Author's Note: I'm sorry for the slow updates. School has swallowed up a lot of my time, but chapter four is finally here! Please enjoy and leave a review!
"Mr. Honda, I finished my poem."
"Ahh, very good, Alfred. Bring it here."
Today they're studying the development of poetry throughout each century, as well as the different types of poems that can be found across various cultures. Surprisingly, it's more fun than it sounds, and Alfred is competing with Toris to see who can come up with the best haiku. The hardest part is making sure one counts all of the syllables correctly.
He goes up to the large desk at the front of the classroom and hands Mr. Honda his notebook, waiting with bated breath for the teacher's feedback.
"The snow fell today
Over the Mississippi,
But the fish still swim."
Mr. Honda reads the poem twice and smiles softly, brown eyes filling with mirth. "You're an excellent poet, Alfred. That's going to be a problem for you."
"A problem? Why?"
"The mind of a poet works in mysterious ways, and it is often misunderstood," Mr. Honda explains before making a checkmark on the page with his pen. After another nod and hum of approval, he sends Alfred off to draw while the rest of the class finishes their work. The remainder of the lesson goes by quickly, and by the time all of the poems are completed, it's almost time to go home.
Alfred buttons his coat and looks out the nearest window, checking to see if Arthur happened to get out of work early after all, but no such luck. The man's usual spot by the white fence is vacant, and although Alfred's still excited to be walking home alone, he can feel a little sting of loneliness in his chest.
When class is dismissed, he trudges his way past the school doors in his boots and out into the glum overcast of the day. They'd been bombarded by a storm of sleet last night, and although the rain and snow have stopped now, it's still unpleasantly frigid outside.
He passes the white fence and makes his way down the block, resisting the urge to dawdle when he remembers how he promised Arthur to go home right away. True to his word, he doesn't take any detours, but he slows his pace so that he can appreciate the peaceful walk. Every now and then, he looks to the dark and downy clouds in the distance, fascinated by how haunting they appear to be.
With his mind in other places, he notices a bit belatedly that Gilbert, who is clearly returning from buying his lunch and daily newspaper, is walking towards him. The man regards him with a little jerk of the head and a wave. He doesn't seem to be in a good mood, but he's not in a bad mood either, and sometimes, that's as happy as Gilbert gets.
Alfred opens his mouth to say hello, but as soon as he does, his right foot loses traction with the ground, and he is suddenly made very aware of the winding path of ice covering the concrete. He barely has time to gasp before he pitches forward and desperately starts waving his arms to regain his balance.
Thankfully, Gilbert is close enough that he is able to stretch his arms out and catch him with a little grunt before he hits the ice.
"Careful, squirt. You could've knocked all of your teeth loose," Gilbert teases when they both right themselves. "Anything hurt?"
Alfred sucks in a startled breath but relaxes when he sees that no harm has been done. "No, I'm okay. Thanks! That was close."
"Ja, don't mention it. Watch your feet next time. The ice isn't always easy to see... Where's Arthur?"
"He had to meet with someone for a case."
"Busy as usual, huh?" Gilbert asks, apparently quite familiar with the situation. He pulls a cigarette out of the inside pocket of his jacket and lights it with great care before taking a lengthy drag. "He's always been that way though. He takes his work seriously. So, are you coming back from school or what?"
"Yeah, class just ended."
"Hmm, what are they teaching you kids these days?"
"Well, right now we're learning about poetry."
Gilbert scoffs, taking Alfred's words as a personal insult. "Poetry? They should teach you the stuff you'll actually need to know in life, like how to recognize a sleazy politician from a distance, or how to ignore the propaganda in the newspapers."
Confused, Alfred simply says, "Mr. Honda told us that a man who doesn't know how to write a poem is like a bird who hasn't learned to use his wings."
"Hah! Kiku is a good man, but teaching was never his calling. Listen, kid, these are important times we're living in. History is in the making. Europe is in a state of chaos right now. The Great War didn't solve much—it just put a bandage over a bullet hole without taking out the bullet. Know what I mean?"
"No," Alfred murmurs with a frown.
"See? It's because they don't teach you this stuff in school," Gilbert insists, but when he sees that he isn't getting through to the boy, he shakes his head and blows smoke out of his mouth. "You're still too young… Some people lost everything in the war. Even here, we're in a horrible depression right now. Since Black Tuesday—"
Alfred furrows and thinks back to where he's heard that term used before. He knows about what happened on Black Tuesday. The stock market crashed, and lots of people lost all of their money. He remembers the many children his age lined up in the streets, panhandling for spare coins.
"—nothing has been done to help people recover. Here it's not so bad, but in the cities and farther out west—God help those people. If you don't have a secure job, you're doomed to poverty," Gilbert continues. "And mark my words, it's only going to get worse from here on out."
Alfred listens intently and tries to wrap his head around all of this. It's as though Gilbert is connecting the memories from his days in New York together and making them a little more coherent, but there are still parts missing.
"People like Arthur can afford to feed an extra mouth, but the rest of us, we're just trying to get by every day. Not all of us can be successful lawyers. I guess that's why he works so much though. He knows that if he saves up enough, he can ride out the shit—I mean garbage—economy."
It's rare for Gilbert to ramble on like this. Alfred can hear the fervor in his words, as though the man has been waiting to let off steam for a while.
"I'm sure the war is still fresh in his mind, especially after all what happened to his family."
Alfred tenses and takes a step closer to Gilbert, immensely curious. "What happened?"
"He didn't tell you? He lost all three of his brothers in battle. He's the youngest of four, and he just barely avoided conscription—the draft—because he wasn't of age when the fighting started. I think he turned eighteen in nineteen seventeen, but by then, the war was nearing its end and he wasn't needed. It definitely shook him up," Gilbert recounts, one hand rubbing against his stubbly chin in thought.
Arthur with brothers? Somehow, it's hard for Alfred to imagine.
"And if seeing three coffins being put into the ground wasn't enough, I heard his wife at the time came down with rheumatic fever—a horrible disease. It's still a problem on the coast today. They hadn't even been married for a year. I remember when he first moved into the town about ten years ago. I'd never seen such a nervous wreck in my life. He'd wanted to get as far away from Europe as possible, but who can blame him?"
He's going to be sick. He turns his head to the curb and tries to hold down his lunch, feeling every part of his body turn cold with an awful, churning sensation. It's not fair how people die without ever having done anything wrong. It doesn't make sense. It's all pointless pain, and he knows this because he's been on the receiving end of it. He thinks of Mattie, Papa, Mom, and Arthur's family, and the world goes topsy-turvy and off kilter. So many people, and so much pain.
Gilbert looks at him strangely and sighs. "Ah, damn it. I didn't mean to scare ya. Hey, how about I walk you home, huh?"
Tears well in Alfred's eyes and he lowers his head, avoiding Gilbert's gaze. He wants to be adult-like and show that he's strong enough to talk about these types of matters, but it's proving to be more overwhelming than he thought it would be.
"I'm sorry, squirt. You shouldn't be thinking about this stuff," Gilbert apologizes with a reassuring sincerity. He rubs Alfred's head soothingly and urges him forward with a strained smile. "This weather is damned awful. Let's get you home."
He follows Gilbert's lead and lags behind him all the way to the house, sobs dying down when he sees the familiar porch waiting for them. Gilbert sits him down in a wicker chair by the steps and pulls out another cigarette when he's done with the first one, anxious and rueful as he stares at the row of houses across the street.
"There's just one more thing I have to tell you, squirt. I've never seen Arthur happy until he started looking after you. I mean, he would force a laugh now and then, but you could tell it wasn't real. You can always tell the difference between real happiness and pretend happiness. He seems younger too—more full of life."
The redness around Alfred's eyes goes down, and he sniffles wetly. "I don't want him to be sad anymore."
"He's not. He's actually acting human again," Gilbert mutters with a crooked grin. "Who would've thought he still had a heart?"
They sit in silence on the porch for half an hour, and by then, Alfred has considerably calmed and regained some of the color in his face. He has the key to go inside, but he doesn't want to be alone, and he feels a little better in Gilbert's company. A few more minutes pass, and his fingers start to go numb from the cold. He makes a move to get up and go to the front door, but just then, he notices Arthur strolling his way over, briefcase in hand.
When he's a few yards from the house, Arthur notices the pair of them on the porch and tilts his head in confusion, and much like Alfred had done a little under an hour ago, he disregards the ice on the ground and slips, shoes making a squelching sound. He shoots a hand out to brace himself on a tree or fence, but there's nothing to help steady him, and he promptly collides with the concrete.
"Honestly, does anyone watch where they're going nowadays?" Gilbert growls, sprinting over to the scene with Alfred in tow. "Arthur? Are you alive?"
Arthur groans and manages to sit up, sore and embarrassed but very alive. "I didn't plan to go ice-skating today," he jokes dryly, wincing when Gilbert helps him stand. "What are you doing here?"
"I was talking to your little scamp. He almost fell on his face today too."
Alarmed, Arthur turns to Alfred and frowns. "You aren't hurt, are you?"
"No, I'm okay," Alfred assures him, relieved to see the man get up without much of a problem.
"I can't wait for this winter to be over," Arthur declares, brushing bits of ice off of his coat before carefully climbing the porch steps. He moves his hand to take his keys out of his pocket, but lets out a loud hiss in the process, eyes slamming shut.
Not sparing a second, Alfred rushes to his aid, fearing the worst. "Are you okay, Arthur?"
"I-I'm fine, my boy, but I think I'll have quite a bruise on my hand in the morning."
To add to the party of onlookers, Francis suddenly bursts out of his house and shouts, "Mon Dieu, that was quite the fall, Arthur."
Flushing furiously, Arthur snarls, "Bloody fantastic, did everyone in the neighborhood see me make a fool of myself?"
The commotion escalates, and Francis crosses the street to have a look at the damage himself and to further poke fun at Arthur's spill. "How clumsy of you. Oh, look, your hand is already starting to swell. That's not good. You should have it checked out."
"Bugger off, Francis. I didn't ask for your medical advice."
"I hate to agree with him, but he's right. You may have broken a bone," Gilbert adds, grimacing at the inflamed appendage. "I've only seen old men break a limb after falling," he snickers.
Arthur growls something profane under his breath and makes another attempt at unlocking the door. This time he is successful, but the pain on his face is clear as day. "I've had enough of both of you. Come along, Alfred. Let's leave these bumbling idiots."
He brings Alfred inside with him and closes the door behind them, beyond frustrated. Alfred can tell he's had a trying day, and the little scene that just happened outside probably only served to give him a more pronounced migraine.
Knowing what he knows about the man now, Alfred can't help but feel sorry for him, but he does his best not to show it. He doesn't want Arthur to be aware of what Gilbert told him, and it's probably better for both of them if he keeps the information to himself.
He watches Arthur go into the kitchen and set up the teakettle, unable to overlook the way his guardian cradles his injured hand close to his chest and swears under his breath. He sets his briefcase down on the table and opens it, fetching a few papers and a pen before shutting it again. He tries to write something on one of the documents, but his hand protests, and he drops the pen, contemplating what to do next.
Worriedly, Alfred murmurs, "Are you sure you're—?"
"Yes, Alfred. I'm fine," Arthur snaps, features taut.
He's not going to get him to admit he's hurt, and although Alfred would love to help, he's not sure what to do for this kind of injury.
All he can do is pretend he doesn't see the growing black and blue bruise on the man's right hand.
But that's all right because there's something else he's learned about small towns, and that's that you can always count on your fellow townsfolk to look out for you.
At nine o'clock that night, there's a set of knocks on the door, and Alfred eagerly goes to tend to the matter, Baron padding alongside him with a wagging tail. He turns the lock and swings the door open, bewildered albeit amused to see Francis, Gilbert, and Ivan all gathered outside on the porch.
"Good evening, Alfred!" Ivan cheerfully greets him, not nearly as scary looking as he seemed to be the first time Alfred met the man. "Do you mind if we come in? We need to have a word with Arthur."
Obligingly, Alfred steps aside and lets the men in. Baron sniffs each of them and seems to approve of their presence, even though he does take a second to bare his teeth at Francis for good measure.
Arthur arrives a minute later, and when he sees the trio in the foyer his cheeks turn red and he shouts, "No! I'm not putting up with any of this tonight. All of you, get out!"
Evidently expecting such a reaction, Ivan smirks and cocks his head. "Now, now, there's no need for such harsh words. Must we go through this every time you're worse for wear?"
"Yes," Arthur huffs but softens his tone. "You could've at least left the frog and the kraut behind."
"They insisted on joining me. I couldn't turn away such concerned friends."
"They aren't concerned. They just want a reason to mock me in the future. Little do they know that I'll wring their necks if they—"
"Not in front of the boy," Francis pouts, a sinister look in his eyes. "And we do care."
Joking now aside, Ivan regards Arthur with a stern gaze. "It could be serious. You're not the only one who has slipped today. I've already seen two broken legs and an injured back in the past few hours. This isn't something that should be taken lightly."
Conceding the fight, Arthur nods sullenly and goes into the living room. He sits himself on the couch, and Ivan crouches beside him, gently holding the injured hand up and comparing it to the uninjured one.
It looks pretty bad to Alfred, but Ivan only nods his head and presses a thumb onto the area with the most swelling. In response, Arthur lets out a plaintive yelp, startling everyone in the room.
"I'm sorry. I have to see how bad it is," Ivan explains, narrowing his eyes. "I'm almost certain you've broken your wrist."
Alfred is the first to ask, "Is he going to be okay?"
Ivan smiles brightly and nods. "Of course. He's going to be perfectly all right. Now, Arthur, you have two options. The first is to get yourself to the hospital for an x-ray so we can know exactly where the break is."
"Absolutely not," Arthur grumbles, blanching.
"That's what I was afraid you'd say," Ivan sighs. "All right, then. The second option is that I set the bone and make my best guess as to where the break is."
Arthur considers this for a moment and glowers. "How good will your guess be?"
"There's a ninety percent chance I'll get it right."
"And if you don't?"
"The bone might mend at the wrong angle, but if it makes you feel any better, I'm confident there won't be a problem. It's a clean break."
"Okay, do it then."
Ivan nods again and stands. "I'll prepare the plaster then. Oh, a word of warning, it will be painful. I can give you an anesthetic if you'd like. Ether works rather—"
"No, anything but ether."
Ivan frowns and tries to persuade Arthur to reconsider with an unwavering glare, but Arthur holds his own quite well. "Well, there's nothing else I can give you."
Francis scoffs and steps in, one hand raised in the air. "Desperate times call for old home remedies, and I have the perfect painkiller."
Arthur covers his eyes with his healthy hand and says, "I know what you're going to say, so please don't say it. It's illegal."
"But this is a medical emergency. Surely that's an exception. You're a lawyer, if anything happens, you can come up with a decent argument. Besides, no one in this room is going to tell."
"You may have forgotten that Alfred is listening to every word we're saying, and if he goes to school and tells his classmates about this—"
"He won't."
Alfred sits next to Arthur on the couch and cowers when he realizes that everyone's eyes are on him. What isn't he supposed to say? Why is everyone acting so strange?
"Besides, I don't want to be in that kind of state of mind around him," Arthur goes on cryptically.
"Oh, but it's okay for him to see you in excruciating pain? I think he'd prefer to see you a little tipsy."
Being surrounded by the four men makes Alfred feel self-conscious, and he's suddenly very aware of how childish he is compared to everyone else in the room. The entire conversation eludes him.
"I have something strong enough in my cupboard at home," Francis admits, clearing his throat. "Obviously it won't be enough to completely numb the pain, but it'll be better than nothing."
Ivan, Gilbert, Francis, and Arthur all exchange looks of uncertainty, and they don't say anything for a long time. Finally, Arthur clicks his tongue and says, "Fine. I'll go along with it."
And with that, Francis leaves momentarily to get the necessary supplies from his house, and Gilbert and Ivan go into the kitchen to prepare the plaster. Soon, Alfred is left alone with Arthur, and when he sees the rollercoaster of emotions Arthur is going through, he leans against the man's shoulder and tries his best to console him.
"Maybe it'd be best if you went up to your room, Alfred. You might not want to watch," Arthur suggests.
"No, I'm going to stay in case you need me."
Arthur manages a tiny smile and collects Alfred into a careful hug, mindful of his wrist. "Okay, then. If you're sure…"
"I'm sure."
When Francis returns and the plaster is ready, Arthur lies flat on his back with a pillow under his head, already anticipating the worst. He vows he will never leave the house in below freezing temperatures again.
Francis passes him a small glass with a clear liquid inside and says, "Cheers."
Arthur downs it in one go and shudders. A few minutes later, he's given a refill and the process repeats itself. After the fourth time, Ivan finally positions Arthur's hand for easy access and gets to work.
"You're going to feel me slowly pulling on your wrist. It should be over in a minute or two," Ivan cautions as Gilbert stuffs a small towel between Arthur's teeth.
It's a long and terrible minute. At first, Arthur doesn't make a sound, but halfway through he lets out a strangled scream that's muffled by the towel. Baron, of course, becomes absolutely hysterical, barking and yowling and even growling at Ivan upon seeing his owner in such distress. Alfred, on the other hand, merely holds Arthur's good hand while Francis and Gilbert hold down his shoulders.
It's the longest minute of Alfred's life, but he wills himself not to cry upon seeing the man in such pain. He has to be brave. If he cries, Arthur will be even more upset.
"Okay, okay. You're doing well," Francis hushes Arthur, and then, just as quickly as it started, it's over.
Arthur groans, and Gilbert removes the towel from his mouth. A combination of gauze and plaster is applied to the wrist, and the plaster hardens, leaving a smooth cast to cover the area.
"Better?" Ivan asks, cleaning up. "Keep the cast dry and try to keep your hand elevated whenever you can. I'll take it off in a few weeks."
It's unclear whether or not Arthur hears these instructions because his eyes are glassy, and he starts to doze off against his will, fast asleep on the couch. Despite all of the madness, the living room is filled with a friendly and companionable air, and Alfred feels a mixture of safety and warmth wash over him. The four men have obviously been friends longer than Arthur cares to admit, and Alfred can sense the close bond between them. They have been through their share of troubles.
"Alfred? Are you all right?" Francis whispers. "I'll spend the night to keep an eye on you two, okay?"
Alfred nods his head gratefully. He doesn't trust himself to take care of Arthur by himself.
Before long, Ivan and Gilbert say their goodbyes and make their way out of the house, leaving a wave of silence in their wake. Baron has finally settled down and has curled up by Arthur's feet, refusing to leave his side even when Francis flourishes his hands to shoo him away.
"He has a broken bone. He's not dying!" Francis tries to explain to the dog to no avail. He pats the brute's head and smirks. "My goodness, you're a mother hen, aren't you?"
Baron lets loose a quiet growl and lays his head across Arthur's ankles, content with his spot. With the two of them perched on the couch together, there isn't much room left, but Alfred doesn't want to leave his guardian while he's in this kind of state either, and so, he squeezes himself into the strip of space still left in front of Arthur's sleeping figure and presses himself against the man's chest, a bit more assured that he will be all right.
Francis purses his lips at the sight of the three of them together, but doesn't protest. Instead, he turns out the lamp on the nearby table and situates himself in the armchair across from them, so that if there's a problem during the night, he'll be able to hear it.
It's the very first time Alfred feels like he's exactly where he needs to be.