Warning - Adultish content towards the end
The sky wrapped in great swathes of pristine cotton; Arthur gazed out at the forms that shifted behind it. Billowing, rolling and twisting, he thought there must be some sort of creature tangled up, trying to rip itself free. Perhaps it would tear a hole and come hurtling to the earth or perhaps it would suffocate in the thick folds.
A break in the clouds showed a white sun, burning cold many thousands of miles away, it's light filtered and sterilized by the invisible atmosphere. It appeared as the scorching eye of that trapped beast, glaring though, his rampage stifled and his body flailing. It must be a bull, scraping its hoof across the sky, charging and becoming entangled in the conquistadores' white cape. It's raging bellows were carried on the wind, its horns flashed in the sunlight.
"It looks as though it is just the two of us tonight, amour," Francis entered the living room where Arthur sat and perched himself on the arm of the sofa.
"Hm?" Arthur drew his eyes from the window to look over, re-joining the physical world.
The elder of the two gestured the phone in his hand. "I spoke to Toni, he is with his family tonight," he explained, disappointment in his tone as his last-ditch effort at making plans for New Year's had failed.
"It's alright, we can see him when Liz and Gil get back," the other pointed out, not overly bothered since his brothers weren't able to make it either and he supposed it made more sense to wait for everyone. It wasn't a holiday that he found particularly important anyhow.
"Oui, but I would have liked to do something this year," Francis sighed, "We never do anything, and it is such an anticlimactic way to end things."
"Well, it's all arbitrary when you think about it," Arthur pondered, turning back to the window through which he could see the way the sun played along the underside of the clouds, "every day is the end of another year, after all."
"How very philosophical you are, mon cher, but that does not solve anything," Francis mumbled.
His eyes downcast, Francis picked at a loose thread on the decrepit old sofa. He had a habit of setting his heart on things too quickly just to be let down when they inevitably never came to fruition, regardless of how minute such things were.
"I suppose you'll just have to accept the fact that you're stuck with me tonight," Arthur exaggerated, adding a sidelong glance as he emphasised sarcastically, "How awful."
A laugh blew past the other's lips as he met his partner's eye. "I will make do," he smiled softly as he slid from the armrest and shuffled closer to Arthur.
Lifting his arm welcomingly, Arthur placed it along the top of the sofa and the man beside him gladly took the invitation, reclining against him.
"When is your appointment?" Francis changed the subject, tilting his face up to the one above him.
"Not until this afternoon," Arthur replied, his voice accompanied by the patter of rain on the window.
Conversation was left behind in favour of the rising sound and both looked out as droplets fell from the sky, glinting like scales in the silver sheen of midday. The image of the thrashing bull morphed into that of a giant fish, struggling to be free of the cloudy net it was caught in, its scales chipping off and showering down upon the earth.
"We must take the tree down," Francis interrupted his thoughts, "It is beginning to shed."
Arthur had meant to bring up the same thing at some point, having noticed the browning needles trailed around the house, and nodded. However, neither moved, both too happy in the other's relaxed presence to disrupt the peace.
It didn't feel as though another year had come to an end, there was a definitive sense of incompleteness to it. Then again, it wasn't as though life ran on a schedule, things didn't have to be completed on a time scale, there was no quota of how much life must be lived by the end of the year. Life just marched on along its one winding rout to where it would inevitably end.
A certain restlessness gnawed at Arthur as he reflected on such thoughts. The idea of time slipping away while he did nothing, regardless of how he enjoyed the nothingness he engaged in, put him on edge and after a while of trying to ignore it, he could take no more.
"May as well do it now," he suggested, disturbing Francis to stand.
A sound of complaint came from said man, but Arthur couldn't sit still any longer, he knew the damage that thoughts like that could do when allowed to run amuck.
Retrieving the boxes from under the stairs, ornaments were sorted into their compartments with more care than necessary. Tinsel and fairy lights were coiled into spools like rope only to become inexplicably tangled by the time they were next brought out, sparkling reindeer and angels wrapped in tissue paper and put away.
It took less time to take down than it had to put up as there was considerably less nit-picking from Francis, though he did insist on painstaking care being taken in everything. Several times he commented on how sad it was that it was over but having not looked forward to the holiday in the first place, Arthur couldn't agree. In truth, he was glad to have the clutter gone. It had started to become claustrophobic.
The living room appeared ten times larger once cleared, so much space to move, though it was drenched in glitter. That left only the tree to take care of, stood forlornly in the corner as though it knew its time was up, branches broken and drooping. Dragging it to the back door between them, they broke down the branches and left the limbless body at the end of the garden where Arthur intended to start a compost heap.
Strolling back inside through the rain, Francis scampered off ahead, apparently still not acclimatised to the near constant dampness of the island nation after living there longer than in his homeland of France. Arthur savoured it, however. It was his favourite kind of rain, the kind that falls down thick and hard in a direct line from the sky to the earth. There was something so certain in it, the way that rain ought to be. Drops struck his bare arms and soaked through his shirt on impact as though it weren't there, each one a cool, attentive kiss.
He stepped inside, the scent of wet grass and smog following him in, and he scooped up Queenie from the doorway before kicking the door closed behind him. Checking the clock, he saw the time of his appointment nearing and set about getting ready to leave. He pulled on a jumper over his t-shirt and pushed his hair out of his face then spent some time wondering what he could have done with his phone. Eventually remembering he had left it on the sofa, he went in to retrieve it and found an unknown number had called while he was busy. Thinking it was nothing, he slipped the device into his coat pocket, kissed Francis on the cheek and left.
He relished in the unseasonably warm weather, as although the dankness held an icy edge it was nothing compared to the hateful cold that February would soon unleash. Rivers formed in the gutters, a watery shade of brown as they carried away the street's filth. Staying well away from the side of the road to avoid passing cars, Arthur went slowly, scuffing his shoes along the pavement and looking around himself idly.
The whole of the promenade was closed as none of the shops ever opened on Sundays, a quaint if inconvenient remnant of how things used to be. Through the short expanse of ghost town, he made his way, peeking into each store front as he went. The old music store was near fully converted, walls painted a neutral shade of beige, the floor put in place and shelves set up but uninhabited. It was rather bleak in a sort of functional way, nothing especially wrong with it but lacking character.
It stood in contrast to the other stores which emanated a certain aura so that a person could tell exactly what sort of feel it had without going in. One knew that the fabric store would smell of dust and be bleached in flickering, ultra-white light, or that the haberdashery would be crawling with shadows and spiders, or that the scent of window cleaner and coffee would be engrained through the café. Such places built up that kind of personality with time and a person came to know them like friends.
Arthur wondered exactly where people went on days such as that one. Not even the houses looked to be occupied and he imagined people disappearing into the cracks of the floorboards when they heard his footsteps echoing outside, like woodlice into a log. Birdsong rung crisp through the heavy, saturated air, the birds staking their claim on the deserted streets, a fearsome war cry against the last standing survivor as he went on his way below them.
Finding the waiting room just as empty as he entered the building, Arthur sat and watched the sky darkening through the orange tinted window. The sunset was warped by the artificial colouring, giving it an apocalyptic hue as the houses over the road were draped in darkness. As he sat, reclined easily in his chair and watching the progressing shadow swallow the world, his phone rang in his pocket. The same unsaved number as last time, he let it ring out.
Curious as to who was trying to get in contact with him, however, as a second attempt showed the first hadn't simply been a wrong number, he scrolled through his call history. To his momentary confusion he saw the number was one that he had called himself, though he soon recalled it to be Alistair's. He continued to look at the screen, considering whether to call back though he knew he wouldn't.
Although he did wonder whether Alistair was still in the country. Given that he was calling, and it was unlikely he would call unless he needed something from him, Arthur assumed that he was. Curious as to what the older man wanted, he wasn't intrigued enough to actually make the effort and didn't have the time to as Tino appeared in the doorway, smiling and welcoming him through.
The neat office space had become almost homely to Arthur, like a well-worn jumper or favourite restaurant, and as he walked in a sense of calm dispersed through him. Subconsciously he knew he would leave having achieved something and this positive relation seemed to spill over onto the room itself. No longer did those four walls seem to begin closing in on him the moment he stepped inside, rather they stood solidly, containing and protecting.
Even the man who inhabited that room was changed in his eyes. Arthur felt slightly guilty when thinking of how he had acted towards him when they first met as surely his suspicion must have shown. He had treated the poor man like a criminal, as though he were a con artist, when he had proven himself to be nothing less than a kind, patient, respectable person. And Arthur did respect him, and like him too. He briefly wondered whether an invitation to their house may be in order but decided against it.
Rather they made their opening conversation, discussing their mutual lack of plans for the evening, as they sat and settled down.
"Has anything of note occurred since I saw you last?" Tino enquired, pen ready to take down anything important in the timeline of his patient.
"Well, yes, actually," Arthur had almost forgotten to mention the most lifechanging decision he had made within recent memory, "I left my job."
"You didn't mention you were thinking of quitting," the other glanced up, the tone of his voice mimicking surprise though the look in his eyes belied that he had expected such an outcome.
"I wasn't I just…had enough," Arthur admitted, shrugging, "I needed to get out before I was stuck there forever."
"Everyone has their limit," Tino mused in return, "I might usually advice against such rash actions, but in your case maybe letting go of some restraint is a good thing."
They spoke about it a little while, Tino asking the same questions as everyone else, until they moved on.
Though the window was open, the room was stuffy with contained heat and the smell of a storm was carried in on the breeze. It sliced through across his left cheek and failed to dispel the warmth.
Their conversation moved from point to point methodically and in a comfortable rhythm, like the two of them walked a path, side by side, which they had trodden many times before. Therefore, when Alfred was brought up, Arthur found himself already in the swing of their exchange.
"So, he's finally back with you," Tino alluded, "You must be relieved."
"It's nice not to spend so much time worrying," Arthur joked, lulled into a sense of ease.
Humouring him with a smile at the comment, Tino went on, "What have you been doing instead, then?"
Arthur stopped a moment, but his thoughts seemed to run off ahead of him, the easy vibe of the meeting leading his brain to mouth filter to shut off, allowing his subconscious to take the reins.
"I've been thinking about my mum a lot lately," the words slipped out offhandedly.
Interest instantly peaked, Tino had to restrain himself from seizing the opportunity too overtly. "Oh?" he vocalised his intrigue as subtly as he could, leaning forward.
"But I suppose that's not so strange," the other dispelled, running a fingertip over the suede fabric of the sofa and becoming half distracted by the texture.
"You mean to say you usually think about her quite a lot?" Tino caught the point before it could be thrown so flippantly away.
Glancing over, Arthur noted the attentive gaze he was under and realised his semi-conscious musing had drawn him into more serious territory than he had envisaged. That's what he got for wandering without paying attention to the path, he thought. But for as long as he was off track he may as well enjoy the scenery.
"I do," he admitted freely.
"You haven't mentioned her to me before," Tino pointed out.
Arthur was glad of his directness as it allowed him to correct the other's mistake.
"I think I have," he distinctly remembered her being brought up at least once before, if only incidentally.
"In a way," Tino nodded, "but not exactly. You see, you have spoken about her only when you reference the aftermath of her death. You've never spoken about her."
He emphasised the last word, quirking a brow to communicate his point, then paused.
Looking back mutely, Arthur's face reflected his thoughts as his mind went blank. Across from him, Tino watched, waiting for him to speak but he could think of nothing to continue the conversation.
The woman he thought of every day, loved with his whole being and missed equally as much, in that moment turned to ether and evaporated from his memory. Not a single thing solid remained, not of her living remembrance, only of her as an effigy, a fairy-tale. He could think of her as the picture in his living room or as the rose on his windowsill. He saw her in his brother's smiles but not in his head.
"Most of the people that I know knew her as well, so I never really need to talk about her like that," he thought aloud after an elongated silence.
"I'm afraid I never got the privilege," Tino's voice was gentle, his eyes thoughtful, "Could you describe her to me?"
Biting his lips, Arthur looked back then away out the window at the night that had settled beyond the glass.
"She was wonderful," he said.
Fabric rustled as Tino shifted. "Could you be at all more specific?" he encouraged.
Arthur could see him in the reflection of the window, his lilac eyes searching for a point of contact and he could tell that the professional had been dying to talk about this for a long time.
"I don't know," he directed his attention to his hands, cracking under the expectation as the multitude of apt words failed him, "She was my mum."
His shoulders shrugged and a melancholy he hadn't expected was evident in his words. An inherent kind of hollowness echoed throughout the phrase and the feeling only struck him after it had left his mouth.
"And to you that means…" Tino softly prompted.
Gaze flitting up to the pair of eyes which urged him on, a breath fell from the younger man. He knew what he was to say and knew that Tino knew, and more than that could tell the response he would get, but it was all that he could think.
"She was perfect," he resigned himself to the sentiment and the embarrassment of meaning it.
"Arthur, I think we both know that nobody is perfect," Tino countered, an edge of hard realism in the turn of his mouth.
Arthur agreed with him, of course, as he thought himself a fiercely unfanciful man, but in the moment, he felt fire inside of him. The instinct to defend the woman's exaggerated honour against the slightest hint of doubt burned through him, engulfing his rationality and flaring behind his eyes as he all but glared at the other. His inner knight, however, fizzled out quickly under the rational observation of his well-meaning enemy as he realised how deluded he must seem to deny the statement.
He had to admit that when it came to her, he didn't exactly think straight. He saw an idealised version of her and had done for as long as he could recall, since before she died even. A natural reaction to the threat of losing her. He chose to see only her good, to preserve it and the happiness it brought for as long as possible before it was gone forever. But the desperate need to maintain all that he loved about her had prevented him from remembering her as she truly was.
Every image of her in his head seemed obscured in some sacred shroud, softening her edges, hiding her imperfections, shielding him from the fact she had been a human with flaws. He saw her in the delicate life of the rose, the stony peace of a grave, the static perfection of a portrait but as she moved the paint crumbled, the petals wilted and there was nothing underneath. Selective snippets of her replayed and ended when the idyllic scene reached a certain point, like a director had yelled cut. His memories had been sanitised by grief, washed clean of anything unfavourable as he systematically deified the woman at their centre.
"No, I know that," he agreed after some time, his acceptance streaked with sadness, "But…she was close."
"Close to perfect?"
Arthur nodded, a sudden wave of solemnity sweeping him as his eyes dropped.
"She was just…so kind and generous," he muttered neither to Tino or himself, speaking to put his thoughts out into the universe in case by some chance she may hear them, "She loved everything."
"All very admirable qualities," Tino considered, "but very human ones. And humans are not perfect."
Glancing up when the other expected him to reply, Arthur found he barely had the energy to open his mouth, the rising crest of gloom having fallen directly on him and flattened him.
"Do you agree?"
He stared through the other, pinned helplessly down beneath the force over him. Every word directed at him was another gallon of it poured over his submerged body as he struggled to focus through the disorienting surface.
"Would you like to stop for now, Arthur?"
The sensation of his phone vibrating against his thigh drew his attention momentarily and he broke his unseeing stare to see who it was, a prickling running up the back of his neck when he did so. Alistair again.
"Do you need to answer that?"
Why always at the worst moments? Always there to mock when he was at his lowest, to bring him down when he was up, only ever taking, his energy his time, and leaving everything worse for having been there. Yet again that shambles of a man was trying to find a spot where he could chip through the nice little fortress Arthur had built around his life. While his walls were thick, Alistair was persistent and he timed his attacks cleverly, seeming always to strike when Arthur was at his weakest or finding an ally that would sneak him in behind Arthur's back.
That was how he had worked his way through in the first place, his underhanded tricks of going to Alice and taking full liberty of the fact she had no protection whatsoever. Though Arthur couldn't help but blame himself partially for that, having been unable to stand guard for her as he knew he should have. However he had tried to extend his battlements to shield her, she wantonly tore them down, thinking her belief in the goodness of the world would be enough. Little did she realise that it only exposed her own martyring nature to anyone who would exploit it.
"She was too kind."
He hit the decline call button and slid his phone back into his pocket. Thick heat crawled over his skin and he longed to peel it off in one clean layer. He sizzled beneath the ocean that oppressed him, steam rising as he began to evaporate it.
"All she ever did was help people, that's all she ever did, and she never realised they were taking advantage of her," his voice took on a shaking edge as his brows drew closely together, "or maybe she did but she just didn't mind. I don't know which is better."
Unsure as to what had produced this erratic statement, Tino went with it, leaning in on his knees. "And this frustrated you," he observed.
"She acted as though saying no to someone made her a bad person," Arthur heard him but continued on his tangent, "it's like she thought she had to fix the whole world."
"What exactly do you mean by that?" the older man tried to steer his patient's venting in a more constructive direction while the opportunity presented itself, taking furious notes on his pad.
Wrapped up in the flurry of thoughts that whirled about his head, Arthur paid little attention to the man opposite him, his question seeming to come from some unembodied force to provoke the image of red hair and eyes like his own reflected to him.
"Any person, whether she knew them or not, she would just throw herself at their problems like she didn't care what happened to her," he shook his head slowly from side to side as he spoke.
"Why do you think she would have done that?"
"It made her happy, I suppose," Arthur ran a hand through his hair, gripping a fistful at the back of his head and sighing, "She said it did, anyway."
The lack of conviction in his words was evident and Tino pounced upon them. "You don't believe her reasoning?"
"Not really," he confessed, gaze wandering over the impressive array of textbooks which lined the shelves.
"Why?"
Running his eyes over the shelves at the various books, certificates and personal affects, he landed on a picture frame. Arthur looked not at the happy couple in the photo but rather his own face in the reflection of the glass as the right phrase sprung to mind.
"She was always so desperate."
"How, exactly?" Tino paused his scribbling to look up in a rare instance of genuinely not understanding what his patient meant.
Drawing his focus from himself to rest it on the curious face which so intently probed him, Arthur elaborated slowly.
"Desperate to be needed."
As he spoke another of those stored reels began playing in his mind, flickering to life with a click as her face came into frame, smiling, another face projecting over top of the first, then a third layer and a fourth.
"Desperate to be a good person."
Each radiant face blurred the one under it, the expression subtly shifted each time. Each smile grew fainter, each set of eyes became duller, each forehead formed deeper wrinkles. The years passed over her in Arthur's head in seconds, picking at her resolve and taking what they could just as everyone did, just as she allowed them to.
"It's like she thought she was only worth something when someone else valued her."
Whether it be the community, the lord or her own family, that was all she had ever seemed to do; live for others. Like the simple driving force of self-preservation wasn't enough to her, or like she had ascended above such selfish motivations and existed purely for the sake of servitude.
"That doesn't sound like a healthy way to live," Tino interjected.
"It wasn't," Arthur let out a laugh, his brows furrowed as he looked to his companion as though willing him to see the tragic humour too, "I mean, it killed her in the end, didn't it."
The other cocked his head.
Expression intensifying, Arthur stared back, finishing his thought.
"I mean, if she'd have taken better care of herself, she would probably still be here," his retrospective sounded bitter though he had not intended it to and he averted his gaze to his hands once more, missing the sympathy offered to him. "That's what most of the doctors said, anyway. That if they'd have found it sooner, they could have done something."
He cleared his throat, feeling the look he was being given against the side of his face and neglecting to connect with it, instead casting his attention inward to the thoughts he had never allowed himself to contemplate.
"But she ignored it until it was too late," her aged face was as vivid as any polished memory he could recall, more so even, as it hovered in his mind's eye, crestfallen and dejected, "and it's not like I could have done anything. I always tried to look after her where I could obviously, but there was nothing I could have done."
Hands gesturing vaguely, Arthur spared a glance over to the other occupant of the room to read his face, fearing he would be looked at like some rambling lunatic, or worse with disgust.
No such expression appeared on the other's understanding features, of course, and the smaller man replied with reassurance, "It wouldn't be reasonable to expect that of you."
Her image floated there still, in the back of his thoughts, without replaying over or fading, a brand-new addition to his catalogue of her. The first new addition since she had left him. It stood solid, and for a while Arthur questioned whether it was actually her he was picturing, so used to the imagined vignette that this fresh portrayal struck him almost as ugly. Her lips turned downward, her eyes held no lustre and her body was worn, though this was what made her real. She was used and lived in. That brainwashed version of her had never existed, like decorative china it glistened in a case without a mark on it.
"But I don't blame her," Arthur defended himself against the guilt that welled in the pit of his stomach by justifying his thoughts out loud.
"Not blaming yourself doesn't mean that you blame someone else," Tino's voice held a subtle hint of levity as he raised an encouraging brow, however, the other could return nothing of the sort.
Focus angled stiffly at the edge of the coffee table which divided them, Arthur put the full force of his will behind quashing the sting that began to rise up his throat. It reached his eyes, clawing at his tear ducts so that he had to blink it back into his skull where it lingered. He rolled his lips together and bit at the inside of his mouth until the tingling faded enough for him to speak again.
"What's the matter, Arthur?" Tino addressed him softly before he got the chance to.
"I just…" his voice crackled slightly, "I don't like thinking about her that way."
Pale eyes pleading out to him from within his head, Arthur knew not how to help them.
"In what way?" the other's eyes were narrowed at him in thought as he put across the question, giving the impression that he was working towards something specific.
"Like she was miserable." Arthur's forehead creased, deep caverns scoring his skin of which traces remained even when the proceeding emotion filled them in. "I just don't know why she wasn't happy with herself when she did everything for everyone and people loved her for that. What more could she have done?"
Tino made no response at first, looking at his client. "Arthur," he directed his tone pointedly at the other, "Do you realise what you have just said?"
Staring back blankly, Arthur was met only by that same expectant gaze as Tino sat back and watched him.
Beginning to frown as he failed to decipher the meaning of the cryptic question, the realisation was thrust onto him like the earth had been hauled from under his feet and dropped on top of him. Self-awareness paralysed him as he realised that his own actions paralleled those of the woman they spoke of, to a fault. The emotion behind the pearl-like eyes changed subtly to pity as he came to see their shared defects, then to hope as they begged for him not to let them become him.
An unconscious smile curled the edges of his lips, a reassurance to the phantom face that warned him of his fate should he refuse change, and though it was an image of his own making he was sure it smiled back without his input.
"I never thought we were really all that alike," Arthur murmured after a few beats silence.
"It's difficult for a person to see things in themselves that way," Tino judged, something akin to pride in his tone.
Though he smiled still, the idea of it disturbed Arthur. It all made so much sense, the way she inserted herself into other's problems to avoid her own or for some sense of control. He understood and didn't know how he could have missed it. Yet oddly the guilt he would have usually been overwhelmed by failed to show up at all, rather something else, something white hot and bright scorching his heart.
Anger. Anger directed towards not himself but his mother. At first he recoiled from the sensation, fearing the burn it produced, that it would blacken the space reserved in him for her. However, the warmth was intriguing and like a moth he was drawn to it, its glow lighting parts of himself he had never seen before. While intense, the feeling didn't last long and began to wane while Arthur looked in shock at the undiscovered crevices of his heart. He gazed in until the last spark had diminished along with the anger which had roused it and the depths of himself had fallen still and dark once more.
He had caught only a glimpse, but he knew what he saw there wasn't flattering. Yet this didn't bother him so much. No one could force themselves inside of him nor could they coerce it out of him, he could spend his time exploring these newfound mysteries by himself before exposing them to the world, if he chose to at all. He could indulge them, tame them and find them a place alongside the rest of his character as he knew to be the right thing to do. To deny things he knew to be true was deceiving, after all, not to others but to himself and he wouldn't starve himself of the truth ever again.
"I always thought I should try to be like her, but I never thought I was," he added more quietly, gaze drifting off to the side.
"She sounds like a wonderful person," Tino nodded, "Dedicating yourself to helping others that way is something not many people would be willing to do. But there comes a point where it is detrimental." Another of his meaningful looks was directed at his client as he got to his core message, "People shouldn't look after others while neglecting themselves."
They spoke a while longer, allowing for a lighter tone as they went on and wrapped up for the day.
"Made any resolutions?" the elder of the pair enquired as he walked Arthur to the door.
"Oh, I haven't made one in years," Arthur shook his head, chuckling lightly as he opened the door, "I can never keep them. Yourself?"
Tino leant against the doorframe, arms folded as he tipped his head at an angle. "Sort of," his tone became more conversational now that their professional time was up, "Berwald and I promised we would start having a date night once a week."
Arthur found the switch of mood and the fact that it seemed to be subconscious strange given they had just been speaking so intimately on such a heavy subject, though he supposed it was the same in any job really.
"That's a sweet idea," he complemented.
The other hummed a singular laugh. "It was his idea, not mine," he denied the praise, "I'm not saying that the romance dies, but after being together a while it's easy to forget to prioritise one another occasionally."
It seemed even when off duty he was partial to sharing his advice, though Arthur couldn't say it wasn't valuable. "How long have you been together, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Six years now," Tino smiled as he spoke, "Married for three of them."
Managing to keep the surprise from his face, Arthur reacted with an "oh" as he tried to recall ever seeing a wedding ring on the other's hand. Not that he thought he should be under any obligation to wear one, but it seemed to go against his nature not to, in a way.
Feeling the slight sense of superiority he always felt when people told him they had been in a relationship less time than Francis and himself, Arthur wished him well and stepped from the doorway as it was closed.
Heading over to the front desk, a remarkable lightness made his steps feel as though they barely weighed upon the ground. He leant his forearms on the countertop and smiled amicably while the receptionist apologised for being preoccupied with something before vanishing into a back room, leaving him to wait.
The foyer was as it ever was, plasticy leafed potted plants in the corner, magazines left on side tables, bubbles rising in the water cooler and hitting the surface with a deep bloop, but Arthur looked around it, nonetheless. He shuffled in place, not out of impatience but of wanting to be occupied with something sensory which he found in the form of a painting he had never noticed before. Certain it must have been placed there just recently, he observed it over his shoulder where it hung on the wall beside a door he had never seen opened.
Vibrant, sulphur yellow swept the small canvas in defined brush strokes, each bristle's trail trackable through the thick oil paint used. Petals swirled in a ring around the brown centre atop a thick, green stem which rose high against the cloudy background spotted with blue. Against the muted colours, the flowers appeared as though they were the sun, much as they did in real life, and the picture radiated a cheerful hue.
Folding his arms on the counter surface, Arthur rested his head on top of them, his eyes still pointed towards the interesting piece. It wasn't the style he would care to have in his own home but it certainly provoked positivity, the airy feel to the scene almost making a person forget that it was dark and cold outside. Then again, that may just have been a result of his already pleasant mood.
"I like that one too," came a voice from behind him, startling him to stand upright and whip his face around, "It is so sunny it makes me smile."
No less startling was the figure when in view, however, not for it being a stranger but for quite the opposite reason, though the unique intonation of the person's voice had been enough to tell Arthur that without looking.
"I did not know you came here, Arthur, what a long time it has been," the other continued, greeting Arthur as an old friend with the light-hearted expression which seemed never to change.
"It has," the shock began to wear off as Arthur took in the intimidating form before him, having to tilt his head back to meet the eyes the colour of dried lavender which towered over him, "I didn't expect to see you here either, Ivan."
A redundant statement as his reaction made this fact quite obvious, though he was stuck for any other conversation, having not seen the man since Alfred and Natalia's relationship had come to an end. That had been their only real link ever since they had left school, which was where they were first acquainted. An occasional meeting at the front door when Ivan, being the protective brother he was, had walked his younger sister to their house where they would exchange pleasantries and the two siblings would mutter between themselves in their native language before Natalia rolled her eyes and went inside with Alfred.
The fact that Ivan had quite clearly hated Alfred, and vice versa, had never caused Arthur to feel ill towards him. Mostly because of their knowing one another and having been somewhat friends at school, although 'knowing' may have been too strong of a term. He, along with the rest of the family, had always been mysterious, to put it subtly, as the three siblings had just turned up one day without explanation, with rumours trailing after them.
It was in his third year of secondary school, if Arthur recalled correctly, that Ivan had been placed in most of his classes. For the first few weeks he had kept to himself, most likely because others either mocked him or were afraid of him, but had taken a seat beside Arthur one day during a literature class. He must have spied Arthur as a good target as he usually sat alone, being an outcast himself, and decided to take his chances. Being a decent person, Arthur had no qualms with this and allowed it, though they spoke very little, and from then on, he found Ivan attached himself to him where he could.
Yet despite this, he learned practically nothing about the strange boy. He was shy and, contradictory to his appearance, gentle and tended to do no more than exist close to Arthur, which suited him just fine. It wasn't until Arthur met the eldest of the three siblings that the hearsay was put straight for him as she mentioned the whole situation in passing one day while she dropped off her sister. The facts where, predictably, far less interesting than the speculation that surrounded them as they had been sent from their home country by their parents to find a better life that side of Europe. This had left Katya to play matriarch and while she smiled Arthur could see the anxiety behind her eyes, and whatsmore could relate to it.
"My sister brings me," Ivan's bright expression held and gave his words an air of ignorance, as though he didn't quite understand what was going on around him. There had always been a hint of something off about him, though, and if Arthur was being honest, he wasn't at all surprised to see him in a therapist's office and nor was he judging him for it. Not at all.
"That's good of her," he replied, offering a slight smile but seeing that the other's attention was too wrapped up in the painting for him to notice it.
A curious fellow, he thought to himself as the receptionist returned to help him. He made himself an appointment and wished Ivan well, though he made no reply, before heading out into the street where he recognised Katya's car parked a little way down the road with the headlights still on. For a moment he contemplated going over to her but thought better of it, the darkened clouds forewarning him.
Tugging down the sleeves of his jumper to cover his hands, he set off through the interspersed light of the streetlamps, his back to the headlights of the stationary vehicle which caused his shadow to stretch long before him. He wandered his way along, in no particular hurry, and found the streets not as vacant as usual. There were a fair few pubs in the surrounding area so on such an occasion as it was that night, it wasn't strange to find people, in groups or couples or alone, in various states of intoxication roaming the night.
In his lifted spirits, he envied them slightly for the good time they were having, wishing he had anyone to join in with. There was always the option of going home and getting pissed there but, not being seventeen anymore, that would most likely turn out to be somewhat depressing. However, on the coat tails of that thought, he considered it wasn't too late for an impromptu night out. Francis was into all that spontaneous malarkey and it was hardly past six, surely, they could find two seats at the back of a bar somewhere to count down the remaining hours of the year together.
Taken with idea, he paused where he stood and pulled out his phone, already knowing his other half would be on board. The split screen glowed, showing him yet another missed call from the number that had been badgering him all day. He swiped past it with a roll of his eyes and looked for his partner's contact, beginning to stroll again as he did and wondering what in the world could be so important it warranted such repeated calling.
Considering what indeed, a sense of agitated anxiety made itself known. It was likely no more than Alistair wanting to pester him, possibly drunk, but an unavoidable guilt nagged at his insides, nonetheless. An uncomfortable, unignorable twisting sensation that grew the longer he neglected to call the number hovered over him. Though their relationship may have been complicated, Arthur always felt a kind of responsibility for the older man when he was close by, like it was his job to protect the community from the unruly outsider.
Attempting to avoid the inevitable, he sighed and stopped in place. The more rational part of himself telling him not to, that Alistair was a grown man that should deal with his own problems and that he shouldn't put himself out trying to help, his better self told him he knew what the right thing was. Then again, the question of right or charitable came to mind, as was this not exactly the sort of thing he had just spoken about? Had he not, less than ten minutes ago, condemned this sort of behaviour as being self-destructive?
The thought of that almost persuaded him to listen to logic. Almost, but not quite, as he found the phone pressed to his ear, the other end ringing. Old habits died hard, he sighed as the line was picked up.
"Yeah?" came his gruff greeting, no hint of recognition in the voice.
"It's Arthur," said man elaborated, thinking this would stir some kind of a reaction from the other.
"Alright," was all that came back, though.
Not sure why he had expected better, Arthur took a breath and reminded him, "You've been calling me all day."
"And you're only replying now," Alistair slurred his indignant retort.
Regretting his decision already, Arthur was curt with him. "Be glad I replied at all, what did you want?"
Something incoherent came down the line, followed by a groan and some muffled cursing.
"What?" Arthur's face wrinkled as he tried to decipher the sounds.
"I don't fucking know," the other moaned. "Do me a favour, would you?"
Placing a hand on his hip, Arthur raised both brows.
"Probably not, what is it?" he asked.
"I think I'm lost."
Arthur grew more irate as Alistair's words became less understandable.
"Okay?" each sentence brought him closer to snapping.
"How do I get back to my hotel?"
Idiocy was something that Arthur had very little patience for but the idiocy that came of drunkenness was something he simply couldn't abide.
"How the hell am I supposed to know?" he shouted, "Where even are you?"
A pause ensued, in which Arthur seethed quietly.
"Do you know what lost means?"
The sarcastic retort near sent him over the edge and probably would have had he not been in a markedly good mood beforehand, but by the width of a hair he was short.
Figuring he was already out and already angry and that the night had little chance of being mended, he relented. Teeth clenched and eyelids closed, he uttered, "Tell me what you can see, and I'll come and find you."
"Fucking, uh, trees, bench, um, some fountain thing."
As Arthur had hoped, he wasn't far off if he recalled the location correctly.
"Stay where you are, I'll be a couple of minutes."
Abruptly hanging up, he headed down a side road, frustration and the motivation for the task to be over and done with quickening his pace. The air held a heavy, cottony feel to it as the coming storm drew nearer, the darkness which had settled concealing whether the clouds were black with rain or had been infected by the night. Though his breath was visible before him, the cloying atmosphere kept out the cold and warmth rose in his cheeks.
Rounding a final corner after about ten minutes of walking, Arthur entered onto the street he believed Alistair had been describing and was relieved to see a body sat slumped forward on a bench. The yellow spotlight of a streetlamp which shone directly down onto it cast it half in shadow, but it was hard to mistake the brush of burning hair for anyone else. He was still, elbows on his knees with head hung over them, a thin trail of smoke rising from it and a bottle clasped in one hand, several more collected around his feet.
Arthur intruded upon the lonely scene, steps brisk and echoing crisply in the quiet that surrounded them.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he made no attempt to hide his disdain as he stopped short of the bench, directly in front of his estranged family member.
Whether the other hadn't heard him approach or had ignored him, Arthur couldn't tell, but he now raised his head, like a cow from its grazing, and muttered past the cigarette stub held between his lips, "What the fuck does it look like?"
Arms folded; Arthur looked at him down the length of his nose.
"I don't think you want me to answer that," was his scathing remark.
A husky laugh emitted the other, his hunched body caving in on itself.
"Oh, don't be so superior," he snorted, "Sit down, have a drink, you're killing the mood."
"I don't want to sit in the street drinking rancid beer with you, get up so I can take you back to wherever you're staying," Arthur had no tolerance for him and even less compassion.
"And where have you got to be in such a hurry," Alistair drawled, "I'm only trying to offer you some fun."
"Well, I actually have plans with Francis," Arthur half lied him quite peevishly.
"Ah, wouldn't want to be in trouble with the Mrs, would we?" the older man snickered at the unimpressed look he was thrown, taking a swig from his half empty bottle before stating with some certainty, bushy eyebrows held aloft, "You know, you got the right idea though." Receiving a quizzical expression, he elaborated, "Women are impossible, go for what you know."
Lip curling, a sound of revulsion reflexively expelled itself from Arthur's throat. "Don't project yourself onto me just because you can't keep a girlfriend," he sneered with the intention of hurting him.
He seemed to have achieved his aim, as Alistair took the cigarette from his mouth and shook his head as he flung it with some force towards the broken fountain a few meters away.
"She was a bitch anyway," he growled, a shadow passing over his face.
Thinking this was a sign that they could leave, Arthur was disappointed when he took another cigarette from his pocket and patted himself down in search of his lighter.
"You got a light?" he requested when he failed to find his own.
"I don't smoke now," Arthur told him bluntly.
Frowning in confusion as though this were impossible, Alistair checked himself once more and came up with the illusive lighter. He cupped a hand around the end of his cigarette, shielding the flame although there was no wind at all, and breathed in the smoke like it was more natural than oxygen to him.
Arthur stood looking down at him, arms crossed, all the while, but found that his sternest look was having no affect and so gave it up. Sighing in exasperation, he let his arms drop and took a seat on the bench beside the other. They remained in silence a few moments, one too drunk and the other too irritated for conversation.
"How long did he get, then?" Arthur broke the false tranquillity, deducing from the state of the other that their cause of relation must have been found guilty.
Alistair glanced over without moving his head, allowing his eyes to settle on the contemptable expression the other held briefly then directing his gaze back out to the darkened street.
"Nothing," he said, white tusks of smoke rolling from his nose, "he was acquitted."
Taken aback by this, the younger man expressed his confusion with an accusatory, "Are you not pleased by that?"
"Course I'm not fucking pleased," the other lashed at him with words, eyes narrowed, "I was hoping he'd get a few years. Thought that might finally keep him out of trouble." Drawing the cigarette from his mouth to take a drink, he added, mumbling down the neck of the bottle, "Or away from me, at least."
Arthur couldn't argue with his reasoning, despite it being rather heartless. Prison did seem the best place for someone like that, for his own sake and everyone's around him.
"He's a grown man, he's not your problem," he contended still.
"Aye, easy for you to say," Alistair scoffed, "but I'm the only thing keeping him from dying in a ditch somewhere."
Refraining from remarking that that may not be the worst thing, Arthur was, again, faced with the fact that he had no right to argue with this. After all, when compared with what little he knew of their shared parent, Alistair came out the better of two evils and having been half raised by that man he hadn't been gifted much of a chance in life. The slightest hint of pity even forced its way into his chest when he considered just how much a product of the environment he was.
He hadn't had the upbringing that Arthur had the privilege of experiencing. While Arthur didn't know all that much about how he had been brought up, he knew he had no cause to envy him. No wonder Alistair had been so eager to crash into his life all those years ago, a place where he was cared for, even if it was by complete strangers. A deeper tug wrenched at his chest when he thought of the fact that Alistair favoured strangers to his own family and he cursed his sense of empathy.
"But still, it's not your responsibility. It's not your fault he's the way he is," he attempted to offer.
He turned his face to look at the man beside him who grunted and shifted, leaning back on the bench and staring ahead with glazed eyes.
"What does that matter?" Alistair downed the rest of his drink and dropped the bottle limply. It clattered on the concrete with a hollow sound but didn't shatter.
"I'm just saying. None of it's your fault, so you don't have to fix it," Arthur continued to watch him as he turned his gaze for their eyes to meet. Those eyes which could have been dark as pine needles under the black cloak of night and surveyed everything they saw with such cynicism. He knew those eyes well. Had seen them look back at him from a face he was just as intimately acquainted with, found them stalking him from his reflection. He had seen them before at their lowest, just as they were now.
"You want to talk about whose fault it is? You always seemed happy to blame me before, what changed? Whose fault is it now?" the volume of his voice rose and reverberated around them against the stone walls of the suburb.
"I've never blamed you for something he did," Arthur was quick to shoot back.
"No, you just blame me for existing," something like a half smile, half snarl twisted his lips as Alistair bared his teeth, resentment bubbling low in his throat.
The sheer venom of his words caused Arthur to recoil a little in his seat, though he wouldn't allow weakness to show on his face.
"I do not blame you for existing, that's ridiculous, I just…" he claimed, but found whatever he had been planning to say crumbled away.
When he thought about what the other had said, as he did in the moment, he could come up with no real reason as to why he mistreated him so. He may not have been the sort of person that Arthur would choose to be friends with, but the deep loathing he felt towards him was much more than a passing dislike. It was the sort of animosity which should have been reserved for an enemy, someone that had personally wronged him in some way but, as far as he could recall, Alistair had never done anything of that description. Besides existing.
Unable to maintain eye contact at the realisation, a soft sigh broke from him. He had been cruel, and he accepted that. Alistair may have been the furthest thing from perfect he could envision, and for a lot of thigs he had no excuse for, but he didn't deserve unrequited hatred. Why he felt that way Arthur had considered several times before in an attempt to justify himself but had never found one definitive answer. Perhaps he was projecting some unrealised resentment towards a father he had never known onto him, perhaps he was doing so on his mother's behalf, or maybe he was just overly protective of allowing an outsider into the family. In any case, it wasn't warranted.
Glancing to the side then quickly back at the ground, he was at a loss of what to say. Sorry hardly felt appropriate and he doubted whether he'd even get a reply. By the look in the other's blank eyes, he appeared not to be taking much in and may not even remember it come the morning. However, Arthur couldn't just say nothing.
"Don't sit there looking so guilty," Alistair beat him to it, "What have you got to feel bad about?"
His eyes darting over but daring not to linger, Arthur straightened out his features.
"I haven't been very fair to you," he could feel the other watching him as he spoke, his gaze prodding at his conscience.
"Fair…" Alistair contemplated the word as it left his lips, one brow twitching and a breath passing through him, reflection evident on his face, "I don't know…maybe you have been."
Though he witnessed it from the corner of his vision, Arthur saw the picture clearly. One of a man, warped by life experiences he had been unable to manage, experiences he had had a hand in forming. An imperfect man, just as all men are.
"Look," Arthur began reluctantly but decisively, "we're hardly family in any sense of the word, but we are related," he softened his features as best he could though his words were a strain, "and that means something to me. So, I'd like to try to be nicer to you."
Whether this was necessarily the truth was irrelevant as the sentiment was what he meant to get across. Arthur truly had no idea why the man still reached out to him, not after his mother had died. Perhaps for Alfred and Matthew, though had he wanted to know them better he would have reached out to them and not himself. He refused to entertain the conceited idea that he was jealous as there was really no part of his life that was particularly desirable. But whatever the reason may have been, Arthur felt the need to make an effort, if only to make up for his misdeeds in the past.
Alistair eyed him, part suspicious, part surprised, before casting his conflicted gaze to the cigarette he took from his mouth.
"If you say so," he expelled in a cloud of smoke.
Not a promising answer but a certain sense of gratitude came through in his words and Arthur supposed it was enough. Peace settled over them, two figures sharing the unusually warm night, as voices came distorted from a distance. Arthur checked the time and thought it, with some disappointment, too late to start making plans with his other half but still early enough to have a decent night in.
"Where is it you're staying then?" he made a move to get up, intending to send Alistair off in a cab then make his way home.
Fixated on the smouldering glow of his cigarette, the other didn't appear to be listening and so Arthur repeated himself, garnering a grunt.
"Ah? I don't know, some hotel," was his vague response.
Having exhausted his supply of sighs for the day, Arthur simply asked for clarification.
"You know, the one on the street, with the thing on the roof," the older man waved his hand about as though attempting to conjure the image from the air, "and the statue, that-"
He stopped abruptly, pausing a beat then leaning forward to vomit onto the pavement between his legs.
Deadpanned to the scene before him, Arthur pulled out his phone and raised it to his ear.
"Put some sheets on the sofa, I'll explain when I get home," was all he said to Francis when his voice rang from the other end before hanging up and seeing to the mess beside him.
He stood and offered a hand which Alistair missed several times before getting a firm hold of. Almost stumbling forward as the much larger man used it to pull himself up, Arthur felt the roughness of his hands, like well-worn leather and icy cold too. He wondered how long he had been sat there, waiting for him or anyone to come along and save him. He supposed that was probably how he had lived most of his life; sitting alone waiting to be rescued.
"You got yourself a good one there," Alistair commended him, presumably on his choice of partner, stood swaying in place, "You get him a ring before he finds someone else who will."
"Maybe," Arthur humoured his advice, faltering though it was, and ushered him along.
They made it home with only a few minor mishaps and one stop for vomit, but Arthur found himself truly exhausted by the time they were at his front door. Francis was there to let them in, which he did with concern and a torrent of questions.
"Just give me a minute," Arthur struggled as he heaved a barely conscious Alistair onto the made-up sofa.
Moving the canvas which remained propped against the wall in the living room, just in case, as he made his way across the hall Arthur explained the night to his other half whose expression morphed from shock into empathy over the telling of the story.
"The poor man," he tutted, looking through over the hall to the body which lay motionless on their couch.
Arthur hummed his assent; the journey home having drained him near completely.
"Sorry the night's turned out like this," he apologised but was predictably waved off.
"It is no one's fault," Francis assured him, "and look."
He turned to the counter and proudly produced a bottle of champagne which Arthur didn't remember having.
"I bought it while you were out," Francis told him in answer to the question he hadn't asked aloud, "I thought we might still have fun by ourselves."
Arthur looked at him as he stood smiling with sweet anticipation, the brightness in his eyes, the levity in his voice amplified by the quiet dark of the house. And that was what he was to Arthur, the brightness in his otherwise grey world, the glimmering hope he reached towards at all times that seemed never to lessen or retract. Always there and always better than he deserved.
Watching as he turned to get them some wine glasses, Arthur could think of no way to express his appreciation other than wrapping both arms around him from behind and holding fast.
Francis glanced down at the arms which wound around his chest then over his shoulder at the head which was pressed into his back.
"Quelle?" he asked softly.
His voice vibrated through his whole body like a cat's purr and Arthur remained pressed against the woolly texture of the other's jumper.
"Thank you for being good to me," he murmured in earnest.
He felt a chuckle rumbled inside of the other who then turned around still in his grasp and placed a kiss just above his forehead.
"You are most welcome," he replied, "Come, we should drink it while it is still cold."
Whether he had felt the full weight of the words or not Arthur was unsure, but he could relax in knowing he had said them and meant them and would for as long as he could see before him. He followed on after his lover, both of them creeping through the hall and up the stairs like rabbits past the fox's den, though the fox had been thoroughly tranquilized.
Upstairs he found Queenie peering around the bedroom door, clearly having sensed Alistair's presence, most likely from the pungent smell. She looked to him for reassurance and was happily held by him as Arthur carried her into the room and manoeuvred into bed with her in his arms.
Francis slipped in from his side and let the glasses clink together on the bed where they lay, reaching down to bring up his laptop. Taking the liberty of popping the cork, though as quietly as could be done, and pouring them both out a glass while Arthur found them a live broadcast of the festivities and Queenie found a spot between their legs, they both found themselves happy enough with how their lonesome party had shaped up. Therefore, they remained that way until the champagne and the year came to an end.
The next rolled in sooner than Arthur would have liked, however, as he was startled awake by a sudden jolting sound. Eyelids snapping back to expose him to the still rising sun which appeared to be struggling upwards against the heavy torrent which pelted down against it, Arthur remained perfectly still and listened. No other disturbance broke the morning, though, and he laid there a while wondering what it could have been.
The alertness which comes from a sudden start to the day began to wear off quickly and he rolled over with the aim of going back to sleep when a hearty coughing erupted, disturbing him again. He propped himself up on one elbow and homed in on the sound which dissipated, leaving only the smacking of rain against the window. Alice had always said that it was good luck for it to rain on New Year's Day, that it washed the last year away so that the next one could start truly fresh, and Arthur had to admit there was something promising in the air.
Inhaling the cool, sweet scent, Arthur slid from the covers into the frigid open and leant his forearms against the windowsill to look out on the world. Deep puddles lined the roadside, telling him that the weather had been steady for some time, and the pavements were bare, and though not a thing had changed the streets appeared new to him. He liked to think that his were the first eyes to be laid upon them, that the weight of no other's perception had dented their unused surface, and he looked on them favourably indeed.
Thinking of his houseguest downstairs, he wondered whether his various noises meant that he was awake and considered he had better check, in case he was in need of anything. Despite his not being the ideal lodger, it was still a host's duty to try and make a person's stay comfortable, after all. Whatsmore, Arthur hadn't forgotten the loose promise he had made the night before, even though Alistair probably didn't remember a damn thing, and wanted to at least attempt to make good on it.
Down the stairs without a sound, he reached the hallway to find his caution unnecessary as the hulking frame which he had last seen passed out on the sofa was now leant against the window in the living room, one hand holding a cigarette outside of it. Figuring the opened pane must have been the sound which had roused him, Arthur stood in the doorway and made his presence known.
"Morning," he greeted.
Apparently having been unaware of him before, Alistair raised his head and glanced back at the other. His tangled curls fell over his drooping face with the wildness of a bramble bush, his murky eyes looking through the mass like an exhausted predator would from it's hiding place. Just from the dejected sight of him Arthur could tell he must have felt like hell, but his voice made it all the more evident.
"Morning," he rasped.
"Can I get you anything?" Arthur offered.
"No, that's alright," Alistair declined, his cracked lips hardly moving, "I was going to be off before you went to work."
"Actually, I quit my job," Arthur felt the need to inform him, hugging his arms against himself.
Brows drawing together for a moment then rising a little, the other hummed and craned his head out of the window to take a puff. The smell still slithered its way into the house, but Arthur appreciated that he did it outside, nonetheless.
"When are you heading back to Edinburgh?" he ventured to stave off the awkwardness that waited for an opening.
A frown scored the other's freckled forehead. "Why would I be going back to Edinburgh?"
Head tilted to the side perplexedly, Arthur propped his shoulder against the door frame. "I thought that's where you were living," he said.
"Aberdeen," the other corrected him.
"Oh," he breathed, still looking at the back of his head, "When are you going back then?"
"I'm not, I live in Manchester now."
With no response to this, Arthur fell quiet and diverted his eyes to the carpet. The patter of rain outside grew more vicious and Alistair didn't flinch when they splashed from the glass onto his cheek, letting them sit there like borrowed tears. His still wore the heavy jacket which he had fallen asleep in, the kind worn by someone who works under the elements and it was stained and creased, like the rest of the clothes he wore. Though he was a large man, the fabric swamped him, seeming to weigh him down as he leant heavily against the window.
As Arthur found himself staring in a state of pitying fascination, like this was the first time he had seen the man, a body brushed against his ankle. Queenie had followed him down, gaining courage in his company to come and inspect the stranger in the house much as her master was. Rubbing herself against his shin, she slunk further into the room, skirting around the edge of the coffee table for cover, until she was close enough to stretch her neck out and sniff at the muddied cuff of the larger man's jeans.
As stealthy as she was, she found herself caught in the act as Alistair glanced down, locking eyes with her. A clouded breath left his nose and one corner of his lip twitched upward as he flicked the butt of his cigarette away and bent down to scratch her ginger head. She flinched at first but relaxed immediately when his coarse fingers treated her with remarkable gentleness.
Arthur found there to be something very honest in the way a person treated animals, like their true nature came to the surface. The cruellest of people could prove themselves to be good at heart or the most charitable person could be proven a fake.
He looked on them a moment before asking, "Do you want to borrow a shirt or anything?"
Looking up while the cat purred around his feet, Alistair shook his head. "That's alright, I think I'll be off."
"Where are you going to go?" Arthur enquired, biting at his forefinger.
"Home," Alistair unloaded the word like it were a block of lead then stood with visible effort. As he drew his hand from the cat's head and shoved it into his pocket, Arthur saw the purple reddish bruise decorating his knuckles. "With any luck I can be back by tonight."
Outside the sky growled, low yet thunderous, as though God were scoffing at his plans. Unperturbed, however, Alistair swayed into the hall and made for the door.
"You don't want to wait until it lets up a little?" Arthur trailed after him, his expression discouraging but the older of the two already had his hand on the door handle.
"I'm used to it," he chuckled lightly as he looked back, "Thanks for letting me stay. You didn't have to do that."
Something in his demeanour lightened as he spoke, and Arthur offered a faint smile in return. "I wasn't going to let sleep on the streets."
Alistair's mouth contorted into a similar expression which looked foreign on him. Unstably it rested on his face, like he was testing it out and didn't quite know how it fit. Nodding, he opened the door and flipped up his collar in preparation but looked back as Arthur spoke to him.
"Call me some time," the younger man looked him in the eye as both lingered on the threshold of a relationship neither realised was mutually beneficial, "If you need anything or whatever."
"Aye," Alistair nodded again, that experimental smile tugging wider, "I will."
With a goodbye of sorts expressed between them, both fell silent and Arthur watched as his slightly less estranged relative slipped out into the rain. He was soaked through in seconds, coils of hair flattened by the weight of the water but walked on as though he hadn't noticed at all, another rumble of thunder sounding from some distance away at which point Arthur closed the door.
"He has left?" Francis' voice came from the top of the stairs and Arthur turned to see him emerging drowsily from the bedroom.
"I just saw him out," he replied.
"Is he alright? He will be drowned," the other exaggerated.
"He'll be alright," Arthur told him like he was the authority on such things, taking out his phone to put a name to the unknown number.
Francis, not quite awake yet, bobbed his head slowly and uttered something as he drifted over the landing and into the bathroom to get ready for work.
Day had broken outside though it didn't look it by the shade of grey, closer to black, which painted the sky. A thick, impermeable feel sealed Arthur inside where the air was still thin and dry enough to breath easily and he could watch the heavens cascade in peace from the sofa. Sat alone, he could hear the pounding on the roof through two floors and when he showered, he closed his eyes and pretended he was in a dreamland where storms came hot.
He remembered similar days and all the ones that came to mind were Sundays when his mother would drag him out of bed at seven in the morning, force him into a suit that didn't fit and march him to church, sulking all the way, where she would parade him for the amusement of the elderly. Laughing at the thought, he turned on the radio as he would have done after they got home from the service and reclined on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't tell whether the thunder was coming or going but this time it came accompanied by a flash that startled Queenie into an arch backed fuzzball.
Snickering to himself, he stroked down her fur and did his best to calm her while thinking of how to pass the time. Francis had been unable to avoid a day at the office but he didn't mind the solitude. It made him more productive, in fact, as he found it a challenge to see how much he could get done before his other half got home. What he was to do, though, was the problem. It didn't take him long strip the sheets from the sofa and put them in the washing machine and there were only one or two chores to do about the house, which left him bored before midday.
Slumping back down onto the sofa, his unoccupied limbs splayed to the sides of him, he looked about himself listlessly much as he did on those hazy Sundays. The room was dark, and he knew he could easily fall into a bad state of mind if he let himself be taken over by it, and so his search for inspiration grew more desperate. He rolled his head to the side and looked at the wall to his left, the one scored by three strips of blue like some bizarre flag.
He still didn't find any of the three particularly appealing but with that an idea came to him. An impulsive one which he questioned several times before convincing himself it would turn out fine and springing up from his seat. Grabbing all three paint cans from where they sat on the kitchen counter, he rummaged through the cupboards for a bowl and took some old newspapers out of the bin before taking his supplies into the living room.
First, he needed to drag the furniture away from the walls, which he managed after some struggling which he was quite glad that no one was there to witness. Next he ripped the papers into sheets to line around the walls in order to save as much of the carpet as he could, though he grew impatient with this quickly and did a poor job of it. He was pleased to find a paint roller he didn't know they owned in the cupboard under the stairs and a tray to go with it, both things which would make the task go easier, and with that he got to the experimental faze.
Popping off the lids of all three shades, the chemical scent instantly overpowered that of stale smoke and the colours seemed to leap from their tins. But Arthur endeavoured to contain them and bend them to his will as he poured each of the blues into the large bowl, revelling in how the liquid flowed and globbed. Half of the can of duck egg blue, one long pour of the the palest summer sky and a dollop of vibrant cyan. A vigorous mix and he was left with perfection. A blue purer, livelier and more exquisite than any other.
Anticipation rising as he coated his roller in his creation and brought it to the wall where he was to make the first stroke, Arthur tingled all over. Enjoyment in something so simple was the best kind and he relished in the way the bright new colour smothered the ghastly beige underneath. It went on smooth and dense, completely erasing any trace of dullness, and Arthur exerted himself to reach as high as he could then bent down to the skirting board so that one full strip of wall was obliterated by blue.
He stood back to admire it a moment and found himself excessively pleased with the result. The smell was becoming more suffocating and so he went and opened every window he could find and turned up the radio on his way back so as it wasn't drowned out by the gale outside. He recognised the song that played, something upbeat in tempo despite the minor key and cynical lyrics, and his own voice soon harmonised with it. Not knowing all the words, he was content to hum and sing back up as he made his way around the room, leaving a bold trail in his wake.
Time moved quickly but he would stop for no one but the man he hoped to pleasantly surprise when he got home that evening. Paint spattered over the carpet and furniture with the energy of his movements and the more he tried to wipe the stains from his face the more he smeared over it like war paint. He didn't care, though, he wanted the entire room to be soaked in the colour, wanted people passing by to look in and think a dazzling waterfall flowed from his walls. As the sky darkened the room glowed brighter and he was spurred on with even greater enthusiasm.
He teetered on the edge of the coffee table and stretched his body to its fullest height so that no corner went neglected, ran a thin brush around the edge of the window with the steadiest hand he could muster, wiped his mistakes with the hem of his t-shirt. Sweating and panting despite the open windows letting out all the heat in the house, he wouldn't tire and had it half in his mind that he might start on the hallway next.
He was prevented, however, when the front door opened with a blustery rush and his other half hurried inside.
"Wait, stay where you are," he called out, throwing down his roller in the tray and wiping his face with the collar of his top.
"Alright," the other responded slowly, stopping where he stood dripping on the threshold.
Emerging out in the hall with a grin splitting his face, Arthur met his curious gaze. "I have a surprise for you," he announced, though the surprise was given away by the distinct aroma that saturated the air.
Eyebrows raised at his lover's disordered appearance; Francis laughed amusedly. "You have been busy today, it seems," he observed much like an adult to a child.
In his juvenile delight, the other smiled wider and took his partner's hand to show him his masterpiece. Walking a few steps in, the elder of the two looked around himself in surprised admiration.
"Mon cher, you could not have minded the carpet a little more?" he joked on seeing the carpet caked in dried specks.
"We'll replace it, we needed to anyway," Arthur waved a flippant hand from the doorway, "You do like it though, don't you?"
Looking around himself a few seconds more, Francis turned to face his significant other. His features settled into something warm and placidly content as he beheld the satisfaction in the other's eyes.
"It is perfection," he lilted, his heart singing at the pleasure it brought his love.
"Well, not quite yet," Arthur deterred, "There are some patches that could do with another coat. You feel like helping?"
Eager to please, Francis nodded and went upstairs to change into something he didn't mind ruining, leaving Arthur to pick up again. Perhaps the paint fumes had started to get to him, but he was positively giddy with joy. Singing carelessly to the song which played, he noticed neither the clap of thunder directly above nor the fact the he was being watched.
Listening with elation to his private concert, Francis was loath to interrupt his honeyed tones but felt the need to speak his thoughts.
"I have missed hearing you sing," he lamented to him softly.
"I still sing," the other glanced back and saw his blond head shaking.
"Not for a long time, mon lapin," Francis insisted, "Not for a long time."
In no mood to contend, Arthur noted the sadness tinging his voice and knew how to dispel it. Humming to the tune, he welcomed him closer with a look and pressed their lips together. Tender arms encircled him, and he returned the action, bodies pressing closer, skin growing warmer.
Forgetting completely about the wet paint on his hands, caught in the moment, Arthur cupped them to the other's neck. He felt the action paralleled by the hand that gripped his ass as the pair eased down onto the sofa together.
Astride his partner's lap, Arthur took full advantage of the position, pressing them closer together, flesh and soul. A shuddered breath blew between his lips when Francis slipped a hand under his waistband and nibbled along his jawline and he twisted his neck, exposing more skin for him to savour.
"Shit, I'm getting paint all over the sofa," he swore distractedly as he saw he'd left a blue hand print on the cushions.
"We will get another," Francis disregarded, commanding his attention with a kiss and a movement that elicited a soft, needing groan.
New bed sheets were soon added to the growing list of necessary items.
It's been a long month so don't be mad about the late upload.
So, not that I think my audience is stupid or anything but I'm worried that I didn't make things clear enough. The whole point of Alistair in this is that he is meant to be sort of a representation of all of Arthur's worst/depressive qualities (like low self image, addictive tendencies, inability to communicate) and in this chapter Arthur finally manages to accept him. Hope that came across in some way.
Just one more thing, I'm going to be off for a little while so follow to be updated on when I'm back.
Favourite, follow and review, I love knowing what people think of my work.