Warning - This chapter contains some detailed description of body image and body image issues.
Francis was already gone, having slipped out unnoticed, by the time that Arthur woke, however, he was not alone. Opening his eyes to a room lit with broad daylight, he could see clearly a tiny, sleeping face not five inches from his own. Queenie had migrated from her designated spot at the foot of the bed to fill the space at his side, her body curled into a loose ball with her legs outstretched, chin perched on her forearm and blissfully oblivious. Sunlight poured through the window and illuminated her pale whiskers, highlighted the fur, like peach fuzz, that bulked out her delicate frame. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, the rest of her absolutely still, as he gave himself a moment to get used to the day.
His back to the window, Arthur half rolled his upper body to look out of it and see a sky of lofty blue with the occasional pure, white cloud, zipping by at tremendous speed. As pleasantly surprising as such a sight was, he felt unprepared to face it and fell back onto his front, burying his head into his pillow. Rubbing his face against the dirty linen, an unintentional grunt came from his nose, followed by an exhale.
Shoulders stiff, he arched his back and pushed himself up only to lower himself down again onto his side. Folding an elbow under his head, his gaze rested over the little animal that shared his bed. Her pink nose expelled air that disturbed the fibres of the bedsheet, blowing them like the branches he could hear thrashing outside, and the pads of her paws were exposed. The tiny buds looked so soft he couldn't restrain himself from reaching out to poke one with his index finger, gently pressing the warm skin.
It retracted immediately, her paw curling into a ball and drawing into her chest as she squirmed to find a new position. Flipping over, she stretched out again, reaching her legs as far as she could, her feet spreading apart to reveal her rose-coloured jellybeans, and settled down once more, clearly not ready to even contemplate getting up, unlike Arthur. His hand still outstretched, he stroked the end of her tail with a roughened finger then, exhaling, sat up.
The covers crumpled around his waist, a chill running across his bare arms so that the downy hair on them stood on end. Ice came in on the breeze through the gap in the window seal, a sliver of it that froze the whole room and blew away the meagre warmth the day offered. As Arthur got up and went to the window, he saw a blockade of slate tinged clouds making their way swiftly closer and assumed he would see rain by midday. Standing close enough that his breath fogged over the glass it seemed the cold was seeping through the surface itself, permeating the solid pane, slipping in by any means possible just to reach him.
He moved back and watched the patch of condensation fade away, shrinking and disappearing, before he went to make his way out of the room. Body still warming up, his legs moved rigidly, one of his knees aching for some reason, and things kept clicking. He wondered why his physical being seemed to rebel against him but, catching sight of himself in the mirror, he supposed it was revolting against the misuse it had suffered, and justly so. There was barely anything of it.
Looking in disgust at his arms, thin as wires, his elbows stuck out like knots on an old oak tree and the skin was rough as bark. His trousers hung low in the front with nothing there to keep them in place, the elastic too loose and sagging pathetically to show off his sharply jutting hip bones. Lip curling, Arthur tugged them up only for them to fall back down, his skeletal frame slumping dejectedly as he was painfully reminded of his appearance.
Francis had been polite the day before. He looked like utter shit, like he could keel over and die at any second, like he'd been dead for several hours already. A corpse growing desiccated as it awaited burial. Bringing himself a little more upright, he pulled the fabric of his shirt tight against himself to show the body beneath it, seeing that the excess fabric he clutched was enough to clothe another small person. He pulled it off over his head to be confronted by the full extent of his actions, a dull pang resounding in him at the sight.
His stomach was practically concaved, and he didn't need to squint to be able to count each of his ribs individually. When he bent, the notches of his spine rippled and protruded under his skin like some sea serpent beneath the surface of the ocean, and everything was a pallid shade of white. The mournful face that gaped back at him seemed to be asking, with exhaustion darkened eyes, what had happened.
He had never had an athletic build and knew he could never hope to have the physique of Alfred or Matthew, it just wasn't the way he was. Always scrawny, small, arms and legs out of proportion to his torso, too long and gangly to ever be used for anything competitive, not that he ever really tried. He had been on the football team for a few months back in secondary school but had quit when he realised they only kept him around for some kind of a joke, unwilling to be the subject of their mockery despite the fact he was actually a decent player and very much enjoyed the game.
No matter what he did at that awkward age when everyone else seemed to be growing into themselves, he had never been able to put on weight, something he was sure many people envied him for. 'Allergic to calories, he is,' the old women at church would joke whilst force feeding him another slice of cake, to which he would forge a laugh and turn red with frustration. Although he couldn't exactly say he had put in a lot of effort to improve, preferring most anything else to exercise, too self-conscious to join a gym, and developing terrible eating habits early on.
However many times Francis told him he would always be beautiful in his eyes, the proof said differently. It looked back at him, presenting itself, plagued by life. Almost too detached to believe it was really himself, he raised a hand, watching his non-self do the same, and ran it through his hair, his fingers becoming snagged on tangles. Tiring himself with the one simple movement, he considered sitting where he stood and remaining there the rest of the day, but his body didn't follow his thoughts, taking itself to the bathroom instead.
He dropped his trousers to the floor and stepped inside the shower, turning it on to its most powerful setting. A glacial stream spurted from the shower head, pounding him in the back and quickly heating up. The frigid water barely affected him, however, finding himself already inhabited by the cold, full to the brim with cool, aching apathy.
The water grew warmer, to the point that steam was rising from the floor, but it wasn't enough, it made no impact on his frozen core. He increased the temperature and remained stationary under the boiling downpour, his back burning from it then going numb. His skin started to emanate vapour and turned a deep pink, cheeks flushing. Allowing the water to scorch him, he stayed in place, as though aiming to sear off his skin, waiting for it to blister and slip from the muscle underneath. Like a phoenix, he would rise from the damp ashes as himself anew and start again. That seemed the only way to fix things sometimes.
Gasping for breath by the time he got out into the room shrouded in mist, he dried off in the warmth of the bathroom and watched how the translucent waves rolled into the hall when he opened the door. He neglected to dry his hair, droplets dampening his back in thin trails, and focused on covering himself with layers of clothing yet the knowledge of what was under them wouldn't be shifted from the forefront of his thoughts.
The weather had turned while he as in the bathroom, denoting that either he had been in there a while or it would be fickle all day, the sky having gone back to the grey hued mass characteristic of the time of year. A gale still buffered next door's tree around, the sound of it whipping violently enough to make a person fear it may be ripped out at the roots. Shadows now cast over the room it appeared drenched in a gloom, Arthur's own mood reflected in everything he laid eyes on.
Tugging the sleeves of his jumper down over his hands, he drifted downstairs, leaving Queenie where she had gone back to sleep amongst the crumpled covers. He turned on the heating but left off the lights, desiring to wallow in the dreariness of it all, and switched on the kettle. As he waited for it to boil, he supposed he should at least attempt to honour Francis' wishes and so went to the cabinet to take out two slices of bread which he slid into the toaster.
He stared through the window while he waited at the wet concrete of the street outside and realised a futile sprinkling of rain had begun to fall. The toaster popped up first, barely having warmed the bread through and Arthur pressed it down again, the kettle snapping off just as he did so. Distracted, he turned his attention towards it but was quickly reminded of his breakfast by the smell of burning. Cursing under his breath, he ejected the singed bread, fingers smarting as he pulled them out onto a plate. He'd have laughed at his own ineptitude in the kitchen had he the mind to.
Rather than trying again as he probably should have done, he buttered the black splotched slices and took them with his tea over to the kitchen table. He sat facing the window, damp warmth from his mug moistening his cheek. Rubbing at it with his sleeve, the wiry fabric scratched off some flakes of dried skin that were clinging loosely to his jaw. His face itched, felt too tight as though stretched over another person's skull that was too large for it.
For a while he looked at the small meal he had managed to prepare, head propped up on his fist, no inkling of hunger to spur him on only a languid sense of obligation. Picking up one of the pieces, his nose wrinkled at the smell. It was only bread, he told himself. One of the blandest foodstuffs known to man. Yet despite the fact that it tasted of practically nothing the scent was overwhelming, jumping down his throat and tying his insides in knots. Raising it to his lips, he took a bite out of the charred corner, crumbs scattering over the table top as it crunched. He ground it between his teeth, the flavour obscured by the staleness of the atmosphere, and swallowed it.
The feel of it against the walls of his oesophagus, scathing, made him want to wretch. He didn't, though, as he managed to get it all the way down where it settled in his stomach, a heavy clump that weighed him down. Repeating the process until the first slice was done with, he washed away the cindery residue that coated his mouth with a sip of tea and picked up the second piece. Half way through, he calculated how many bites it would take to polish off the meal and considered whether it would be easier to force it down in fewer larger bites or more small ones.
A saddened sigh came from his nose at how ridiculous his thought process sounded. He didn't know when he had started thinking that way, but he realised that if he didn't stop it would only continue to be another hinderance to him. Another burden added to the process of being okay again that he didn't need. It seemed the simplest of all his numerous problems to solve and so, with a dormant steadfastness, he took a bite.
The texture of damp paper, the bread disintegrated in his mouth, coagulated butter coating his tongue. It didn't taste like food to him, which was probably why his body rejected it immediately. Instinctually, he spat out the soggy lump back onto the plate, dropping the rest of the slice and wiping the grease left on his fingertips onto his trousers. The scent of it seemed stronger, almost like it was rotting, and he took the plate over to the waste bin, scraping the perfectly edible leftovers into it.
His hands were clammy and still felt as though there were a sheen of oil over them and so he washed them in the sink, scrubbing any remains off them obsessively. Splashing some water onto his face to wash anything that might have been left there too, he shuddered, the flavour still in his mouth. Through the window he saw that the rain had been brief, having stopped already, and patches of blue showed themselves a little way off in the direction the breeze blew from.
Pulling up the collar of his jumper to rub his wet face with the inside of it, he breathed in the dusty smell it emanated. Unused and aged, it was a piece of clothing he had owned for years, perhaps it had even been Francis' at one point. The thick material soaked up the water, but Arthur didn't lower it, staying within the woollen cocoon where it was warm. He inhaled deeply like he tried to draw that warmth inside of himself.
He felt alone. A hard kind of loneliness, one that wrapped his heart and made it ache, one that didn't ease up at the thought of his other half returning home later that night because he knew he would still feel alone then. Alone in the world, as every individual was. No one could ever be completely understood by anyone but themselves, after all. The thought struck at his hollowed chest and resounded around its walls.
Interactions ran through his mind, inconsequential conversations with cashiers, times he had laughed at something a friend had said, moments he should have found poignant. They may as well not have taken place, they had all meant nothing. No more than words and looks, no connection to be found. None that brought him any kind of comfort then, anyway. Perhaps he would find differently the next time they came to him but through the emptiness that settled over him they seemed pointless.
The bleak light broke through the holes in the material he had over his face and he lowered it to stare directly at its source, a washed-out sun hiding from view, unclear to him. Weakened beams of flaccid light tore through the clouds with some difficulty, sawing through them like a dull blade. It didn't hurt his eyes to look at as though he were still looking at it through something. Everything felt as though there were a layer between him and it.
Tea growing cool on the table behind him, he took the mug with him to the back door, opening it and sitting on the floor just inside. Immune to the cold as it already resided inside of him, he leant against the doorframe, head dropping back, with his legs draw up to his chest. Resting the mug on top of one knee, his hands sweated against the warm china. The tendons were visibly raised beneath the skin, attaching his long, inelegant fingers to the rest of his hand, like crane flies, all legs with tiny, crushable bodies.
Adjusting his slippery hold, he couldn't help but somewhat marvel at how ugly they were. The misshapen knuckles of his right hand were now permanently stained a darker colour than the rest of his skin, a bruise that would never completely fade. A nice reminder of his recklessness, though he doubted it would deter him from making the same mistakes again at some point. But it was in-keeping with the multitude of other scars and scrapes that decorated the abused appendages. A sunken mark below his left ring finger, a burn that had healed awkwardly above his palm, the tips of his fingers tough as leather and always peeling.
He drank his tepid beverage in gulps, only wanting to wash away the taste that was still lodged in the back of his mouth and between his teeth. The azure sky seemed not to know whether it was coming or going, patches showing through that were stifled but then emerged once more. A gust that was capable of shifting the mountains blustered into the hall, disturbing the pages on the calendar and knocking the junk mail onto the carpet, however, could not shift the despondency that had taken root in Arthur. It remained unflinching, far too contented with the burrow it had dug itself deep within its host to be bothered by the elements.
Gazing out over the grey lawn, blades of grass growing unevenly, his arm hair stuck on end although he didn't shiver. He could barely feel the brutal slap that swept his hair back, living only as a body with nothing inside, no nerves to sense with, no brain to think with, no heart to feel with, though he knew better than to think that was how human biology worked. Emotions came from the brain, they were chemicals, they shouldn't have been tricky things to understand. He could control what he thought, or so he told himself in the moment, and so he wondered why he should be so incapable of mastering anything else that his brain came up with.
Though that was the issue, he came to see. He couldn't control his thoughts any better than anything else. Whatever was going on in his head governed him. Briefly entertaining the idea of allowing this to continue, he supposed that was what he had been doing and the thought of giving up on life was more enticing than he should have found it.
Not to have been confused with the idea of giving up his life, that was something very different. He didn't want to die, only he wanted to not worry about living anymore. To carry on as he was and get used to it rather than trying, so consistently and so hard, to get absolutely nowhere. It was tiring and sometimes, a lot of the time, he really had no clue as to what or who he was doing it all for. He would tell himself he wanted to get better for himself and for his loved ones, but he questioned whether he meant that. He was doing it so that it would be done and over with, however, he knew it would never be finished so that brought him right back to the question of why was he trying?
He wanted to smoke, it would have cleared his thinking, but even if there were still cigarettes in the house, he didn't have the initiative to go and find them. His limbs could move but he didn't know why he would want to bother. For that he would need energy that he didn't have and didn't want. Too hard to accumulate, too easy to waste, it was an unfair transaction and he felt cheated.
From behind, the soft padding of paws sounded, and he glanced back to see Queenie approaching, eyes round and intrigued by the open door. He planned on letting her out at some point, thinking it cruel to confine her in the small abode, but wanted to wait until Francis was present and so contradicted his thoughts, standing with the help of the door frame.
Spilling the stone-cold tea out into the drain beside the door, he closed it, much to the cat's disappointment, and went back inside. He left his cup in the sink and continued to ignore the animal at his feet as he went across to the living room too consumed in himself to pay her much mind. She followed nonetheless and took up her seat beside him while he opened a book to point his unregistering eyes towards.
That strange, solid, immovable force of misery oppressed him the entire day. A complete absence of joy, as though it had never existed in him. Even the possibility of it was robbed from him with an assuredness that no happiness could come to him and any he had experienced before was a lie. The air was thin, the sofa was under him and everything around him was real, but he felt none of it, saw it as though it had only just come into existence the moment he laid eyes upon it. Before then there was nothing and once he looked away there was nothing again, an ego-centric view of the world but the only one he could wrap his depression wrought head around.
Somewhere inside he was sure he was sad, his body told him so at least as a single bead would occasionally drop from his chin and soak into the page he held open, but above all he was numbed. Deadened, uncaring, thoroughly at the mercy of whatever his addled thoughts suggested to him, which thankfully was not a lot. They would most likely have to scream for him to hear across the vacant tundra inside of his head, in any case.
He thought he ate but he wasn't sure. A blurred memory of standing in the kitchen and staring through the window with food in his hand resurfaced several times, but he may have been thinking about that morning. There had been rain, scoring the window like watery claw marks, but when he looked outside to confirm his thoughts, he saw no trace of it. The ceiling light was on, which was a clue that he had gotten up at some point, but the sun had come to antagonise him. It clashed horribly with the artificial light and he found it revolting.
Time progressed in chunks, unmoving in between the moments when Arthur was not observing it and skipping forward when he did to show that it would not be bound by his introspective view of the world. Not even when Francis came back to him did his mindset change. He appeared out of the ether of the unseen and materialised only when in his eyeline, was tangible only when touching him. Only when Alfred called some hours later did he manage to pull himself together a little but even then, their conversation came through in snippets.
"Yeah, I'm about to head down to the station, just saying bye to the guys here first," the younger man, clad in the school's colours, informed with quite the chaos audible in the background.
"How long did you say the trip was?" Francis' attentiveness made up for Arthur's lack thereof.
"Like, two hours I think?" Alfred seemed unsure but unfazed, half of his attention set on what was going on around him.
"It is strange to think how huge America truly is," the older man mused.
"I know right, it's crazy." Something was shouted from off screen which caused Alfred to laugh, shaking his head, and respond with a joking "Fuck off, dude."
Their comradery was palpable, and Alfred was clearly enthralled in the thick of it, beaming as Arthur had seen him do so many times yet it stung to know it had nothing to do with him. In a few hours he would be even further away and with strangers that he was for some reason willing to show the same affection and respect he showed the people who had raised him. Arthur was glad he seemed to have lost the ability to change his facial expression as surely the bitterness would have shown on it.
He uttered his goodbyes, his brother too preoccupied to notice his input was amiss and deflected the concerns his partner eased onto him. Whether he achieved his goal of three meals that day was debateable, but he ate at the kitchen table that evening while Francis apologised profusely for the fact he would be working on Christmas eve.
Night passed to uncover a day like the last that had taken with it whatever force had been so stifling the day before. Like it was stripped from him while he slept, Arthur woke to find himself vulnerable to all that was around him. The cotton sheets that entombed him were too rough, the pale light blinding, the rain that intermittently picked up like the sound of gunfire. Each thing he came across was obstructive, intrusive and overwhelming, they wanted to hurt him. He felt weak all over, both inside and out. At least through callousness he had found resilience but that was gone, the hardness had softened, melted and was dispersed through his body. The cold that had resided in him now flowed through his veins and gave him frostbite.
Craving the touch of another, someone warm, he pulled Queenie to him and carried her with him, squeezing her so tight she wriggled to be free. Still lonely in a way that company couldn't satiate, he liked to believe it would. He reviewed all the same instances he had the day previous and this time lamented that he had not gone out of his way to prolong them. Recalled all the times a person had shown him compassion he had failed to return or opened up to him while he remained closed. Thoughts and memories and feeling came and pecked and ate what he left exposed.
Maybe it wasn't that nobody could ever be understood, and it was just him. The idea was horrifying but it made too much sense. There he was, pitying himself over how he felt so disconnected when he was the one who was to blame, he wasn't capable of it. Something in him was flawed. Everyone else in the world seemed happy because they were, they knew what they were doing, and he felt as though he was alone because he was.
His mind processing what his chest was calling to him with forlorn cries, his eyes became wet and expressed his sorrow. It filled him completely, his form just a vessel to hold such anguish. Sadness was no longer a lack of its opposite but a mass in its own right, one that bulged and pleaded and pained. He was there only to accommodate it.
If he was bored then he could try out the paint samples, Francis had told him as he left that morning and in between bouts of debilitating tears Arthur thought he might try. Three cans on the kitchen counter sat unopened and he managed to carry them through to the living room, almost buckling under their weight. He laid down some old tea towels under where he planned to test them on the wall and cracked the lid off the first shade.
The smell knocked him back, reeling from the chemicals, and he had to turn his face away to snap off the tops of the other two cans. Allowing them to air out a little first, he studied his partner's choices, seeing he had gone with blue after all. One muted and rather dull, one mixed with green to give an off cyan hue and one pale, barely more than a slightly tinged white. None of them were especially inspiring.
Dipping his brush into the viscous liquid, he didn't bother to wipe off the excess so that a trail of drips followed it to the wall where he smeared the colour with aimless strokes. It was thick enough that none of the dirty beige behind it showed through and he noticed a cat hair had become incapsulated in it. Without bothering to pick it out, he did the same with the other two colours, each of them seeming less different from one another as he sat staring at them.
Eyes glazing over as he watched a drip crawling downwards, he reached out to stop it, catching it on his finger just before it stained the skirting board. He studied it, the way it formed a perfect pearl, the way that teardrops looked in cartoons, and felt a sheen obscure his vision at the thought. Covering the pots with their lids again, he went and washed the brushes and coerced himself to eat something as he sniffed back wet chokes.
He closed the curtains to block out the light, to fester in the dark, clinging onto the cat for as long as she would allow until Francis returned to take her place. Barely able to contain his innards as tender hands stroked his hair, he didn't care that he missed the call from his brother, needing what was present to keep him sane.
Of course, Francis was scared to leave the next day. Arthur could feel his gaze upon him as he lay feigning sleep but eventually the sound of a sigh brushed his ear, as did a prolonged kiss, then he was left to himself. Opening his eyes at the click of the latch downstairs he stared at the wall, his feelings not yet having decided themselves. While he waited for them to do so he showered and dressed then took Queenie downstairs in his arms, feeling himself veer towards despair.
Setting her down on the kitchen counter, as Francis had already asked him not to do, he leant his elbows onto it, meeting her eyes. She planted herself down and blinked at him slowly, tail wrapping itself around her haunches. A shallow breath came from Arthur's nose as he looked back past drooping lids. Able to read her owner better than most humans could, the little creature came forward, stretching her neck out to softly bump her head against his.
Almost coaxing a smile from him, the action defrosted something in Arthur the slightest bit and he reciprocated by pushing against her before stepping away. Her owlish eyes followed him as she paced the counter a few steps then stopped, diverting her sight to the hallway, pre-empting the unexpected arrival.
A knock at the door confused Arthur and his head turned towards the hall, the rest of him unmoving. Another short rapping a few moments later prompted him to react, moving jerkily to the archway to peer around it. The blurred shape of a person darkened the frosted glass in the front door and shifted in place waiting for him to acknowledge them, which he was reluctant to do. They continued to wait, however, telling Arthur it wasn't just some random delivery person and so he went to find out who it was.
"There you are, I thought you were still asleep," Eliza greeted him with criticism and a smile, "I was about to let myself in and give you a wakeup call."
She had a habit of springing into a person's reality with no warning and it never failed to throw Arthur off. He was sure she did it on purpose.
"Liz, hi…wh, um," he faltered.
Chuckling softly, she stepped inside without closing the door behind her. "Still half asleep then," she commented, "No worries, we'll fix that."
"Sorry?" Arthur croaked back, clearing his throat but finding something still stuck as his voice hadn't been used properly for the last few days.
"Here, put these on," she held out a pair of shorts and Arthur noticed she looked ready to head to the gym, hair scraped back into a ponytail so tight he was surprised she could still blink and outfitted fully in spandex.
"Why?" he asked despite the answer the evidence pointed to.
"You're coming with me," she announced, assuredness in her commanding tone, "because apparently you can't be left on your own."
She looked him directly in the eye with an air of autocracy, expecting not to be argued with, and Arthur caught on to what must have happened.
"I don't know what Francis has said to you, but-" he began heavily but Elizabeta seemed in no mood for it.
"Francis told me he is worried about you being by yourself and knowing what you are like I don't take that lightly," she emphasised, her expression as stern as her words.
"Alright, but-" Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"You can put your butt in these and come with me," Eliza thrust the shorts towards him again, turning her chin up, daring him to resist further.
Knowing it would be unwise to do so, the younger of the two took the clothing, arm dropping to his side.
"Where are you taking me?" her impulsiveness may have been something he quite admired but not when he was dragged into her hairbrained plans with no notice.
"We're going to the park, you need to get out of the house," she told him.
"It's freezing out there," Arthur complained, forehead creasing slightly.
The biting chill that entered through the front door didn't bother Eliza, however, and a cheeky simper quirked her lips.
"Don't worry, I'll warm you up," she lilted, waiting for her grudging companion to get changed.
Raising an eyebrow at her, Arthur was told no more and shook his head as he relented, going up the stairs to put on the shorts. He had to pull in the waist as far as it would go, and he wasn't exactly pleased about having his legs on show but accepted the will of his chaperone and went downstairs in them.
"Good, now put some shoes on and let's go," Eliza instructed, edging her way towards the door, "something comfortable. And leave your coat."
Following orders, Arthur rummaged in the cupboard under the stairs for a few minutes until he found a pair of tattered trainers. They were only shoes he had that weren't office wear or boots so they would have to do, although the soles were worn paper thin.
Eliza was already halfway down the drive and so he pulled them on, tugging the laces tight then grabbing his phone to trail after her. Speeding along the path to catch up, he stumbled to keep pace, the hair on his legs standing on end.
"I hope you're feeling fit today," Eliza jibed as they turned a corner, stretching her arms out in front of her and above her head, twisting her curvaceous waist.
"No, not particularly," Arthur groused, thoroughly unimpressed.
His protest fell on deaf ears, though, and they continued speedily on their way, along the backstreets to the closest entrance of the town park.
A reasonable size for an inner-city space, a gentle slope led up to the gate and the path continued inwards, snaking out of view over the top of an incline. Further over there was a woodland area and the dank scent of it drifted past like the clouds overhead, half soaked in grey and ready to turn on a dime. The shadow cast down from them loomed over the field and the ground was softened underfoot, bubbles of settled moisture still clinging to the evergreen plant life.
Coming to a stop just inside Eliza bent at the hips, reaching down to touch her toes, then stood upright to shake out her sculpted legs.
"Ready?" she glanced to Arthur expectantly.
"What?" he looked over just in time to see her take a vaulting stride forward, leaving him behind to call after her, "Liz!"
"Come on," was all he heard in return as she jogged on without looking back.
"Liz, stop, what are you doing?" Arthur frowned and walked after her.
She refused to slow down, turning her head to look over her shoulder at him. "I'm jogging," she stated as though it was obvious as, in fairness, it was, "I agreed to look after you, but I still have a schedule to keep."
"Eliza, I am not chasing after you," Arthur contradicted his own stubbornness, taking a few jaunty hopping steps to try and catch up.
But she was too far ahead, already about to disappear over the ridge. Without missing a beat, she spun around, jogging backwards, to speak to him.
"Well, if you put in some effort you wouldn't need to," she badgered him.
Before he could rebuttal, she focused her attention in the direction they were headed and accelerated, the sight of her swishing ponytail vanishing over the little mound.
Growing out of breath simply from walking uphill, Arthur' forehead creased in mild exasperation and he hurried after her, stopping at the top of the incline as the other kept going.
"Elizabeth, stop it," he demanded in his most authoritative tone, as though she had ever listened to it.
Ignoring him completely, he watched her reach the other side and begin her decent, bobbing from his sight once more.
Realising his efforts to halt her were pointless, a misty sigh of came from his nostrils and he glanced around himself, making sure the coast was clear, then went after her. Pain instantly shot through both of his ankles from the impact of connecting with the paving harder than they were used to and the rest of his body seemed to be in shock as he began jogging just fast enough to reach Eliza.
She heard him approaching and looked back, lips curled upward, but didn't make things an easier for him.
"See, you're perfectly capable," she encouraged, "Just remember to breath."
"Why are you doing this to me?" he beseeched her, panting from their gentle pace.
"Because you need it," Eliza prescribed, showing no mercy as she sped up, expecting Arthur to do the same.
Without much of a choice and too winded to oppose her, the unwilling participant followed suite. His limbs slowly starting to understand what was going on, they complied begrudgingly and propelled him faster, arms swinging, legs finding a rhythm. Sweat had begun to dampen his back, the t-shirt he wore under his jumper sticking to his skin, and his face became hot despite how his cheeks stung from the cold.
Through the soles of his shoes he could feel every pebble and crack in the crumbling path, the unprotected heels of his feet hurting from repeatedly smacking into the concrete. Shockwaves from each hit reverberated up his legs, his brittle bones quaking, the tendons that attached them straining. It was the first time he had used his body for anything other than just being alive in years and it was not best pleased with the sudden exploitation.
So focused on controlling his physical being, Arthur almost missed Eliza swerving off of the main path onto a dirt track that diverted into a cluster of trees.
"Come on, we'll go through here," she urged on.
Stumbling as he changed directions, the man that struggled close behind her could hardly hear her voice over the pounding in his ears. Blood raced through his system to fuel his unused muscles, tickling his extremities and heating his neck. His insides burned too, like the friction of air being drawn through his arid throat had sparked a fire in his lungs. A brief smattering of rain trickled down through the bare canopy overhead, a drop or two landing on his skin and he was surprised they didn't sizzle away on contact.
"Keep your head up, stop looking at the ground," Eliza's advice accompanied the sound of water on leaves.
"It's starting to rain," Arthur somehow found the breath to gasp hoping to discourage her, to which Eliza gave a short laugh.
"You've lived on this miserable little island for twenty-four years, you should be used to it by now. Stop looking for excuses," she chastised. Her obstinance was surely a match for his own, if not worse.
He followed her guidance, strenuously lifting his hanging head so that air could more freely flow and concentrated on drawing it in and expelling it evenly to distract from the searing agony elsewhere. The tautness of his muscles grew slowly more relaxed and moving became easier as he didn't have to think about what his legs were doing, feeling them move automatically. His scrambled vision cleared as his breathing stabilised and he looked around himself to see that the sun had graced them with an appearance.
Dappled silver weaved between the tangled branches above and scattered the path ahead in a crosshatched pattern, glinting between them as Arthur went. Rays of light caught the droplets that rested on the shrubbery so that the woods around him sparkled and the sweet plapping of water on earth was calming above the sound of his own rasping. If he listened to it hard enough his heartbeat could synchronise, he imagined.
He wasn't able to enjoy the serenity of nature for too long, however, as his body screamed at him to stop. After the abuse he had put them through, his lungs weren't willing to cater to his sudden fervour and decided when enough was enough. The dryness in his throat had worked its way further down and scratched at the inside of his ribs, clawing to be let out, which he it was as a coughing fit caused him to halt.
Doubling over with his hands on his knees, he sputtered until his eyes watered and heard the footsteps ahead of him slow then turn back on themselves.
"Alright, I get the message," Eliza chuckled pityingly, her shadow darkening the ground at his feet, "That's enough for now."
"You think I'm ever doing that again?" Arthur balked, looking up to her amused face.
She reached over to pat him gently on the back with sympathy in her smile. "At least you tried," she commended, "I'll buy you tea as a sorry."
According to her there was a café somewhere in the park not far from where they were, and she led the way. On wavering legs, Arthur walked alongside her, glad she was no longer in a hurry, and felt his body cooling rapidly. Like steam, the heat rose from his skin and seemed to take with it the toxins that polluted his mind as, although his bones felt as though they had tripled in weight, something about him was lighter.
They wandered along the overarched avenue through the speckled shade that came through at an angle, the sun having passed its midway point an hour or two prior. Taking the scenic route to enjoy the unseasonal weather to its fullest, they made it to their destination and headed directly in, Arthur choosing a table that looked out onto the green while Eliza ordered. Gazing distractedly through the decoratively framed window as she approached, the lowering sun caught the residual raindrops that freckled the glass so that they gleamed in shades of amber and blue, like jewels.
"How are your legs feeling?" Eliza enquired as she placed their drinks down and slid into the chair opposite her friend.
"Not too bad but I'm sure I'll be in agony tomorrow," Arthur half joked in return, smiling sardonic passive aggression across at her.
A twinge of guilt curved her mouth. "I'm sorry, but you needed to get out. It isn't good for a person to hole themselves away the way that you do," she wouldn't show too much remorse, standing firmly with her intentions.
"A walk would have done just fine," the other countered, finding his arms shook slightly as he picked up his cup, nerves still jittering with adrenaline.
"Nonsense, you need to get your blood pumping," the far fitter of the two enthused, "You know, if you don't use your body every now and again it will start shutting down on you. You'll thank me for this tomorrow."
Snorting a doubtful laugh, Arthur raised a sweat dampened eyebrow. "We'll see about that," he tempered.
"If you continue not to look after yourself, I am always happy to step in," she kindly threatened. "Honestly, you're so busy worrying about everything around you most of the time that you-"
"That I don't look after myself," Arthur cut in to finish for her with a pointed look, "I know."
Eliza's thin brows drew together, her seriousness softening. "Then do something about it," she softly pushed.
"I'm working on it," the younger of the two breathed earnestly.
"Good, I'm glad," his counterpart expressed. Dumping several sugars into her frothy drink, she took one of the thin, wooden sticks to stir it and tutted to herself as she did so. "I just got these done," she complained with mild irritation as she examined her muted pink nails, the middle one of which was chipped.
Unaware that she was being studied with some amusement, she fussed over the flaking polish, her full lips tightening as she picked at it further. She was a far cry from the Elizabeta Arthur had first met years ago, an elegant woman having taken the place of the tom-boy he had been friends with at school.
He could remember a time she would scoff at the girls that did their makeup in the toilets at break, herself covered in mud from playing sports with the boys. They would argue over whose team she would be on as she could outpace any one of them, plus most of them had a crush on her.
Not to say that she had changed in spirit as she still very much had a wild streak to her that ran straight through her core. A vivacity that could never be fully contained by the pristine image she liked to present.
"You've changed," he muttered musingly, lips creeping up at the corners.
The woman he observed ceased her grooming and frowned a little. "I don't think so," she rejected.
"Yes, you have," Arthur argued, his grin stretching at the pout that formed on her mouth.
"Well, I'm sorry I'm not thirteen anymore," she apologised sarcastically.
Arthur couldn't help but snigger at her defensiveness as he shook his head. "It's not an insult, I was just thinking," he justified, resting his head in his hand to look at her oval face from an angle. "I suppose I only notice it because you're away so much. It's like you leave one person and come back another."
She half smiled with him at the thought, taking a breath before she replied.
"I think that might all be done now," she considered, "I've seen what I wanted to see. Time to do something new."
"Settling down?" Arthur was surprised.
"Perhaps," Eliza hummed, diverting her eyeline to the view beyond the window where the sun had started nestling below the sloping hill.
Staying a while longer where they sat as Arthur doubted his ability to stand, they watched as the light faded and the grassy field outside was scorched orange. They turned their backs on it to leave, making their way out through the trees and back to the streets, conversation turning to the next day which Arthur remembered with some shock was Christmas.
"What are you doing? You know you're welcome at ours," he offered to his companion whose family had migrated elsewhere in the continent.
"Thanks, but I'm going to Gil's place. He's been moping about Ludwig being away with Feli this year," she declined.
A smirk itched at his mouth and Arthur struggled to keep it from his voice. "Just the two of you? How romantic," he couldn't resist teasing.
"Really, you have to stop speculating, it's ridiculous," she tellingly overreacted, refusing to make eye contact.
In spite of his insistence that there was no need, she walked him to his front door in the waning light, admiring the decorations in the windows they passed. Through the drawn curtains in his own home, Arthur could see the downstairs lights glowing warm yellow and knew Francis had come home early, most likely already panicking about preparations for the next day. Pushing open the front door, he found he was right.
"I thought I asked you to keep him company, not kidnap him," Francis appeared in the hallway to address Eliza on hearing them enter, his frustration consisting mostly of building seasonal stress.
"He wasn't forced against his will, Francis," she rolled her eyes and giggled sweetly.
"Agree to disagree," Arthur mumbled, shooting her a mischievous look to which she narrowed her eyes back just as playfully.
The sight of his significant other in a good mood easing his tension, Francis exhaled and shook his head. "Will you stay a little while, since you are here?" he invited.
"I've got to get home," Eliza replied, moving to hug them goodbye before Francis stopped her.
"Wait one moment," he stepped back and went to the living room, quickly returning with a bag containing several wrapped packages, "Take these, for you and Gilbert."
She tsked as she took it. "Oh, Francis you shouldn't have," she lamented in appreciation.
"From us," he included his partner in the gesture, kissing her on both cheeks, "Merry Christmas."
"You too, both of you," she bid farewell to Arthur in the same manner and made promises to see them some time around new years before leaving their driveway.
Slipping off his shoes, thinking he should probably throw them out, and removing his jumper once inside the warmth, Arthur could smell that his other half had been hard at work.
"Sorry about that, I was pressganged," he felt somewhat guilty for not being around to help with the prep work, not that he would have been much use had he been home.
"That is alright, I have been managed to get everything done," Francis was unfazed, as evidenced by the pre-seasoned turkey that was set out on the table and the cake baking in the oven, filling the house with the rich aroma of fruit and spices. "Where did you go?"
"To the park," Arthur stood in the kitchen doorway where the older of the couple was checking on the oven, "She made me jog."
A stifled laugh came from the other's turned back, prompting Arthur to furrow a brow.
"What's so funny about that?" he asked.
"Nothing," Francis expelled another sound of amusement, "I just cannot imagine it."
"You're so supportive of me," Arthur drawled, arms folded as he leaned against the doorframe.
"Non, I think it is good that you tried," Francis retracted, "and if you liked it you should do it more."
"God no," the other immediately shot back as the older of them came over for a kiss.
Pecking his lover lightly on the lips, he smiled coyly as the other nuzzled into his neck and embraced him.
"What's all that for?" Arthur murmured, pulling back.
"I am happy you had a good day today," Francis drew away to look him in the eye, his tone bordering on relief.
Saddened as he recognised what he meant, Arthur placed a hand under his stubbled chin and coaxed it back to him until Francis made a sound into the kiss.
"You do not smell good, cherie," he spoke against his lips.
With a frown, the smaller man leant away and pulled the collar of his shirt up to smell it. Realising that he did, indeed, reek of sweat his nose wrinkled and he went to head up the stairs to cleanse himself.
"You should wear shorts more often," he heard purred from behind him as he ascended.
Ignoring his partner's leering eyes as he required his full effort to drag himself up the stairs with the help of the banisters, he peeled his clothing off and stepped into the shower. The water instantly helped to relax the muscles which had already begun to tense up again, damp hands massaging out the knots. After thoroughly scrubbing off the grime, he returned downstairs renewed to Francis who waited in the living room, poised to Skype Alfred.
Queenie joined in to oversee the conversation from the back of the sofa where she prowled behind them and their call was accepted almost instantly.
"Hey, wha-…ou gu-…" Alfred's voice crackled over the line, his image jumping about the screen.
"Alfred?" Francis fiddled with the screen, his forehead wrinkled as he tried to improve the connection.
"H-…on." The pixelated picture fuzzed as Alfred picked up his laptop and moved, his clarity improving greatly as he set it down in a new location. "Alright, how's that?"
His cheery face showed clearly as he settled back into a chair.
"Ah, much better, mon cher. Now we can see that beautiful face," Francis grinned as he drew a chuckle from the younger man.
"How are you even surviving without it," Alfred joked back, "Yeah, connection here is pretty bad, I think it's the snow."
"Oh, I am so jealous of you," Francis pouted, "I have always longed for snow at Christmas."
"I'm getting kind of sick of it to be honest," the other's lip curled in displeasure as he glanced to the side of himself, presumably out of a window, "It's so fucking cold and wet every time you go outside."
"It must look nice, though. All we've had is rain," Arthur put a positive spin on it.
"It is pretty to look at," Alfred reflected, "Like a Charles Dickins book or some shit."
Restraining from commenting on his brother's phrasing, Arthur was more interested in his wellbeing after having been out of the loop the previous few days, asking how he had been eating, sleeping, etcetera. Basically, ensuring that Paul and Linda had been taking adequate care of him.
"Yeah, I've just been trying to catch up on sleep really, haven't done much else," he regaled, his slouching posture indicating he was still working on it, "Oh, yeah, guess what I did with Paul yesterday."
He perked up, leaning forward as he waited for them to speculate.
"There had better not be guns involved," Arthur warned with a prematurely disapproving expression.
"What? No, he let me drive his truck," the younger sibling clarified exuberantly.
"I do hope you were careful," Francis shared his partner's concerns.
"Sure we were, we were on his property so there was no one else around. Still kind of a rush, though." As they were all aware by that point, Alfred was quite the adrenaline junkie. Always the first to take a dare and the only member of the family whose number of trips to A and E were in the double digits. "I think I'm going to learn how to drive when I get back."
"Just be careful, please," Arthur groaned, half disparaging at the idea of his brother being allowed on the roads. One more accident waiting to happen.
"I am, I swear. They don't have free health care out here, you think I can afford to not be?" his criticism prompted some laughter from the older two until something in the kitchen dinged and distracted Francis.
Jumping up with some urgency to go and attend to his culinary efforts, a pining sigh came from the man on the other side of the screen.
"Awh man, what are you making?" he shouted through to him.
"Just basting the turkey," Francis replied.
"I don't know why you're going to so much effort, Francis, it'll just go to waste," Arthur discouraged his other half, having seen the ludicrous amount of food he was preparing for the three of them.
An indignant scoffing came from the younger Kirkland, however, as he objected. "Um, I don't think so. You better be saving it for me."
Coming through with a spoon still in his hand, Francis placed one hand on his hip and smirked. "But I thought you said you were looking forward to all that American food," he harkened back to something he had said weeks ago chidingly, holding out the spoon covered in stuffing for Arthur to try.
Never one to pass up an opportunity to wind his brother up, Arthur leaned over to take a bite, the couple snickering together when Alfred regretted his words.
"I didn't mean it, you know I think your cooking is the best," he praised as his family added insult to injury, "You're the best chef, amazing, five stars, you should have your own cooking show."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Francis sang, unable to resist the compliments, even if they were half in jest, "I suppose I should keep some for you."
"Such a narcissist," Arthur shook his head at his other half's ego though had to admit he had the skills to back it up.
"I cannot help that they are not feeding him properly, he is a growing boy, is he not?" the older man justified.
They spoke quite a while longer and Arthur would have liked to continue but the connection got worse again and they were forced to leave it.
"You may wish to make yourself scarce, I told my parents I would call today," Francis cautioned him before he had gotten too comfortable pressed into the indent of his warm shoulder.
With a slightly displeased sound, he hauled himself from his seat and hid away in the kitchen for the duration of their interactions. Rapid and affectionate French spurted across the hallway and he eavesdropped involuntarily, their volume not allowing him much of a choice. He was grateful that Francis didn't bring him up in conversation, knowing it would only elicit disdain from the two older French residents, something that Francis had learned himself. Even their son's words weren't enough to get them to like his choice in partner.
Arthur wasn't entirely sure what it was that had turned them against him, they had just seemed to hate him from the very beginning. No one was good enough for their child, especially not some weedy, little, English boy. He'd have felt bad, for Francis' sake, had he not already done everything within his power to gain their approval. He had learned an entire bloody language just to impress them for God's sake, he thought bitterly, and they hadn't even thought to repay him the same basic respect he had shown them at every turn. Eventually he had gotten the message and given up, simply avoiding contact with them as that seemed the only option to keep everyone happy.
Apart from Francis, that was, and that was really the only reason it still bothered him. He was perfectly capable of dealing with people not liking him, he'd had to learn quickly at school, but he knew that it hurt Francis that the people he cared about couldn't get along. Although the elder of the couple was under no illusions that it was mostly his parents at fault, it was only natural for someone to want their family to approve of their life choices. However, they had been assured many times it was not the nature of their relationship that was the issue, leaving the blame solely on Arthur.
Anger rose in him at the thought of their judgement, indignant at being labelled inadequate. Odd seeing as he had branded himself as such long ago. But it was different when other people said it, people that had never put in the effort to get to know him and so had no right to think so. Frowning, Arthur almost had the mind to go over and share his views but refrained from doing so, instead relishing in the long-forgotten shred of self-worth he had managed to unearth.
In any case, Francis had chosen him over them. A hint of pride grazed his chest, a warming, positive feeling at the fact that a creature as perfect as the man he had the privilege of calling his partner had sworn his loyalty to him. He had taken Arthur over his own flesh and blood. Over the more comfortable, exceptional life that Arthur was sure any number of prospective suitors would be more than happy to give him. He truly loved that man, that sweet, beautiful person, and he only hoped that one day he might be able to show that through his actions as no words he could think of would suffice.
Caught in the throes of these impromptu, passionate musings by the man he romanticised over, Arthur found his cheeks heated by the sight of him. Blissfully ignorant of being admired, though, Francis drifted by, trailing a hand through his lover's short locks as he went, and saw to fussing over the next day's preamble some more. Affording said infatuated lover quite the appealing view as he bent to open the oven once again, he remained unknowing of the eyes upon him.
"It is not rising as I would like," he showed the first signs of distress over the sunken looking fruitcake, "Perhaps I should start again."
Disappointed, blue eyes looked nervously to the clock, calculating whether he still had time. One hand placed on his waist, the other rose to his soft lips, poking at them anxiously as they quirked in discontent.
"There's nothing wrong with it, just leave it alone," Arthur reassured him.
Standing upright, looking down through the window into the oven, Francis hummed unsurely.
"But the texture will not be right," his perfectionist streak irked him still, as it did every year.
"Why are you worrying, there's only going to be us three there to see it," the younger man pointed out, "and we're not exactly harsh critics."
Glancing between his partner and his confectionary antagonist, Francis shifted his weight between legs and sighed heavily, deciding to leave it be much to his own chagrin.
"I just want it to go well," he muttered, unsatisfied.
The heat in his ribcage returning as he observed his significant other's inner turmoil, Arthur found himself totally endeared by how deeply Francis cared about things, no matter how seemingly inconsequential. Rising from his seat at the kitchen table, he stepped closer to direct the other's face towards his own, looking him in the eye.
"Everything will be perfect," he guaranteed, certain he knew what perfect was as he pecked its lips tenderly, "Just perfect."
Though convinced for the time being by his other half's loving persuasion, it took Arthur another hour to force Francis out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Knowing they would likely be up at the crack of dawn the next day and fatigued from everything he had been through physically, he opted for an early night and was dead on hitting the pillow, only vaguely aware of the body beside him wrapping around him.
As expected, an alarm set by the more seasonally enthusiastic of the pair woke the both of them at a time more reasonable than Arthur had been anticipating but still earlier than he would have liked. For a moment, however, it seemed Francis was willing to delay acting on it as he rolled over to lay an arm across the smaller man's exposed shoulder. Glancing up to the half-opened eyes above him, Arthur mirrored the contented smile he saw in them and burrowed further into the embrace.
"Joyeux Noël, mon ange," vibrated from the chest he laid his head on.
"Merry Christmas," Arthur semi consciously replied, about to lapse back to sleep until he was shifted from his human pillow.
"Come along, amour, I want to get most of the work done before Matthieu gets here," Francis ushered, eager to get finished what he had already started.
In order to make the day as stress free as he could, Arthur had learned it was best to allow himself to be swept up in the other's flustered tide of activity and so started moving while Francis was already in the bathroom. A sharp twinge that ran from his feet to the tip of his spine put a swift stop to that, however, as his body made a late retaliation against what it had been made to endure. Bones turned to lead, he fought to lift them, and pain prodded him in various places.
Yet stiff and sore as he was, it wasn't the same feeling as the usual plagues he put up with. In a way it was justified, like his flesh was reminding him he had actually done something. Reminding him with horrible pain, yes, but he found that it lessened the more he moved and dissipated a little in the shower. He wasn't clamouring to thank Eliza as she had claimed he would any time soon, though.
After being tutted at for his drab choice in jumper by his more presentable counterpart, they went downstairs where he was immediately put to work.
"Really? All of this?" he raised a questioning brow at the sheer volume of vegetables he was given for peeling.
"It is not that much," Francis shrugged as he rolled up his sleeves, taming his hair back into a ponytail.
Sceptical but silent, Arthur did what he was instructed to do. It was only time of year he was allowed to play an active part in the kitchen and even then, it was under strict supervision. Relegated mostly to peeling, chopping and keeping Queenie away from the food, he made an effort to stay out of the more competent chef's path for fear of worsening his frenzied state.
The juxtaposition of jolly Christmas music against the image of him frantically dashing about the cluttered room was somewhat comical as he attempted to keep on top of every boiling pot and dish, talking to himself in his native tongue as he ticked things off his mental list. Gaze constantly flicking to the clock as though they were being timed, he would occasionally vocalise his frustration with a strained huff before racing to the next thing.
Through what appeared to be complete disarray, however, there was apparently an underlying plan to everything as, when one thing came out of the oven the next went in with perfect synchronisation. Around them, timers went off and the most amazing scents disbursed through the house and Arthur was sure he had only been given the odd job to do so that he felt useful.
Standing back to admire his work, Francis wiped his hands down his apron and allowed himself a moment of pride.
"There," he nodded, "I think that is everything."
Beside him, Arthur did likewise, looking happily over to the smiling face of the taller man to chuckled at the streak of icing sugar that dusted his left cheek.
"I think that's plenty," he assured, lifting a heavy hand to wipe away the sweet powder, letting it cup his jawline.
The giddiness of the season having gotten to both of them without them noticing, they met eyes and leaned in together. Kissing with a sweetness, both metaphorical and actual, that was intensified by the amplified connection that couples tend to feel around special times of the year, when everything is more meaningful as there is someone to share it with. The kind of inner fuzziness like the heart is wrapped in fur and the senses are heightened only to the good things around them, dulled to pain and sadness.
Arms winding their way around one another, their innocent embrace deepened, Arthur tilting his head back. Slowly reciprocating with a hint of pleasant surprise, Francis began to lean his body closer but stopped as they were signified of their lone guests' arrival by a knock on the door. Pulling away, their gazes rested gently upon each other a few seconds, faint smiles being exchanged along with one final kiss which Arthur jestingly swerved out of to lick his lover's sugar-coated cheek.
"Disgusting," Francis scoffed humorously, wiping away the dampness with his palm as they both laughed at their own adorably, saccharine idiocy.
Kind of a short chapter, I know and I apologise, but like I said before the structure of this section got kind of screwed up and I had to do something to fix it.
Anyway, I wanted to say thank you to the people that reviewed my last chapter as I got more feedback than usual which was really amazing. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter as much as the last as it was a lot of fun to write. I always love writing parts for side characters and I think Eliza is one of my favourites.
Review, follow and favourite if you enjoyed.