Author's Note: Here's yet another chapter. Let's keep the ball rolling. Just as a word of warning, there's a time skip between this chapter and the last one, so I hope that's not too confusing. Enjoy!

May 1937

He's reaching his eight year anniversary in this town, and Beilschmidt Sweets is still somehow his favorite place of refuge. The polished, caramel-colored tiles, the smell of chocolate fudge and mint cigarettes—it's just the way it always has been.

"Hallo, squirt. What are you doing here on this perfect spring day? Don't you see all of the ladies are out today? Go and introduce yourself to some of them."

"I really wish you'd stop calling me that. I'm not looking for any girls, I just needed to get out of the house for a bit."

"Ahh, having problems with Arthur again?"

"Kind of," Alfred sighs, dropping his head on the counter with a groan. "He still won't let me go to school in New York. He says I'm not responsible enough, but I'm plenty responsible, don't you think?"

Gilbert shrugs his shoulders, not wanting to say too much too soon. "I'd offer you a cigarette, but you can't smoke with your bad lungs. How about a beer instead?"

"Sure."

A minute later, a glass filled with ice and an imported German brew is set in front of the teen. He clinks his glass against Gilbert's and takes a swig, letting out a tiny sigh as the hot feeling of liquor travels down his throat and through his gut.

"I mean, he still treats me like I'm ten, y'know? It wouldn't hurt to give me some freedom now and then. I could honestly go to New York without his permission, but I want him to be okay with it, so I don't have to worry about him holding some kind of grudge against me. He's so damned stubborn."

Surely, he's old enough now to make his own major life decisions? He doesn't need ol' Arthur clutching onto his hand, and he plans to make that crystal clear to him. If he wants to go to New York, that's what he's going to do. He has outgrown this town. It's time for bigger and better things. It's time to go back to the city that was always his true home.

"He's only trying to protect you. He doesn't want you to get hurt," Gilbert explains, counting the money in the register. "Besides, you haven't exactly shown him you're responsible enough to live so far from home."

Alfred makes a noise of disgust and sets his beer down, causing the ice in his glass to rattle. "But I can't stay with him forever. I've gotta live my life, too."

Gilbert shakes his head, eyes downcast. "Just make sure you don't forget about this life first."

"I thought you would understand."

"I see where you're coming from, kid, but Arthur has done so many things for you over the years. Maybe doing this one thing for him just once wouldn't be so bad."

But that's the problem—this isn't some petty matter Alfred can just compromise on. Where he ends up going to school is too important to leave up to Arthur's discretion.

He finishes his beer and bids Gilbert farewell because he promised to make dinner today, and if he doesn't get started soon, he'll be giving Arthur yet another excuse to criticize him. The man has been in court all week defending a client, and so, his patience is likely running thinner than usual.

Some chicken cutlets and mashed potatoes will have to do, because Alfred isn't skilled enough to try for something more intermediate. He's just finished with preparing the chicken and is waiting for the potatoes to finish boiling when Arthur walks into the house, briefcase hanging from one hand.

"Hey, there," Alfred says, trying to be welcoming as the man saunters into the kitchen.

"Hello, lad. Did anything interesting happen today?" Arthur asks, hiding his fatigue rather well.

"Nope. Just the usual. Same old stuff… Same, old day as yesterday," Alfred replies, unable to hold back the bite in his tone. His fingers are clenched tightly over a dishtowel, knuckles white.

Arthur, unsurprisingly, picks up on his seething anger immediately. "I know you're not happy with me, but not now, Alfred. After dinner, all right? I've had a trying day. I'm not going to argue with you."

"That's never stopped you before."

"You will speak to me civilly, or not at all," Arthur warns him, sounding quite intimidating and authoritative even now that Alfred is much taller and stronger in build than he is.

They never used to argue like this, and Alfred wonders if he's solely to blame. There are things about his caretaker that annoy him—things he's never noticed before—like how the man cannot be swayed. He has his point of view and sticks to it with unshakable conviction without even considering any alternatives. It's like talking to a stone wall.

"Maybe if you'd at least pretend to listen to me every now and then, I could be civil," Alfred mutters, watching Arthur knead at a knot in his shoulder.

"I always listen to what you have to say. Simply because I disagree with you doesn't mean I'm not listening."

They aren't getting anywhere, as usual.

"I just don't get it," Alfred sighs, slouching. "Why won't you let me leave? You're always complaining about how loud I am and how I keep leaving a mess in my room, so if I go away, you won't have to deal with that anymore. Just think about it—you could have the house to yourself again. You could do whatever parents do when their kids go away. Take a vacation. Go to the bar. Throw a party. I don't know—anything!"

Arthur folds his arms and frowns, creases appearing on his forehead. "That would be tempting, but I'm not trying to get rid of you just yet. Keep this up, however, and I may send you away to Europe to stay with my mother. I'm sure you two would get along swimmingly."

Alfred has heard enough stories about the man's mother to know better than to fall for such a trap. The woman nags at least twice as much as Arthur does, and she's reaching that ripe old age during which point one begins to complain and grouse over every little thing. Just last month, Arthur had sent her a letter asking if perhaps she'd consider leaving Europe due to the economic and political turmoil going on there, and she'd replied with an impudent, "This is my home. I don't care if Hitler comes marching through my living room, I'm not moving."

And so, Alfred isn't planning on going overseas any time soon.

"Arthur, I'm not going to die if you let me study in New York. I'll write letters, and I'll still visit you over the holidays."

"My answer is still no, Alfred. You'd be far better off studying at the University of Chicago or somewhere else in the state of Illinois."

"But I—!"

"Enough," Arthur growls, walking over to the kettle to make himself some tea. "That's my final decision on the matter."

So it is. Well then, if Arthur wants to make this harder than it has to be, then fine. Alfred can't allow himself to be deterred by this. He has plans of his own, and he will follow through on them.

No matter the cost.

It is the longest summer of Alfred's life. Some days, he wakes up with a burning ache of wanderlust and a restless urge to run. Run and take a chance, even if it hurts Arthur—even if he has to leave behind everything. There are days he is willing to make that sacrifice.

And then there are days like today, the day he had vowed to walk out the door, and he just can't do it. One day the house is a prison cell. The next, it is his only sanctuary, and every neuron in his brain screams at him to stay.

His things are already packed for New York. He has just the necessities—everything he needs that won't be available at the university. All he has to do now is find a way to escape. He could do it now, while Arthur is at work, but then he wouldn't get the chance to say goodbye. He could wait until tonight for the man to return, but then he'd have to face Arthur's disappointment and inconsolable fury—all of his pain and anger.

Arthur still thinks Alfred is undecided about whether or not to study in Illinois, but that's because Alfred has been lying to him. In fact, he's been lying to him for over two months. He's always had his heart set on New York, and that hasn't changed.

It's going to break Arthur if he leaves, and Alfred knows it. It'll shatter him inside, and Alfred will go down in history as the worst son ever.

But it's time to let go. To move on. If he doesn't do it now, he never will.

He puts on his shoes, stands in the empty living room, and tries to ignore the churning fear in his stomach. He is a coward. He knows he won't be able to face Arthur if he waits for him to come home. Or worse, the man will find a way to convince him to stay.

Alfred pulls out the notepad Arthur keeps next to the downstairs phone and decides this last message will have to do. He begins to write, eyes stinging.

Arthur,

Don't be angry. Well, I know you will be anyway, but try not to be too angry. You once told me that everyone gets to make their own mistakes in due time. Being young and reckless is a part of adulthood, and maybe this is my time. I never wanted to make you upset. I'm not leaving to hurt or worry you. I just need to be me, and I don't feel like I can do that here.

I'm sorry,

Alfred

He grabs his suitcase, switches off the light in the foyer, and goes.

"Arthur? Arthur, is everything all right?"

He sits down at his usual table at the end of the shop, cigarette seesawing between his fingers as he gazes out the window and lets the sun burn his eyes. He doesn't look at Gilbert—doesn't look at anyone or anything besides the light.

"What happened?"

Smoke streams out of his mouth, and along with it, all of the feeling in his bones.

"Arthur..."

What is there to say? Nothing, that's what, and yet, he is compelled to speak anyway, just to fill the empty space.

"Alfred's gone."

"Gone? What do you mean he's gone?"

"Gone. He went to New York, just as he wanted."

"Without telling you?"

"Without telling me," Arthur affirms, flicking ash off of the cigarette and taking another drag.

"Shit... Want a drink and a cigar?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Gilbert shuffles away and returns a moment later. "Here's some rum with ginger ale."

"Thank-you."

Gilbert sits across from him, struggling to find something reassuring to say. "He'll be okay. He's been through worse and made it through. Sometimes kids have to learn on their own, right? You can't always be there to guide him."

"Yes, I suppose so," Arthur replies, sounding apathetic and cold and very unlike himself.

"Are you going to disown him now?" Gilbert says with a lofty tone, hoping a joke might ease the tension.

"No, not yet."

"Hmm... Maybe it's better this way, huh? He's going to see what the real world is like."

"I just wish he hadn't chosen New York of all places."

"Why's that?"

Arthur takes a sip of his drink, swallows thickly, and says, "The only reason he went to New York is because he's fabricated some kind of fantasy that his life will be glamorous and carefree there. He doesn't realize the magnitude of what he's doing. He hasn't been in the city for years, New York is riddled with memories of his past, and he doesn't know a single soul there. In essence, this situation is no different from when he was thirteen and insisted upon becoming a farmer. He jumps into things without thinking of the repercussions."

"And how do you know he won't somehow turn things around?"

"Because I know him. I also know he doesn't know what he wants."

Gilbert sighs, beginning to understand. "And did you tell him this was the real reason you didn't want him going to New York?"

"No."

"Of course you didn't," Gilbert snarls. "How did you expect him to take you seriously and listen if you didn't tell him the whole truth about how you felt from the start?"

"He wouldn't have listened to me anyway. There was nothing I could have done. He's had his belongings packed for two weeks. He thought I didn't notice. It was only a matter of time before he left."

"So what now? Are you going to go after him?"

"No. I don't have to."

Gilbert pauses and blinks a few times as he processes everything. "Aren't you worried about him?"

"Of course I am, but if I go to New York and drag him back against his will, he'll never learn. He needs to come back by his own volition, and he will, in due time."

"You're sure of that?"

"Quite sure."

But for someone who says they're certain about what they're doing, Arthur doesn't look like he's exuberating confidence. He puts out his cigarette and takes the cigar that Gilbert offers him, taking measured breath after measured breath to calm himself.

"He's a big boy. He knows what he's doing," Gilbert mumbles as Ludwig comes out of the storage room and pretends not to hear them while he mops the floor. "What'll you do when he comes back?"

"I don't know yet."

"Do you think he'll come back right away?"

Arthur sheds a dark smile and shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, no. His pride won't allow that. It will take a while."

"Honestly, if I had a kid who put me through something like that, I wouldn't let him back in the house. He wants to be independent and on his own? Good for him. My door would be locked," Gilbert scoffs, sneaking a taste of Arthur's drink. "What's he studying again?"

"Engineering."

"Ahh, right. That's a good field, I guess."

The door to the shop jingles, signaling a customer. Gilbert reluctantly gets up from the table and turns around to tend to them, bringing his and Arthur's chat to a temporary halt. The look on his face, however, when he realizes who the visitor is, is priceless.

"Oh, Arthur. I saw you through the window and remembered I owe Alfred some money for fixing my fence. Could you give it to him when—?"

Elizabeta Hedervary has not placed a foot in Beilschmidt Sweets since its grand opening, and now, here she is, in the flesh, acting as though this is not a momentous occasion in the least, just part of one of her usual errands.

"E-Elizabeta," Gilbert cuts her off, stumbling over her name. He has not heard the sound of her voice in a while, and he has not felt her name roll off his tongue in years. "Now is not a good time."

She immediately turns on him, as short-tempered and heated with him as ever. She's the sweetest woman in the universe to everyone else in town, but she doesn't tolerate Gilbert in the least. "And who are you to tell me what is and what isn't a good time?"

"Alfred isn't here, and Arthur isn't going to see him for a while, so you can keep your money," Gilbert explains as Arthur stays motionless.

Elizabeta seems to catch on because she turns red after a few seconds, embarrassed. "I'm sorry… I didn't know."

"It's all right," Arthur assures, finally speaking up.

Seizing his chance, Gilbert looks to Arthur for approval and then turns back to Elizabeta again, heart racing. "Why don't you sit down, and I'll get you something to drink, too?"

"I can't stay."

"Not even for one drink?" Gilbert asks, putting his puppy-dog eyes to good use. "Arthur needs all of the company he can get. Look at the poor man!"

It's not exactly true. In fact, Arthur would probably prefer to be left alone, and yet, he allows the little powwow at his expense and pulls out a chair for Elizabeta. He strikes up some small talk as Gilbert busies himself behind the counter, and soon, they're all sitting at the table, hunched over and all carrying their own, unique burdens. Arthur keeps most of the conversation alive because both Gilbert and Elizabeta have difficulty speaking directly to one another, and once he tires and decides that he's played his role as the third-wheel long enough, he gets up and leaves the two alone together, hoping they might work out their differences.

Maybe at least one relationship can be salvaged.

The city is not the way Alfred remembers leaving it.

The streets are busier. The stores are different. The eyes in the faces of the passersby are hard and accusing, as though he is personally responsible for their sadness. At least, that's what it feels like. The whole city is looking at him as if to say, "You left when we needed you most."

Home is no longer here. The street where his old apartment complex used to be has been torn down and turned into a construction site for a new community center that's part of the WPA program of Roosevelt's New Deal. Everything that was there: his old room, the writings carved into the windowsill, the rickety floorboard in the living room—all gone and turned to dust.

Mr. Karpusi is his new landlord. He gets Alfred an apartment in a not-so-friendly neighborhood, but the rent is cheap and until he finds himself some part-time work, he's not in much of a position to complain about the arrangement. It's a one-bedroom place with a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom stashed in the corner. One closet, one lamp, one side table, and that's pretty much it.

Alfred tries to get settled in as best as he can. Somehow, he will make this hovel a home, or so he hopes. Luxuries won't come crawling to his doorstep—he's going to have to work for them, and he knows this.

He doesn't do much on his first night. He unpacks his frugal belongings and sprawls over his new bed, which is really just a cot with rusty springs. He closes his eyes, rests an arm over his head, and thinks about how Arthur has probably realized he's missing by now. Is he angry?

His limbs become heavy, and he almost lets himself doze off, except a strange squeaking noise catches his attention, and he's forced to find its source. He sits up and takes a good look around the room, and right behind the side table, he notices an arch-shaped hole stretching from the floor to about two inches up the wall. In front of it, is a little gray mouse, wide-eyed and frightened at the prospect of having a new roommate. His nose quivers, his whiskers twitch, and he scampers away and out of sight.

Great, Alfred thinks, he has some company after all. He's not exactly the biggest fan of rodents, and so, he'll have to find a way to plug the hole to keep the damned creature from coming back. Hopefully, the mouse doesn't have a family of critters waiting to rear their faces.

Well, there's nothing he can do about it now, and so, Alfred takes off his glasses and decides to go to sleep early, a little hungry but not famished enough to get up and make himself some supper. In the coming days, he will learn that food will be the least of his concerns, and when he starts classes and work the following week, having the time to cook will be a mere dream; a phantasmagoria of what he might someday strive to achieve.

But he doesn't regret leaving town. He doesn't regret it for a single second. He wishes things could have been different—that somehow Arthur would have made things easier on both of them, and that he'd be more accepting, but he knows that's too much to ask.

He has to manage on his own now, if only to prove to himself and to Arthur that he can do it—that eighteen is old enough to live the life of a man.

He rests his head on his pillow, greets the darkness, and tries to ignore the scratching sound of mice running behind the wall.