right," he agreed.
"That's just how I see it," the other pointed out, raising a hand to cup his right shoulder and roll the joint in its socket.
"What's wrong with your shoulder?" Arthur picked up on the repeated action, concern pooling in him.
"Linebacker ploughed right into me, the asshole," Alfred swore, "It's not that bad though, could have been a lot worse, the guy was huge."
Worry worsening despite his brother's reassurances, Arthur suggested, "Is there somewhere you can get it looked at?"
"It's really not a big deal, probably just pulled something," the other rejected, still holding the injured body part.
"But what if it is, Al. You don't want this to turn out to be something serious that'll hurt you later on," the more anxious of the two continued to fuss, "that's how careers end early."
The last statement seemed to get to the younger man as he let out a sigh and lowered his hand, tentatively letting his shoulder drop.
"Yeah, I guess," he conceded, "I'll go tomorrow."
"Please do," Arthur fretted one last time, "and call us before you leave, as well."
"Sure thing," Alfred offered a smile which was returned back, the call ending and leaving the house silent again.
Closing down the screen, Arthur left the laptop on the coffee table, for a moment considering just sleeping on the sofa before thinking it better he got back to bed. He didn't want Francis to wake up in a panic the next morning.
Slipping between the sheets, taking excruciating care not to rouse either of the two bodies already entwined within them, he settled back down. Flat on his back, the man beside him shifted, mumbling something in his native language that Arthur didn't quite catch and shoving his face deeper into his pillow. With a light hand, he brushed the fine strands that tickled the stubbled face behind the man's ear, caressing his jaw then letting his fingers slip away.
The pacing is very much off in this chapter, I fully accept that. To be honest it was a bit of a rush job. I wanted to get it out in a month to stick with my schedule but I also wanted to keep it under my word limit of 13,000 per chapter which means something I wanted to put in here will be in the next chapter. This whole story has turned out to be a project way more massive than I had ever thought it would be and I hope the fact that I'm getting kind of tired of it doesn't show. Not to say I don't care anymore, I do, but sometimes you just hit a wall.
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