Unperturbed by the onslaught of loving merriment he faced on entering, Matthew greeted his family with equal happiness, looking a little lonesome by himself.
"Merry Christmas, you guys," he smiled to his brother over the shoulder of the man who embraced him.
"Merry Christmas, Matt," Arthur reflected his expression as he watched the life be squeezed from him, tutting, "Francis, let the poor boy go."
Fussing over him some more, Francis relieved him of the bags he carried and took them through to the living room to leave them beneath the tree alongside the other brightly coloured packages that had built up over the preceding weeks. "We shall do gifts after we eat," he announced and glanced at his watch, "which should be in about one hour, is that alright?"
He looked to the youngest amongst them who simply gave an easy-going nod, offering a quiet, "Sure, you need my help with anything?"
"Non, merci cheri, it is all under control," the older man trilled, relishing in his role as host, "Are you hungry now?"
A soft chuckle fell from Matthew's lips as his surrogate brother persisted in clucking, and Arthur was pleased to observe the levity with which he smiled.
"No, thanks, I'll wait," he declined as he removed his coat.
"For God's sake, Francis, calm down. He hasn't even come in yet," Arthur quelled his partner's eagerness, rolling his eyes then directing them to his brother, "How have you been?"
"Good, thanks," the younger man replied brightly, his face matching his tone.
Nonetheless, Arthur scoured his features for any sign of a lie, making sure nothing was being held back. Since the last time they had seen one another, both older men had been in more constant contact with him, texting daily. It was only natural to worry, after all and in a way, Arthur welcomed the distraction from his other wayward sibling. He seemed to mean what he had said, however, his eyes bright, his smile without strain.
From the living room came a loud, complaintive meowing as Queenie emerged to demand why she wasn't the centre of attention, something Matthew was happy to rectify as he scooped her up. Her immediate liking of the gentle boy was evident as she curled in his arms, at ease with him. Reaching up one of her downy paws, she batted at the drawstrings on Matthew's hoodie, his nose crinkling as he laughed softly and carried her through to the kitchen where the group convened. Perching on a clear counter he shuffled back and let the cat settle on his lap, half of his attention dedicated to her as they chatted. Though the conversation flowed it was notably quieter than usual without Francis' scolding Alfred for stealing food whenever his back was turned, his scorn instead directed at Arthur who earned a slap on the backside for taking one of the cherries from the cake.
Over the sound of their voices, birdsong could be heard from outside, yet they really had nothing to sing about. The day was a moody shade of grey, the clouds occasionally throwing down a handful of rain that slapped the ground with a ferocity that almost shook the windowpanes. But, barely noticed by those inside, the dismal weather only served to intensify the warmth with which the room glowed.
The house had smelled heavenly before but only intensified as Francis continued his seemingly never-ending work, their kitchen surely the envy of the street. As more and more dishes piled on the table, Matthew was put to work taking down the serving plates from the shelves that the other two couldn't reach and Arthur made himself useful by plating things. Of course, everything was reorganised several times over to suit Francis' vision but at least Arthur could claim he had been helpful.
By the time the last item was ready, the table barely had room for the three of them to sit down yet they managed to squeeze themselves around the small surface, after Francis had immortalised his masterpiece with an abundance of photos. An admirable spread, one that Alfred would no doubt be jealous of when shown the pictures later that day. A mishmash of incohesive recipes ranging from traditional French dishes to ones Alice had used to bring out at that time of year, rather improved upon by Francis' culinary talent, he wasn't afraid to admit.
With the help of Francis' encouragement, or command rather, they polished off an impressive amount. Laughing amongst themselves, however, they agreed it was hardly a dent compared to what Alfred would have managed, picturing him scraping the dregs off of the last plate then asking when desert would be ready. The absent boy was truly a wonder when it came to his appetite, a black hole of a human. Perhaps his stay in America would finally fill the void that seemed to reside somewhere in him, Arthur considered, though if Francis' efforts hadn't been able to, he doubted anything could.
Said man's habit of feeding people was being fully indulged, impossible to tame as he ladled out spoonfuls of potato, insisting they hadn't had enough. It was something he had always done, only wanting to take care of people in the best way he knew how. When he had been first formally introduced to the rest of the Kirkland family, after more than a few weeks of dating incognito, he had turned up to dinner with a selection of delicate pastries he had made by hand, instantly winning Alfred over. Not that such persuasion was necessary for Alice as she had welcomed him with open arms, treating him like a fourth son from the very first moment as she did with every little lamb brought to her doorstep.
Contrary to what he would have his other half believe, Arthur quite vividly remembered the early stages of their relationship. The sensation of heart in mouth and fire in the cheeks at every touch, awkward fumblings and any excuse for fleeting contact. A hand on his thigh under the desk at school, chaste kisses behind the cover of a bus stop that dare not linger, the first time Francis had smuggled him home and up to his room where he was surprised to find out no one had been invited before. All very trite and tender and embarrassing to reflect on.
Almost a decade older they sat and enjoyed one another's company, much the same as they always had done with two notable absences. It was strange the way that time changed things, so slowly, so subtly that a person hardly noticed it altering the world around them. Little by little the years morphed things and eventually, in a moment of awareness, a person would come to realise that everything and everyone had been replaced with slightly more worn versions of themselves.
Across from him was a new Francis, his face harsher, only marginally so, and drawn out with the weight of the years they had been through together. To his side was a different Matthew, the spark of naivete that resided in his smile dissipating the longer it was observed, and Arthur came to realise it had vanished years ago. Practically strangers in that moment, his family remained unaware of his thoughts, continuing to change and evolve before his eyes. Yet he knew these two strangers and cherished them no less for the fact that they had aged.
Throughout the meal Queenie softly mewed under the table, brushing between their ankles and occasionally rising up on her back legs to investigate the table with her curious nose. The oldest amongst them reprimanded the other two when they catered to her pleading, dropping scraps to the floor for her to hungrily scoff, although it was hardly a waste considering how remained untouched. After an hour of Francis force feeding his family, they were still left with enough to have the same meal again the next day, which they most likely would as well as the day after, and they packed as much as they could into the fridge. The three of them working together to tidy the space which stood in a state of mild destruction managed to clear it with relative ease so that they moved on to the next event of the day.
Dragging out several immaculately wrapped gifts from under the tree, pine needles pinging about the room like tiny missiles, Francis delegated them out. A large cube too heavy to lift was pushed towards Matthew with a grunt of effort and an armlength, flat rectangle was handed with less strain to Arthur.
"You didn't need to bother wrapping it," Matthew told them appreciating the gesture nonetheless, as he already knew what was inside.
"But how sad and unfestive it would look under the tree with no sparkles on it," Francis anthropomorphised, eagerly awaiting it to be opened.
Letting out a breath in amusement, the younger man broke the suspense, ripping the paper to reveal several thick, hardbacked volumes.
"Sorry we have nothing to surprise you with," Arthur apologised, thinking their gift rather dull.
"No, it's exactly what I asked for, thank you," Matthew dispelled his brother's worries with his earnest gratitude and a smile to match.
"You are most welcome, ma cherie," Francis beamed before looking over to Arthur, anticipation for him to open his gift evident on his face.
However, he found his other half lent over the arm of the sofa, half buried in the tree as he rummaged. Emerging with an envelope in his hand, Arthur handed it to his partner and waited quietly, somewhat sheepishly, for him to open it.
Francis' was the only gift he ever agonized over as he was notoriously impossible to buy for. He always liked whatever he was given and never complained but there just never seemed to be a particular thing he actually wanted. When asked he would simply say it didn't matter, leaving his loved ones at a loss, which was why that year Arthur had taken a slight gamble. One he was reasonably sure would pay off.
Intrigued, the other's brows drew together as he split the top of the plain, white envelope and pulled out two tickets to the royal ballet, his expression turning to pleasant surprise.
"They're for the end of spring, I couldn't get anything sooner, I'm afraid. Hope that's alright," he unnecessarily fretted, "I thought we could stay in the city on that weekend. A hotel by the river or something."
The eyes of his other half melting over him at his gesture, Arthur offered a subtle upturn of his lips.
"That is such a wonderful idea," Francis commended, looking over the tickets once more then tucking them back in the envelope for safe keeping, "Merci, mon lapin."
He craned his neck upward from where he sat below Arthur on the floor for a kiss which the other was happy to return, drawn deeper into it than he expected when a hand held the back of his neck. Peeling their lips apart, a little embarrassed at such a display in front of his younger brother, Arthur cleared his throat and uttered, "Well, I'm glad I found something you like."
The older man sat back, glancing between his partner and the unopened gift in his lap.
"Will you not open mine next?" he urged, unable to contain excitement a second longer.
Thinking he should do as his other half asked before he started whining like an impatient puppy, Arthur stood the rectangle on one of its thin edges on his lap and ripped the paper from one of the ends. Conscious of the three sets of eyes watching him, as Queenie had taken a seat in the armchair behind Francis to look over the strange human proceedings, he worked quickly to uncover what was concealed and pulled away a strip of paper to reveal a fourth gaze. One that caught him thoroughly off guard.
A set of upside-down, pale grey blue eyes, bunched up at the corners, caused him to pause. A singular beat resounded through his body, from his chest it sent a wave out to the tips of his fingers, the souls of his feet, the top of his head. The feeling of being struck by an unexpected recognition. His breath trickled from his lips which had fallen slightly apart, and his eyes were wide as he stared into those of his mother.
Awareness slowly coming back to him as he sat silent and gaping for what felt like an hour, he freed the woman from her paper prison and flipped her the right side up. Resting the canvas in his lap to look in some disbelief at the scene, the shock of it managed to keep the welling in his throat at bay.
"Where did you get this?" his voice was hardly more than a whisper like he was afraid of alarming the captured image who looked at something to her left, unaware of the camera pointed at her.
"It was on one of my old cameras, I found it when we were going through all of our things before we moved," Francis beamed up at him, "You like it, oui?"
"It's beautiful," Arthur breathed, in awe.
Sliding his palm down the side of the canvas, his thumb brushed the flowers, pastel pink and lilac and yellow, that framed the image. The way they cropped the bottom of the frame gave the impression that the photographer had been hiding amongst them in order to get the shot, which may have been the case. Alice had always hated having her photo taken, turning her face away and covering herself with her hands whenever a camera was taken out, far more comfortable being the one behind it herself. It had been a difficult task to find a picture of her suitable to go alongside her coffin and Arthur had been forced to use one they had found in an old photo album from some twenty odd years ago, though she had hardly looked any different.
Her face had always seemed so ageless, perhaps because she had never had the chance to age, and radiated through the picture the spark and zest for life of someone with half her years. Frozen mid laugh, the thin fingers of one delicate hand half obscuring her lips, the other lay on the low, mossy wall on which she perched. To her back was another red brick wall, barely visible for the ivy that enveloped it in a deep green embrace so that the light sky blue of her dress shone against it. The sun beamed directly down onto her, illuminating her, though it felt rather that she was the source of light, projecting it out of her body with splendid, golden heat.
Studying the background closer, Arthur recognised where it was taken. The grounds of a stately home they had often visited when the twins had too much energy to expel in their own back garden and needed more space to roam. It had been one of her favourite places.
"Thank you," he struggled to expel words that accurately expressed how he felt and had to settle for the inadequately simple sentiment.
"You are most welcome," Francis practically glowed with how pleased he was to see his gift had gone over well.
Having told Alfred they would save the gifts that he and Matthew had gotten them for when they spoke to him later in the day so that he could watch, they held off on opening the remaining presents. Some second-rate TV movie that Francis liked was on and so they resulted to half watching it while they waited for the time difference between continents to align.
Most amusingly, Queenie was fascinated by the paper that littered the carpet, attacking it quite viciously. Not wanting her to be left out of the festivities, Matthew had brought her some more toys, though she neglected them in favour of the trash, not that he minded. Her pupils dilated so that her green eyes looked completely black, she pounced and pinned the shredded scraps to the floor before rolling over to rub herself on them, the texture of it against her fur apparently pleasing.
Entertaining themselves until Arthur received the text they had been waiting for as the sky was darkening outside, he pulled out the laptop to find his brother already calling. Accepting the call to be immediately bombarded with a crudely sung but enthusiastic rendition of 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas' where the lyrics 'to you and your kin' were mistakenly recited as 'you and your king', the group laughed, heads shaking at the younger man's nonsense.
"Bravo," Francis applauded him, Alfred taking a joking bow from his seated position.
"It's kin, Alfred," Arthur corrected him amusedly as he had done many times before.
"It's who now?" Alfred frowned slightly, adjusting his monitor to get a better view.
"Kin, not king," the older sibling repeated.
"Yeah, that's what I said," Alfred dismissed, "So do I not get a Merry Christmas back then?"
"Joyeux Noël, mon petit. What have you been doing today?" Francis jumped in to wish him warmly.
"Well, it's still morning over here but things are already getting pretty busy," he remarked, glancing over his shoulder, "There's, like, twenty people here and I think more are coming later."
He seemed almost uncomfortable at the thought, something Arthur found odd as he had never once witnessed his brother waver in such a situation before.
"Anyone we know?" Matthew asked but the elder twin shook his head.
"Not that I can recognise but apparently they're all Linda's relatives, or something?" he shrugged, his expressive mouth downturned at the edges, clearly displeased by something but he moved on with the conversation before anyone could point this out, "You guys didn't open our presents yet, did you?"
Violet laced eyes rolling behind their frames, Matthew answered with quiet exasperation. "No, they haven't. I told you I would ask them to wait."
"You want to do that now?" Alfred raised an eyebrow to the older couple who looked at one another and nodded.
Inching closer to the monitor as Francis pulled out the bag Matthew had brought, Alfred directed which was for who.
"Alright, so the heavy one is for you, Francis, and the other one is Artie's, but be careful with it," he peered closely at his screen with voyeuristic glee.
Francis unwrapped his first, a set of multicoloured pans that he had pointed out to Matthew some months back.
"We must redecorate the kitchen with a rainbow to match," he half jested.
"One room at a time, dear," Arthur responded dryly, unwrapping his own cube with care.
Both younger siblings shifted to get a better view of the reveal, Alfred practically pressing his face against the camera lens, and waited for their brother's reaction.
Before the gift was fully opened Arthur could already tell what it was. Through a crack in the paper an unmistakable scent drifted, pungent yet delicate at the same time, sweet yet not cloying. He opened up the flaps of the cardboard box that was under paper to let more of the intoxicating aroma spill free, wafting directly upwards into the face. Taking a breath of it so that it filled his head, some memory, or the memory of a certain mood rather, was sparked in the back of his mind and a warm fuzziness sprouted there.
Arthur reached into the box and pulled out the dainty rose plant that was nestled inside. Barely more than a handful of off-white buds had started to bloom, sparse between the shapely leaves, though the eye was drawn to them. Petals like velour, surprisingly sturdy, were on the verge of unfurling but held back, waiting for spring perhaps.
"Do you like it?" Alfred burst, unable to hold back any longer, "You can keep it inside until the weather is good and then plant it in the garden, I did my research. Can't remember what it's called though."
Cupping one of the buds between his fingers as his mother had taught him to do, Arthur stroked the pristine flower.
"I love it, Al. Both of you, thank you," he glanced to both of his siblings who returned pleased expressions.
"Oh, so tiny," Francis cooed over the plant, taking the pot from his partner's hands to get a better look.
"Arthur, show him what Francis made you," Matthew prompted, having been equally as stunned and delighted by the gesture.
Happy to share his new possession, Arthur held up the canvas for his brother to study, eliciting a fervent reaction.
"Oh my God, I remember that place!" the younger man's features were overcome with beaming nostalgia.
He pulled his glasses away from his face a little to magnify the picture and squinted with bared teeth.
Though Francis was a pain in the ass to buy for, he himself was highly skilled in the art of gift giving and had to stop the pride he felt at his acclaimed accomplishment from showing on his face.
"Do you remember?" Alfred looked to Arthur, willing him to recall their shared memories and laughing to himself.
Lips curled upward; Arthur nodded as he did remember. Every detail.
"Man, we haven't been there in years," the other pondered, "Maybe we could go sometime."
"We should," Arthur hummed, nodding slowly as he focused on the image in his mind's eye more than what was around him in the present.
"And how's about Francy-boy?" Alfred turned his attention to Francis, an eyebrow raised and his tone jovial, "Still no ring under the tree, huh?"
With an exaggerated sigh, Francis glanced to his partner, batting his lashes forlornly. "Alas, non," he lamented, said partner sending back a look of his own.
"Better get on it, dude," the younger man goaded, smirking at the unimpressed expression on his brother's face, "before he loses interest."
"And why is that any of your concern?" Arthur snipped, knowing he should know better than to give Alfred the reaction he was looking for.
A shit eating grin broke out over the younger man's face at having gotten what he wanted. "Alright, I'm only messing with you," he placated, chuckling through his nose and looking to Francis again as he continued to gently tease, "I'm sure he'll do it when he's ready."
"I am to die a spinster," Francis wailed melodramatically to the amusement of all but one.
Though it was growing later in the day where Alfred was, there seemed to be no urgency to celebrate the way there was in the Bonnefoy-Kirkland household, something Alfred expressed mild irritation towards. He still held a rather childlike view of the holidays, probably because Arthur and Francis had tried so hard to preserve how things had been when Alice was alive even as the twins grew older, and it appeared his seasonal standards were not being upheld. His usual exuberance was in no way dampened, however, and he spoke with his usual bubbling animation behind his eyes until other people began to enter the living room in which he sat.
All three politely declined the opportunity to speak with Paul and Linda and the call ended thereafter with many seasonal sentiments and kisses being blown through the camera. As it always did after talking to the younger man, the room fell starkly quiet in his absence and with the laptop closed was near to pitch black. Seemingly offended by this, Francis stood with a tsk and illuminated the room with every fairy light and glowing ornament to be found so that the lounge sparkled with a soft phosphorescence.
Proceeding to force desert upon his family, Arthur had to physically pull him by the arm back into his seat, lest he start shoving the food down their throats himself, and was threatened with champagne in return. It appeared that with no human void to cater to, the older man was at somewhat a loss and by comparison Arthur realised, with an odd sense of acceptance and some guilt, that he didn't miss his brother. His not being there was something that he noticed rather than mourned, the fact that he was half way across the world with strangers was unfortunate but not a tragedy. Perhaps it was because the people around him outnumbered the one that was missing or perhaps it was because he knew that their time apart was not for much longer, but Arthur, for the first time since he had seen him disappear through the airport terminal, was at ease.
The sweet treats that had been so lovingly prepared were only picked at throughout the evening as the group settled into pleasant quiet, conversations being picked up and petering out casually. The fourth furry member of the family switched between the other three members, planting herself intermittently beside Arthur or Matthew as, although much improved upon, her relationship with Francis could still be tenuous. She had taken to the habit of stalking up and down the window sill, her reflective eyes studying the world she couldn't reach, her pink nose leaving tiny, triangle marks the length of the glass.
As a commercial break interrupted the third tacky film of the night, Francis breeched the subject of a new discussion to fill the time. Addressing the boy that sat on the floor before him as he weaved little plaits into his curly mop, Francis half-mindedly asked, "Do you plan on going back to the states at all, Mattieu?"
"Oh, uh, I'm not sure, some time, maybe," the other faltered without looking around, "Why?"
Continuing to thread his fingers through the younger man's hair, Francis shrugged. "I just wondered why you did not go with Alfred."
Matthew remained quiet a moment, tugging down the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands and running the material over his bottom lip.
"Yeah, I don't know," he mumbled awkwardly, "I didn't really want to spend the holidays over there."
"Why is that?" Francis pressed, intrigued.
"Not that we would want you gone," Arthur quickly interjected, sending his partner a light frown as he appeared not to pick up on how uncomfortable the younger man had become.
A soft laugh emitted him, however, and Matthew turned his head to glance back at the other two.
"No, I know. I guess I just…" he paused, his mouth twisting as he came up with the right words, "When we were there last I kind of got the feeling that they got…bored of us after a while."
Becoming serious, Francis leant forward, as did Arthur. "What do you mean, cherie? They were unkind to you?"
"No, no, nothing like that," Matthew defended, shaking his head adamantly, "Only it was almost like we were there for…their amusement or something." His brows drew together as he processed his thoughts, unable to fully express the feeling it had left him with.
"I'm sorry, Matt," Arthur sympathised, holding back his irritation towards the two American's he had known were untrustworthy but feeling no gratification in being proved right.
"It's fine, it wasn't awful or anything, I just don't think I'm going to go back," the younger man proved his maturity in accepting the situation, his nature leading him to forgive and forget without resentment. "I wouldn't have gone out there for Christmas anyway, that's family time in my opinion."
His heart swelling at the sentiment, Arthur chewed at the inside of his cheek to keep his smile from stretching too wide, afraid it may come across as patronising. Francis had no worries of this though as he leaned forward to peck the top of Matthew's downy head.
"Toi gentil garçon," he doted.
As Matthew had planned on staying over there was no rush to end the day, but the fatigue of excess had left them drained. After making up the sofa into a bed which Queenie claimed as hers, the older couple left to their room for the night, relaxing between the covers with many a declaration of how nice the day had been and how appreciative they were of one another's presence.
Voices from the lower floor were amongst the sounds that first greeted Arthur on waking along with the clattering of kitchenware and the whistling of the wind outside. The room was tinged in grey but through the open door a yellow, artificial light filtered in which he emerged into after dressing. Descending the stairs to find the rest of his family, he turned into the kitchen where Francis was at the stove chattering happily with spatula in hand while Matthew leant against the back of a chair cradling Queenie.
It was the cat that noticed the third party's arrival first, fidgeting to be let down and trotting to her master's side, then Matthew who looked over with heavy eyelids, lips quirking upward.
"Morning," he drowsily acknowledged his brother.
"Ah, is that mon amour?" Francis more cheerily greeted, glancing back briefly then returned to the task at hand, "I thought I should try my new equipment. How many do you want?"
Arthur came further into the room to peer up and over his partner's shoulder at the pancake batter turning a crispy golden brown in the brand-new pan.
"I don't know, just make however many you want," he was not yet awake enough to work out the logistics of breakfast.
Having too much fun with his presents to stop, Francis poured in another perfectly circular dollop of the mix as Arthur filled the kettle.
"Did you sleep alright on the sofa?" he spoke to his brother as he prepared two coffees and one tea, simultaneously trying to quiet the cat that brushed around his feet.
Nodding, the younger man's forehead creased, prefacing the yawn which overtook him. "Uh-huh," he vocalized through his hands as he tried to rub the tiredness from his eyes behind his glasses.
A singular laugh blew from the elder sibling as he laid one of the mugs on the table beside him and placed the other next to his partner. Holding his own, he reclined back against the counter surface and took no notice as Queenie sprung up next to him.
"Arthur, please do not let her do that," Francis requested, disgruntled as his boundaries were purposefully tested by the creature, "She knows she is not meant to be up there."
"She's not doing any harm," Arthur argued on behalf of the animal, thinking nothing of it.
"It is unhygienic," Francis' tone raised an octave over the violation of his beloved kitchen.
With a light tut and a roll of his eyes, Arthur obeyed. "My God, alright," he removed the cat to the floor.
Their bickering resolved; the sound of a stifled snigger came from the quietest among them who had been watching with mild amusement. Both older men looking to him in question of what he found so funny, Matthew glanced between them with some humour.
"You don't need a ring, you're already an old married couple," he poked gentle fun of their interactions to which they looked at one another and laughed with him.
Despite having eaten more than he usually would in a week the previous day, Arthur found himself reaching for seconds at the breakfast table. The indulgence of the day prior having kick started something long dormant in him, he found that genuine hunger gnawed at the lining of his stomach, his body reacting accordingly until it was sated.
The other two of the group doing likewise, the morning was quiet around them and, in the tranquillity of it, the stress and dread which had come before the holiday seemed rather unnecessary. He felt he had more reason that year than most to feel such ways, but still, in the grand scheme of things, the fact remained it was only a day like any other. A let down in many ways or would have been had Arthur not stopped expecting so much of it a fair few years ago.
Though undoubtedly pleasant, on looking back he saw Christmas day had always been somewhat a disappointment to him. The culmination of the excitement that had been building since the end of November, thanks to advertisers pushing the holiday earlier and earlier every year, never concluded in the extravagant explosion that was promised. He blamed the media mostly. Hollywood had shown them snow and magic, peace on earth and universal happiness when, in reality, the whole season came to one over glorified day of the year.
He might have called the capitalisation of a religious festival perverse, but even he wasn't that cynical. There was nothing wrong with viewing it more as a time to celebrate loved ones, to connect with people that may be otherwise overlooked through the rest of the year and to exchange material tokens of appreciation. If he was honest, Arthur really didn't mind that the religious aspect was removed and he certainly didn't miss the midnight masses his mother had dragged them all to.
Yet, despite how he had loathed it at the time, each year he still felt the urge to go. Mostly out of respect of her wishes and regret for not upholding them when she was alive but for another reason too. He felt as though being there, in the church hall in which she had spent so much of her life as well as her last moments before being placed inside the earth, may imitate the feeling of being with her. A deluded hope, he knew as much, but every year it sprung to mind. One Winter he had even allowed it to guide him as far as the church gates where he was met with the sight of the vicar who had performed her funeral, causing him to break down where he stood.
Such dour musings were sure to help no one, however, and Arthur refused to let them outstay their welcome. Instead, he endeavoured to spend the rest of his time with his brother as present as he could be before Matthew left around midday. The couple left to their own devices, they decided that boxing day was best spent doing as little as possible. Old reruns of classic Christmas specials kept them occupied enough as they sat together beneath the bedding on the sofa they hadn't bothered to clear, savouring the time they had to waste. Idly passing the day with a warmth between them, it was soon ended and the prospect of returning to work was not one that pleased Arthur.
The office was notably less hectic than it was when he was last there, tediously so. Most people took their holiday after the season had passed as the workload between Christmas and New Year was postponable. Plus, the decision of who got a yearly bonus was decided largely on who stuck around for the Christmas rush, something about showing dedication and selflessness that Arthur really couldn't have cared less about. It wasn't as though he needed the extra money as he had done in previous years when he had worked both Christmas Eve and Boxing Day, early till late in hopes of earning the pitiful sum.
He could have scoffed at how pathetic it appeared to him now, scrounging for money the way he had done, making it his one motivation. Then again, it had been a necessity. There had been no one else to do it for them and, while he was not proud of his desperation, it had been a driving force. He didn't like to think what may have happened if he hadn't been able to use it, channel it into something productive. Contrast with the all consuming panic he could remember feeling every waking moment of his life but one short year ago, before he had relented to the will of the bank and let go of all he had been fighting for, he supposed the absolute boredom he felt in that moment was a privilege.
Sat at his empty desk, head rested lazily in his palm, he scrolled through emails from colleagues and higher ups with a distinct lack of interest. He felt slightly bad for having so little regard for the people he worked with as many of the messages he skimmed were seasonal greetings and well wishes and he realised he must seem quite antisocial having sent nothing of the like out himself. Perhaps he would have regretted not having formed relations with his co-workers had he not found most of them utterly tedious, a thought which, again, caused him mild guilt.
It wasn't their fault he disliked them, most of them anyway, since they were only trying to get by the same as he was. He really shouldn't have let his sour outlook prevent him from being good to people, but he found it difficult to be pleasant when he hated every second he was in that building. A toxic environment was sure to poison people, or perhaps it was his own toxicity and hatred of the place that did it to everyone else. It appeared to be a cycle, much as may things in his life appeared to be, which he would need to break if he wished for the situation to improve but he just didn't care enough to.
Arthur did not enjoy his job and had long since stopped thinking he ever might. There were times he had attempted to make the best of it, working hard, doing his best, excelling at points, but he hadn't been able to fool himself into thinking he happy there for long. Office work was simply not what he was suited to. Dealing with bland people in a stifling environment, he doubted that was anyone's aim in life least of all his. Although he may never have dreamed of fame and fortune, he had certainly hoped for something more, something fulfilling at the very minimum, which his current occupation was categorically not.
What he would rather have done, however, he really couldn't say. No matter how many times he had been asked by adults when he was younger or thought about it himself, he had never been able to come up with an answer to the question 'what do you want to be when you're older?' As all children did, he had wanted to do a number of fantasy jobs: pirate, king, wizard and so on. He had had short lived ambitions of becoming a musician in his teenage years but had soon grown out of that. The navy was his next choice for a fairly long time, the adventure and purpose of it appealed to him, but his plans had been shot down with an emphatic 'no' as soon as they were expressed to his mother.
The only other career he had ever seriously considered was writing. He had shown early promise for it in school, English had consistently been his best subject and he had studied literature all the way to the end of his education. With some sadness he was reminded of his plans to attend university to continue on that path, plans which had never begun to take actual shape as his mother had become ill shortly before he was able to apply. Not that he blamed her, or anyone in particular. Fate simply had other plans, as it so often seemed to. Therefore, due to his unfortunate luck and indecisiveness, he was stuck at a desk under the command of some mid-tier corporation willing the hours to pass.
He did little actual work as there was little to do and picked at the food he had brought from home absentmindedly, finishing the small container without thinking. Alfred began texting him around midday and they kept up a steady exchange of messages, both expressing their restlessness and desire to be home. At one point, Arthur caught his reflection in the monitor which had darkened from inactivity and found himself grinning, the thought of his brother returning home the next day sending a buzz of excitement through him. The poor boy had a full day's journey to endure and was already on his way to the nearest airport as they spoke.
Arthur didn't remember booking another appointment at the therapists' office after his last visit but had seen a reminder on his phone scheduling one that afternoon and so, trusting his former self, left his desk slightly early in order to make it there for the noted time. After having spent his day doing nothing that required brain power, he exited the building feeling no more tired than he had entered it, almost energetic as he strode down the pavement.
Unbothered by the dark and wet, he attempted to recall what had happened when he was last there but found the whole thing had been painted over in his head, only faint patches showing through. What exactly was said may have been lost but the feelings they produced, the reactions from them, were scored into his mind. The discomfort, the strain, the struggle of openness wouldn't leave him in a hurry but from it, as he thought of it over again with the advantage of distance, came a sense of liberation. Accomplishment even.
Though the usual nerves kicked in as he made his way up the short path and into the foyer of the building, the hint of self-assuredness that emerged from his musings guarded against the worst of it. He dared even say he felt confident.
As he came to sit on one of the chairs against the wall, his arm brushing the long leaves of a potted houseplant by the reception desk, his steps on the carpeted flooring sounded as though he walked over polished stone compared with the utter silence of the place. There never seemed to be any other patients in the building when Arthur was there, and he was beginning to think he was the only client. It wasn't a complaint, however, as he could only imagine how awkward it would be to sit in that waiting room surrounded by equally as antisocial and downtrodden individuals. He much preferred the solitude, as he did in most things.
Tino's door was halfway open already but Arthur still waited outside, afraid of intruding, and used the time to straighten his appearance slightly before the now familiar flaxen head poked around the doorframe. The friendly greeting it extended was returned likewise by its client and the two men took their places in the room.
"So, the holidays are over for another year," Tino began casually as he took his notepad from under his arm, sitting back in his seat, "How did you find it?"
"Quiet," Arthur replied in an equally relaxed manner, the tone of their exchange already notably calmer than their last meeting, "Only the three of us and we never really do much. Yourself?"
"Much the same. Just me and the dog and the husband, but I like to keep the traditions anyway," Tino smiled to himself, "I think I get a little overenthusiastic over the whole thing, but it only happens once a year."
Arthur's face fell naturally into a congenially amused look as he chuckled quietly. "I'm afraid I can't say I feel the same way about it."
Across from him, the other watched him closely as he saw, for the first time, a genuine smile from his client. He didn't draw attention to this, of course, and made a move to get into deeper discussion.
"You mentioned that your brother would be back soon after, you must be looking forward to seeing him," he broached the subject with less subtlety than he might have done had his patient been in a less evidently open mood.
As he had hoped, Arthur took the subject in stride, the positive anticipation of his sibling's return prompting him.
"I'll be relieved when he's back," he nodded.
Mimicking the action, the older man backtracked slightly, "And how have you found the time away from him?"
Casting his mind back over the past week and a half, eyes diverting to the floor as he chewed at his inner lip, Arthur searched for the most accurate expression.
"It's been…I've worried a lot and, I'm not sure, I suppose it wasn't as bad as it could have been," he failed to come up with a succinct way of speaking his thoughts.
"What exactly had you so concerned, would you say?" Tino gently pushed for him to unpack his loaded response.
Arthur paused as he processed feelings he had gone over time and again, able to do so with more clarity than before as the event which clouded his thinking was almost at an end. His brother would be back the very next day and, in retrospect, he had overreacted to an insane degree, yet he still felt himself justified in the thinking that had led him to such paranoid ends. While he was able to admit he had been reactionary, he couldn't have helped it.
"I think it was the distance," he admitted after a moment's consideration, "and knowing that I couldn't just…see him if I wanted to."
His voice trailed at the end of his sentence as his thoughts filled his head.
"I can see why that would be difficult," Tino acknowledged with sympathy, "Is it the first time you have been away from him for a significant amount of time?"
"Um, well he and Matthew went to the states for about a week last summer," the other recalled, "but I, I don't know, I really didn't mind so much then."
"When both of them were gone? Why do you think that is?" the smaller man wished to take advantage of the progress they were making, propelling them forward with immediate questions.
"I guess I just trust Matthew to keep them both out of trouble but when Alfred is by himself…he's not the most sensible person, is all."
Arthur's reply made him feel he was being cruel. For the amount of pressure he now realised he put on Matthew with his assumptions, for not being able to have a little faith in his own family, for implying he thought Alfred to be unintelligent. That wasn't what he thought but it was hard to express exactly what he meant without it seeming that way.
There was the sound of pen on paper, scribbling away, before Tino tapped the writing utensil against his chin and paused to ask, "You don't trust Alfred?"
As he had feared, Arthur had come across as though he thought poorly of his sibling. He had always taken great pains when they were younger, as any brother or parent would, to make sure neither felt more or less valued than the other, though he often doubted whether he had managed that.
"I trust him but," he was quick to protest but had to stop to reorder himself, "he can be immature. Sort of overly optimistic or too hopeful, in a way. It's that I worry about."
Nodding slowly, Tino observed his patient fully. "Optimism and hope," he repeated with purpose, "It is curious that you associate these traits with immaturity."
Instantly sensing the other's professional abilities at work, Arthur glanced back at him.
"Maybe not immaturity, exactly," Arthur retracted, a light sigh falling from his lips, "They're good things but…"
He cut himself off when he saw no way out of contradicting himself. Though far from dysfunctional, his relationship with his family spanned a vast range of complexities that he would usually avoid going into. He loved them and got angry with them and was protective of them but when such emotions required an explanation the only one he could come up with was the fact that they were family, a redundant and unproductive answer.
"Perhaps you think hope and optimism to be immature because you have not truly been able to feel them since you were considerably younger," Tino pointed out, "Could that be the case?"
The instantaneous sinking in his chest he had come to know quite well told Arthur that the truth had been uprooted once again. He knew he was a negative person but had always thought it normal, assuming people grew out of their ability to be as completely unperturbed in the face of adult life as Alfred continued to be.
Mouth opening and closing once before words made it out, Arthur exhaled in disheartened agreement, "It's just hard to be positive when things always seem to go wrong."
"Of course," the other's pale eyebrows drew together, his tone consolatory, "and it is not at all something you should feel bad for, especially when it likely stems from experiencing situations in which hope and optimism have let you down."
His tactful way of putting things still couldn't take away the sting of the memory they produced. The memory of such utter hopelessness as doctors repeatedly told him there was nothing they could do; it was something that Arthur would carry forever. He had been robbed of his ability to hope, to think on the bright side as he had been shown outright that the bright side could not light the darkness that was reality however hard he focused on it.
"I agree that excessive optimism can be just as damaging as excessive pessimism," the other picked up again, "but it is harmful to completely reject either one."
"I know," Arthur muttered, picking at a piece of peeling skin on one of his fingers that had been giving him grief all day.
Raising his head to glance sideways through the floor length window, he turned his eyes up to the starless sky as though waiting to see the plane that carried his brother home. He found nothing there but the clouds that moved steadily north, though.
"I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing, you know," he spoke as he continued to observe the night sky, patiently waiting for the boy they spoke of. "The fact that he can still be like that, that he's still himself after everything that's happened..." his words lost momentum and he drew his focus from the outside world, directing it back to his hands as his next thought tumbled from his lips through a sad laugh. "Things were just so different for me by the time I was his age."
Shifting in his seat to lean against the armrest, head cocked, Tino listened until he stopped of his own accord then suggested, "You must be pleased you could save him from that."
Lips curved upward with that lingering hint of melancholy; a sense of satisfaction warmed the younger of the two. "I am."
Casting his lavender eyes quickly over his notes, the professional leant forward in his seat to catch a hold of his client's wandering attention.
"So now that he is older, maybe it is time you started having a little more confidence in him."
It was odd to think that his brothers had surpassed the age at which he himself had regarded himself as an adult, yet they still seemed so young to him. Then again, had he met a younger version of himself he would most likely consider him to be just as juvenile. In a way, he found it almost comical how he had thought himself to be matured at eighteen and he was sure he would find it just as ridiculous to look back on himself at twenty-four in the future. When so much had happened in his life already and he had been thrust into the adult world so young, surrounded by people decades older than himself, it was no wonder he had acclimatised to see himself in the same way.
A defence mechanism of some sort, perhaps. After all, adults knew how to handle the situations he was faced with, therefore, if he was an adult, he must know too. Adults weren't scared shitless by the simplest things like he had been, they weren't terrified to wake up the next day knowing people relied on them, they didn't spend an hour crying in the bathroom every night because they were just so confused. They understood things like taxes and mortgages and debt, they knew how to handle that sort of vague, money related stuff and if he was an adult then he wouldn't have any problems with it. Or so he thought.
The older he got the more he realised that no one had a clue what was going on and the people who seemed like they did were fooling themselves. It was a frightening prospect to release Alfred, still so ignorant to so much of the world's corruption, to find his own way, but Arthur knew he couldn't expect him to be the child he wanted him to be forever.
"I can try," he relented, a tightness in his heart clenching then releasing over the course of his musings to be finally drained out altogether with his acceptance.
He found that to be the overarching sensation of their conversation as it progressed. Acceptance of what he was told, of the advice he was given and the thoughts that crossed his mind as his ability to fight had been significantly eroded after their last session and the week that followed it. The reinforcement around him continued to crumble under its own weight, the things it was meant to keep in had escaped and the things it was meant to keep out had been shown to be imaginary. Weak and unguarded against introspection, he willingly submitted himself to the flow of their exchange and left without the mental exhaustion he might have anticipated.
The way home seemed longer when he wasn't wandering through a half-conscious haze, colder too and his cheeks became numb from the wind and the pace at which he sped. Burrowing his face deeper into his coat collar, he swiftly passed down the main street and the promenade, the shop windows barely having time to reflect his form. He did spare a moment to see what state the old music store was in but found it not too different. Some scattered boxes littered the place as the owner had started to move in furniture, but the walls remained bare. Matthew had mentioned that his application had been rejected and though Arthur had encouraged him to try again he had said he would rather leave it.
Along his own street he noted several Christmas trees had already been dragged out to wilt beside the bins in people's front gardens. Their browning branches dripped with rain water as though they cried over the rejection, residual tinsel still caught between their needles. It was rather sad the way they were so quickly turned to trash after having been the centre of joy for such a short time and the thought of it caused Arthur to decide upon a fake tree the next year, though apparently, they were worse for the environment. A decision for another day, however, he put the thought from his mind as he let himself into his house, teeth chattering over the threshold.
About to call out to his other half, thinking him the only other occupant of the house, he was instantly alerted of another presence. The smell reached him even before the sound of the other voice, the scent of smoke festering in the air. It seeped into the hallway, all the more noticeable as it had been absent from the house the past months, to assault his senses and was matched by the coarse accent that emanated from the same source.
"Arthur?" his partner's lighter cadence addressed him, and Francis appeared in the kitchen archway, his brow drawn together in an apologetic manner, "We have company."
A full conversation was spoken through only two looks; Arthur's face creased with silent pleading to which Francis responded with a tightened smile of guilt.
Shoulders sagging resignedly, the smaller man made a lacklustre effort to compose himself and entered the kitchen, all levity of the day dissipating at the sight his guest.
"Ah, the man of the house has returned," Alistair greeted with a lopsided smile as he came through. Looking around himself, bushy eyebrows, even more unruly than his half relations', raised, he nodded approvingly. "I've got to admit, you're sitting rather pretty, aren't you?" he commended.
Even his compliments were barely enough to keep Arthur civil, but he managed to keep most of the irritation from his words when he replied with a straightforward, "Thank you. What are you doing here?"
A gruff snort of a laugh came from the other, having expected no less hostility. "The trial," he answered.
"Right, of course," Arthur exhaled, having been able to deduce that for himself and having meant what was he doing in his house, though he supposed he had Francis to blame for that situation.
Remaining where he lingered in the doorway watching the back and forth with awkward concern, said guilty part joined in the intrigue.
"What is the date of it?" he enquired, knowing only the basics of the situation which Arthur had relayed to him.
"Thirtieth," Alistair's response to him was equally as brusque.
Growing swiftly more frustrated with his ineffective communication as well as his very presence, Arthur catechized with some bite, "How long are you down here for?"
"Long as I need," Alistair shrugged with the air of a man that knew little of responsibility.
Tension steadily increasing, the prickly atmosphere between the two antagonists intensified. Looking to diffuse the conversation where he could, Francis stepped in to insert a more amiable topic.
"You have quite some time off then?"
"Aye," the older man diverted his gaze towards him, his eyes eerily similar to Arthur's, the same colour but a shade deeper, "they can spare me a while."
"You're still working at the docks?" Arthur put in for the sake of politeness.
Turning his head again to rest at an angle, the loose, flaming curls that fell from his scalp appeared like a tangled mass of burning weeds.
"Same occupation, different location," he regaled with a distinct lack of interest, "How about you? Still part of the rat race?"
His manner of speaking irked Arthur for a multitude of reasons, his abrasiveness, the way he drawled every word, the scathing contempt that seemed to underly his every sentence. Though, he admitted his last grievance may have been conjured from his own dislike.
"I still work at my office, yes," he kept his gaze levelled at the other who remained slumped back on his elbows against one of the counters.
"Fuck, if the money's good who am I to judge," he joked.
The room fell silent, three sets of eyes uneasily turning in three different directions as no one could think up the next line.
An audible inhale broke the suspense as Alistair pushed himself from where he reclined and stood to his full height. He'd the body of a manual labourer, broad as well as tall, an intimidating frame he'd no doubt been handed by their shared parentage. He stood in obvious contrast to Arthur who had inherited his mother's genes completely in that regard. Despite the more apparent differences between them, however, similarities began to shine through when they were observed side by side for any length of time, something Arthur was reluctantly aware of and hated with all his being.
"Alright, I'll be off," he mumbled, crossing the kitchen with heavy steps.
Francis followed him immediately, but Arthur delayed a moment taking a breath and letting it go again to loosen the stiffness that had gripped his body, then went to the hall with them. As they moved towards the front door, a bi-coloured face peered from the living room, having built up enough courage to investigate the unfamiliar presence in the house. Queenie seemed to immediately regret this decision, though, as she was spotted by the intruder.
"She's a sweet little thing," Alistair remarked as, on que, Queenie arched her back, teeth bared, and hissed at him. Giving another of his derisive snorts as she retreated, he continued to the door, glancing back at Arthur as he turned the handle. "Empty nest syndrome getting to you?" he gestured his head in the direction the cat had vanished with one brow quirked.
Biting the inside of his mouth to hold his silence, Arthur narrowed his gaze in return, arms folded as he leant against the wall several paces away. The other simply rolled his eyes at his obvious distaste and went to let himself out. His back turned to them, he paused in the open doorway a moment then turned to the pair, his expression altered subtly.
"How are the wee lads?" he asked after the younger two men, his tone genuinely curious.
"All grown up now," Francis sadly related to him, stood by the door.
"Aye, I suppose they would be," Alistair considered.
"But they are both well, both at university," Francis imparted with some second hand pride as to their achievements, "Alfred may be to receive a scholarship, in fact."
Features softening, the larger man nodded. "I reckoned they'd get somewhere," he muttered with a strange tinge of tenderness.
His relationship to the twins had always been markedly more pleasant than with their older brother. Both boys had been intrigued by their long-lost relation, fascinatedly listening to his stories, his accent a source of endless entertainment, and Arthur saw he seemed to have soft spot for them. As to whether he approved was another matter.
"Take care," was his curt parting and he said no more before facing the darkness and entering it.
"And to you," Francis remained at the threshold, hugging himself against the cold as he watched the other's bulky frame shrinking down the road.
For a while he observed, his forehead contorted with worry. Against the dim light of the street lamps, a spark flickered, and a trail of smoke was left in the receding body's wake as though it were powered by coal rather than nicotine and liquor.
A shifting sound from behind reminded him of his other half's imminent reproval and Francis closed the door and faced no less than he had anticipated.
"He just turned up at the door, what was I supposed to say?" he defended against the deadpanned stare of his lover.
"'Go away' would have done quite nicely," he retorted, peeling from the wall to find and comfort their skittish pet.
She tentatively crept from around the side of the sofa as he entered the living room, round eyes seeking reassurance from him.
"Perhaps I did not want him to go away," Francis countered, following him, "I do not find him at all as disagreeable as you do."
"How?" Arthur emphasised.
"I simply do not take issue with him. I had no reason to turn him away, so I invited him in," the other argued with some conviction, "and we were having a rather pleasant conversation, as well."
"Would you rather I go so you can both carry on?" Arthur offered rhetorically, eyebrows held aloft.
A sigh collapsed the other as he pressed the fingertips of his right hand into his temple, sensing the start of a conflict he had foreseen.
"Please, do not be annoyed with me, Arthur," he all but groaned, his apparent distress causing the smaller man to retract his attitude.
"I'm not annoyed with you," he assured in earnest. Though the day may have met with a slight hitch, he found his spirits still too high to stoop to the level of petty blame towards the man he loved. "Really, I'm not," he felt the need to reiterate.
Unfolding his arms, he tilted his head to latch onto the other's averted eyes and felt a twinge at the relief he saw in them. The smile which brightened them, though, was reassurance enough for Arthur to reflect one of his own.
A body brushing against his leg distracted from the moment and, both men happy to call the issue, that had never really existed, resolved, Arthur crouched to pay Queenie the attention she looked for.
"I still don't know what everyone sees in him, though," he confessed, ignorant as to how all but him could be so enamoured by such an intensely flawed man.
"It is not that, I…I feel sorry for him," Francis folded one arm and placed a hand on the back of his neck as he gave a slight shrug, lips pressed together, "He seems lonely."
Looking up from the floor, Arthur witnessed the thoughts that passed behind the other's eyes. His ability to empathise rivalled that of Matthew's and while an endearing quality it was something Arthur could only partially relate with in that instance.
"Maybe he is, but that's not for us to fix," he said pointedly.
"You do not even pity him?" the other implored, digging for the compassion he knew resided in his partner somewhere, reserved for friends and family alone, "He mentioned he is no longer with that girl he was with last time."
"Shocking," came Arthur's sardonic response.
With a roll of his eyes, Francis gave up the subject, commenting with mild disapproval, "You can be heartless at times, cheri," as he left the room.
Arthur wasn't much affected by the accusation, however, knowing it to be true. His natural stubbornness made him guarded and past experiences with the man he was so cold towards made him intolerant. The additional fact that Alistair had much the same bullheadedness as him only caused things to escalate and, in situations where there didn't need to be conflict one often arose. Worsened by the acceptance of others around them and the undeniable likeness they shared in more than one aspect, a deep-seated resentment had formed in Arthur on their first meeting and had never lessened since.
Sitting back on his ankles as he let out a breath, the thoughts were only that and Arthur told himself that it was doubtful he'd even see Alistair again before he left. He certainly wouldn't seek him out, at least. With a sound of effort being made, he stood to follow Francis to the other side of the hallway and was happy to find he was preparing something other than leftovers for dinner.
Offhandedly describing to him his latest therapy session as Francis replied with encouraging sentiments from behind, Arthur leant on the counter facing the window. He observed, however, the potted rose which sat on the windowsill rather than what passed by the darkened glass. It's creamy petals, curled at the end like parted lips, gave off a scent that managed to mask the rancid smoke that still permeated the house. As he stroked one of the velvety growths, he saw the soil in the ceramic container to be dry and so held it beneath the tap a few moments before feeding the cat then finally seeing to his own needs as he sat to the table with his other half.
Having planned out what was to happen the next day already, sleep did not come easy to Arthur whose eager suspense kept him wired through the night. Counting down the hours, multiplying how many minutes it was until he would see his brother emerging from the terminal the next day kept him occupied until the sun rose. As this wasn't due to be until five in the afternoon, though, Arthur was to spend his morning at the office until the trio left for the airport together.
Behind his desk, unable to sit still in his chair as the nerves jittered in his stomach, he sent three texts in response to every one of Alfred's, though their communication was still limited. The younger man had had trouble booking a direct flight and was forced to change planes in another state in addition to the late-night train journey he had already endured. Alfred's hyperactive nature meant he struggled with long journeys, Arthur could remember car rides with him as a child being a nightmare every time, and complaints of boredom were received hourly. Too impatient for the appointed time to be at hand to be bored, however, the elder sibling keenly reminded his brother of how many hours it was until he was due to arrive in the UK. Reassurance to both parties.
At half three exactly, unable to wait another moment more, Arthur sped from his office and was home faster than should have been humanly possible. His family already waiting for him, their cab was ordered, and they were on their way to the place that he had ten days earlier dreaded entering with much the opposite attitude.
Another chapter shorter than I would have liked but any plan I had went out the window long ago so oops.
One thing I want to say is that I really hope that Alistair doesn't come across as a bad guy because that wasn't my intention. This story isn't really meant to have any good or bad guys but obviously I can't objectively judge my own writing so I suppose I couldn't say whether I've managed that.
Hope people still enjoyed, follow, favourite and give me your opinion on things, it is all very much appreciated.
The end for this is in sight, I swear.