This is the penultimate official chapter: CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?1!111!11
Incidentally, the word count is shorter; unfortunately, I've been rather pressed for time. Chapter ten is looking to be not too terribly long as well. Good thing or bad? Who knows. In either case, both chapters accomplish all that is necessary. ^^
In Brief: We come back to America, meaning that it's Alfred's turn to flash back.
Eek, so in this chapter, the timeframe I use for the movie production process is so unrealistic that it can scarcely function at all, really. Forgive me; just read over all the glaring issues with filming and editing and marketing, etcetera.T_T
ENJOY!
They returned to Los Angeles and the next few months were such a blur of extra filming and editing and little problems and quirks and creases needing to be smoothed out that Arthur felt he had scarcely blinked his eyes before Francis set down his microphone for the last time, and three weeks or so later Keep Dreaming, America was ready to be screened to reviewers and critics before she premiered.
Alfred couldn't quite grasp the entire thing, either, but nevertheless as of late he had been positively glowing with self-satisfaction, and when he and Elizaveta weren't parading the streets of Los Angeles or sitting in at autograph sessions or posing for photographs with eager fans, he could be found trying to wrap Arthur up in his arms, distracting him from things that needed to be done or begging him to go out even when he knew it was impossible, or otherwise simply rambling on about the movie and the premiere and their performances, which was, admittedly, rather cute – he was so excited, after all, and even Arthur didn't like to dampen his enthusiasm.
"It seems like only yesterday, Arthur," he kept saying. "That we started this whole thing, doesn't it?"
And every time Arthur couldn't help but to agree, and despite himself he smiled at the calendar when he woke one morning to find that an entire month had passed since they had begun their relationship. Everything really had been something of a blur.
And in much the same fashion, the day of the first critical screening of the finished Keep Dreaming, America came and went. In an effort to soothe Alfred's frazzled nerves, Arthur allowed himself to be taken for drinks once they had left work; they sat in that old bar near World Series Entertainment, the one they had always frequented, reminiscing over the entire process of creating the movie and steadily making their way through several rounds of bourbons. In fact, a week later the tabloids would publish a photograph of this little outing under the heading Boy's Night Out, a title which struck Arthur as almost painfully ironic considering that, directly afterwards, they hurried home to Alfred's apartment and practically fell into each other, faintly drunk and just realizing that their work had kept them from seeing each other properly for a little too long.
Alfred lifted his face from Arthur's collarbone to catch his breath, one hand pressed tight against his waist, the other cupping the back of his head, fingers tangled into his hair.
"Arthur," he breathed, looking up at him from beneath his eyelashes. "Would you do me a favor?"
Arthur stopped with the buttons of his shirt long enough to give him a questioning look.
"That depends on the favor," he murmured, then suddenly Alfred's mouth was on his again, and Arthur lost his balance a bit, throwing his arms around his neck to keep from falling and scowling at the low chuckle he felt in the back of Alfred's throat.
"Well, come on," Arthur muttered once they had parted. "Out with it, then."
Alfred grinned, pressing their foreheads together, glasses askew and cheeks flushed and blue eyes dark.
"My parents," he said cryptically. Arthur raised an eyebrow, but tilted his head back willingly when Alfred made another dive for his throat.
"What about them?" he asked, idly running his fingers up and down the back of Alfred's neck.
"They want to meet you," said Alfred, and Arthur abruptly pushed him away, holding him at arm's length to see if he was trying to make some sort of joke. His shirt was falling from his shoulders and he was grinning like a fool, yet even so, there was nothing but seriousness in his expression. Arthur swallowed.
"You mean to say…they know I exist?"
Alfred nodded, Arthur asked him how on earth this had happened, and the color in his cheeks darkened; he shrugged sheepishly, glancing at the floor.
"I…well…I guess I kind of talk about you a lot or something, and they sort of picked up on it. They know me a little bit too well…" he bit down on his lower lip. "Anyways, they want to have you over for lunch. Tomorrow."
Arthur blinked. "You talk about me a lot? What in the world do you say?"
Alfred's blush deepened.
"I mean…I just…I don't know, things -"
"Things that evidently cause your parents to suspect that we are in a homosexual relationship."
"They notice names I bring up a lot, okay, and I guess I must not have sounded convincing when I told them we were just friends!" Alfred rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Artie. And considering this," he took a step forwards, catching an arm around Arthur's waist again, obviously having regained some of his composure. "That's a bit understandable, don't you think?"
Arthur allowed himself to be kissed for a long moment, then jerked his chin away and rested it on Alfred's bare shoulder, working off his shirt for good.
"Lunch, eh?" he murmured, pressing his mouth to the skin just above Alfred's collarbone. Alfred hummed appreciatively, undoing Arthur's tie and starting on the buttons at his throat.
"Please?"
Arthur sighed. "They won't try to burn me at the stake or anything, will they?"
Alfred chuckled, kissing his chin briefly. "Nope. They've dealt with Matt's coming out and shit already. They're used to it by now." Arthur's shirt fell away from his shoulders and Alfred pulled him close, arms securing tightly around his waist, palms pressed flat against the small of his back, flush together, skin on skin, and Arthur couldn't help but sigh at the contact – it really had been too long.
"So…please?" Alfred murmured in his ear, tracing the skin teasingly with his tongue.
"Ugh, stop that - it's revolting," Arthur pushed at him, but chuckled all the same. "And..well…fine, I suppose. But only because we haven't been seeing nearly enough of each other lately and I don't want this to stop because of some petty argument."
Alfred rumbled in what seemed to be both amusement and agreement. "I missed you, Arthur. I mean, I see you every day, but…" he trailed off, smirking. "Not quite like this."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Grow up, Alfred."
Alfred pouted exaggeratedly. "So you're not gonna say you missed me, too?"
"Fuck off," muttered Arthur, squirming around in an effort to maneuver them away from the doorway and towards the bed. "I say, were you planning on staying here the entire night, or are you going to let me move?"
Alfred stuck his tongue out, but he loosened his hold and allowed himself to be led over the bed and pressed into the mattress, lifting his hips so that Arthur could work his trousers off and toss them aside before he dragged him down for another kiss, long and heavy and tasting faintly of bourbon.
"They really want to meet me, eh?" murmured Arthur when they had parted.
"Who, my parents?" Alfred smiled at him warmly, reaching up to touch his cheek. "You betcha." He kissed Arthur again. "But I should warn you…" Another kiss. "From what I tell them about you, they really think you're amazing."
Arthur glared.
"Come off it."
"I'm being serious!"
"Oh, in that case, alert the masses."
Alfred stuck out his tongue. "You're mean."
Arthur sighed exaggeratedly. "And yet, it's part of my charm," he sat back, gazing down and allowing himself to admire Alfred for a moment. "We really must do this more often," he smirked, trailing a hand down Alfred's cheek.
"Agreed," whispered Alfred, leaning forwards eagerly. Arthur smiled and gladly accommodated him, opening his mouth and spreading his legs so that Alfred was nestled warm and heavy and comfortable against him.
"There should be lots more time for this now," murmured Alfred when they had parted. Arthur chuckled at his tone, uncertain and a little wistful, almost more of a question than a statement.
"I hope so," he offered as an answer, and the next morning when he woke between the sheets and Alfred's arms and had to get dressed to meet his parents, he was both amazed and a little frightened to think how far they had really come.
Arthur really should have known that Alfred's old place of residence would look as if it could have been displayed in a museum as a vintage representation of the American Dream, down to the very last detail. After the gas stations and strip malls and cheap diners of the interstate had melted away into the landscape, Alfred curved their car up a sharp incline, and they suddenly broke over the top of a hill, from which point the entire Jones estate could be seen: the white farmhouse with the wraparound porch set like a child's plaything against acres and acres of farmland, the crisp rectangles of green only broken occasionally by clusters of brown cows or little patches of trees or underbrush, surrounded on all sides by the California hills. The total effect lent an illusion of isolation to the place despite the fact that in actuality, Los Angeles, with all her screaming streets and dust and big shiny businesses, was only just beyond the first roll of land.
They drove down past the entire expanse of farmland up to the driveway of the house; Alfred turned the car off and smiled brightly, if not a little worriedly, at Arthur, who was craning his neck to get a better look at the entire place, suddenly feeling embarrassingly jumpy.
"You alright?" asked Alfred doubtfully. Arthur nodded distractedly, tapping his finger on his chin.
"Perfect," he murmured absently, glancing down at his thin dress shirt. "You don't think I'm underdressed, do you?"
Alfred chuckled, shrugging his shoulders to emphasize that he was still wearing the old bomber jacket that he had nicked from the studio, and Arthur rolled his eyes.
"Well ,they're your parents, you don't have to impress them," he smirked. "You've already let them down, after all."
Alfred stuck his tongue out. "You could at least pretend to like me, y'know."
Arthur chuckled, quietly flipping Alfred his middle finger as they got out of the car and stepped into the mild autumn air, the midmorning sunlight warm on the back of his neck. The sky was a high, porcelain sort of blue with only a few clouds scuttling along the rim of the horizon, and the air was soft and clean, touched faintly by the ripe smell of animals and hay. Alfred shot Arthur another reassuring smile and they ascended the steps to the porch, and when Alfred rung the doorbell they were serenaded with a mechanical reinterpretation of the National Anthem. Apparently, tardiness ran in the Jones blood, because they had already made it halfway through the second verse before the door swung open and Arthur was assaulted by a very familiar grin.
Aside from her smile, however, Mrs. Jones was not terribly similar to Alfred – the angles of her face were softer, her hair and skin were paler, she didn't wear spectacles, and her eyes were slender and shapely, so light in color that they were almost violet. There were lines at the corner of her mouth and her eyes, but Arthur could easily tell that she had been a very beautiful young woman, and she dressed and carried herself with a certain grace that obviously had not been passed down to her younger son. Mr. Jones, on the other hand (when he finally appeared, at the base of the stairs, looking a little rumpled but very happy), was tall and more than a little clumsy, with dark blue eyes and caramel-colored hair and skin browned and gently wrinkled from years of sun and work, not to mention a very firm handshake, as Arthur quickly discovered as they were introducing themselves, trying not to wince and hoping that he could return the enthusiastic grip the best he could.
After Arthur had successfully given his name and expressed his happiness at being welcomed into their home, Alfred enveloped both his parents into an enormous hug, and Arthur couldn't help but to smile softly, even though he was aware that he was hovering uncomfortably on the fringes of their family. However, Mrs. Jones wasted no time in hurrying him into the parlor and getting him settled on the couch next to Alfred, arranging a tray of drinks and appetizers on the coffee table before taking a seat herself, clearly preparing to stage something of an audience. At first Arthur shifted awkwardly in his seat, a little discomfited, but he quickly found himself soothed by Alfred's eager chatter and Mrs. Jones' quiet voice – she really was an unintimidating, graceful woman, and Arthur soon realized that he had become engaged in their conversation without having to make too much of an effort.
Perhaps this had been inevitable from the beginning, but it wasn't long before Mrs. Jones stood up and announced that she was going to bring out the family photo albums, at which point Alfred blushed furiously and begged her not to and Arthur tried (without much success) to suppress his laughter and disguise his eagerness. Fortunately, Alfred was paid no heed, and soon Arthur was leaning over Mrs. Jones' shoulder as she flipped through photograph upon photograph of her sons throughout their childhoods: little Alfreds and Matthews standing proudly next to cows or pushing each other on swing sets, old school photos, Matthew playing the guitar, Alfred dressed up for Halloween, the two of them as teenagers outside a movie theatre, Matthew holding a cigarette and Alfred grinning that same old brilliant grin, Matthew receiving some sort of medal for academic achievement, Alfred standing with a gaggle of other boys, holding a football, and, well, Arthur had no other choice but to stop there for a moment so that he could take the time necessary to gawk.
"Don't tell me," was all he could manage.
Alfred made a distressed noise in the back of his throat. "Turn the page, mom!"
"He was a quarterback," said Arthur a little dully, unsure of whether to laugh or cry. Mrs. Jones merely smiled that same smile, though this time perhaps it was more akin to a smirk.
"Indeed he was," she said quietly. "Weren't you, Alfred?"
At this, Alfred blushed spectacularly, and Mr. Jones guffawed deeply.
"Best in the school!" he exclaimed proudly. "A regular hero, everyone said so!"
"Dad," Alfred was so obviously uncomfortable that it was really positively adorable; he was whining and fidgeting and shifting from one foot to the other like a little boy. "You know how that isn't something I talk about much!"
Mr. Jones merely took another sip of his beer, entirely unfazed.
"You know you're son's a fairy," he proclaimed after a moment. "When he's embarrassed about being the star QB."
Arthur was laughing too hard to notice the nervous glance that Alfred shot his way; he also didn't catch the enormous, if not rather sheepish, grin that followed. Eventually he dashed the tears from his eyes and smiled up at Alfred, who was rolling his eyes exasperatedly at his father, though he only received a smirk and the half-full beer glass raised in salute for his trouble.
"He won three of their homecoming games and everything," murmured Mrs. Jones. "He really was wonderful."
"I don't doubt it," managed Arthur, though another giggle was rising in his throat. "He really is quite the American picture, isn't he?"
Alfred's touchdown won their homecoming game; he could still smell the wet grass on his hands, his body was still aching from the exertion, he could still feel the leather texture of the ball scraping his fingers raw, he could still hear the roar of the crowd in his ears, and consequently he found that he could still think of nothing else even as he was kissed harder, as she guided his hand to his chest, hiking up the little velour skirt of her cheerleading uniform, essentially inviting him to do whatever he liked.
Whatever that entailed; Alfred himself wasn't entirely sure. He was kissing her back, that he knew well enough, but he wasn't especially fond of the little things she was trying to do with her tongue, and her braces bit at his lower lip, and her body was altogether too yielding, giving to the slightest touch. She breathed too heavily, her mouth was too wet, and even as she ran the flat of her palm across his crotch Alfred didn't feel much more than a little shiver up his spine; nonetheless he leaned forwards eagerly, not wanting to disappoint her, and made a show of struggling with her bra straps. She giggled and helped him out, and then Alfred discovered that he wasn't really sure what to do. Fortunately, she took the initiative, leaning in close to his ear so that her bare breasts pressed against his chest.
"Do you have something?" she whispered, running her tongue over the shell of his ear.
Alfred blinked.
"Something?"
She giggled again. "Come on, silly." When he still looked confused, she rolled her eyes. "A condom, Alfred."
"Oh." Alfred realized that he didn't, and that he was relieved because of it. "N-no. Sorry."
She sighed and sat back on his lap, essentially straddling him.
"Too bad," she said with a little pout that was probably supposed to be alluring. "Looks like you're not getting any tonight."
Alfred blinked. Was this his queue to look disappointed?
"Aw, darn," he said rather lamely. She raised an eyebrow, glanced down at their position, and frowned.
"How come you're not…" she faltered. "How come…"
"I was thinking about the game," said Alfred on impulse, panic rising in his throat, though he wasn't sure why. Her frown deepened and she got off his lap, starting to look around for her bra. She found it on the floor to the side of his bed and stood up, deftly clasping it around herself.
"You're an asshole," she snapped. "And now I'm not even going to suck you off." She wrinkled her nose. "Not that you managed much to suck off, anyways."
"Aw, darn," Alfred said again, not moving from his position on the mattress. She rolled her eyes.
"You're an idiot. Still," she smiled at him as she headed for the door to his room. "Call me."
"Sure," said Alfred, giving her a halfhearted little wave. The moment she disappeared, her place in the doorway was taken by Matthew; he leant against the frame and smirked triumphantly, arms crossed over his chest almost as if he had won some sort of victory.
"What?" Alfred raised an eyebrow challengingly. "Got a problem?"
"Nope," grinned Matthew. "Nice game."
"Shut up."
"I was referring to the football."
"Oh please; you didn't even watch." Alfred glared. "You were too busy lighting up in the woods to have paid attention."
Matthew chuckled appreciatively. "Still, I'm proud of you, bro," he sauntered over and gestured for Alfred to move over on the bed, flopping down beside him. He reeked of tobacco and pot; Alfred wrinkled his nose and glanced over at his brother disapprovingly.
"Mom's gonna kill you."
"What else is new?"
"C'mon, Matt."
Matthew sighed. "C'mon, Al. You just had a girl in your room," he quirked an eyebrow. "Albeit not very successfully, but nonetheless, there was a girl. In your room. A cheerleader, no less. Do you really think mom would be thrilled to hear that?"
Alfred frowned and Matthew chuckled.
"Alright, then," he got up from the bed again and headed for the door. "So no pulling any holier-than-thou routines on me, alright?"
"I guess," Alfred murmured uncertainly. Matthew winked.
"And remember, bro," he grinned. "Virginity is so mainstream. I suggest you get rid of it."
Alfred threw a pillow at him.
They took their lunch onto the patio, where Mr. Jones was grilling hamburgers, and at that point the interrogation really started. First, Arthur was asked where he attended school, if he liked it, which subjects were his favorites, how were his grades, etcetera. Despite the fact that he was already twenty-seven years old, the next item on the agenda evidently included such things as his plans for the future and how he intended to make a living – which, he might point out, he was already doing writing screenplays for their son to act in. Nonetheless, by the time the first round of burgers was off the grill, Arthur was half-convinced that somebody was going to ask him if he had picked out a ring yet; fortunately the food distracted the conversation for a while, and Arthur was able to breathe as Alfred simultaneously struggled to inhale his lunch and make sure that the conversation didn't veer back to education or personal finance.
His efforts proved in vain; it wasn't long before Mrs. Jones set down her burger delicately and turned to Arthur again.
"So, Arthur," she said coolly. "What do you intend to do with my son?"
Arthur swallowed a little too quickly. "I beg your pardon?"
Mr. Jones turned from the grill, brandishing his spatula for emphasis. "What are your intentions?"
"M-my…" Arthur shot a glance at Alfred, who suddenly seemed very involved in picking little crumbs from his plate. "Forgive me, I'm not sure what you -"
Mrs. Jones smiled that soft, cryptic little smile of hers. "We need to know that you'll do right by him."
Arthur blinked, set his burger down on his plate, and folded his hands together over his lap. "But of course I will," he paused. "You have my word as an Englishman."
Mr. Jones guffawed. "Whatever worth that is!"
Arthur chuckled a little uncomfortably. "Well, when you disregard that whole imperialism thing…" He blinked; the joke was evidently lost on his audience. "Look, I promise," he said more seriously. "I won't…I mean…"
At this, Alfred finally cut in.
"Arthur has a little trouble expressing himself," he said through a mouthful of burger. "He's trying to tell you that he loves me and doesn't think he'll ever hurt me. Though, really, mom," he sent Mrs. Jones a reproachful glance. "I can take care of myself."
Mrs. Jones shrugged and took a sip from her glass of white wine, the smile still playing across her mouth.
"Of course you can, dear."
Alfred hadn't been born when their mother had married his father, but Matthew both remembered the wedding and claimed that he could still recall little traces of his own biological father, whom their mother had divorced about a year before she met Mr. Jones. Alfred had never been sure as to whether he should believe his half brother, seeing as his only claims to evidence involving his birth father were limited to the occasional glimpse of a memory, perhaps a smile or a touch or the tone of a voice, and even these scanty recollections came about in spite of the fact that their mother made every possible effort to avoid any questions they ever posed about her former husband and took an obviously enormous (almost vindictive) satisfaction in referring to herself as Mrs. Jones, an all-around-American citizen. Matthew, however, didn't necessarily share this sense of pride, and by the time he was sixteen talked of nothing but running back to Canada and escaping the mainstream that his life in America evidently troubled him with so much.
Alfred really thought that all this talk was all fun and games, and he would only smile tiredly at Matthew when he laid out his plans for the future, nodding his head and humoring him and then steering the conversation in another direction. But then, Matthew made some different friends, started going to different places, took up smoking when he was bored, soon became bored all the time, or at least so he said, and therefore smoked all the time, and began to seem as if he might soon make good on his promises. This worried Alfred, but he also didn't honestly believe that Matthew would ever go so far as to leave home, at least not before he had graduated and managed to get some money off of their parents, so he never started any arguments about it or tried to persuade his brother otherwise. Besides, he admired Matthew despite himself – after all, it was he who had shown the golden universe of movies to Alfred, had taught him to fall in love with scripts and takes and rolls of old film, who took him to the theater every Friday and grilled him on old silent-movie trivia every other day, and Alfred really wanted very desperately to believe in him.
This abruptly became a challenge when Alfred came home one day, walked up the stairs to Matthew's room, pushed open the door, and was met with the sight of his brother bent over another man on the bed, jeans around his ankles, face flushed and shiny with sweat, his current state of undress revealing – for some reason this detail had stuck most persistently in Alfred's memory, really characterizing the entire unfortunate scenario – a brilliant red tattoo of a maple leaf, centered perfectly in his very lower back, like some sort of injury or sore, perhaps the trace of the sickness of his defiance, Alfred would later suppose when he looked back on the occasion.
However, at the moment he merely blinked, flushed, and slammed the door, pressing his back up against the wall and exhaling long and shakily, blinking and blinking and blinking as though the motion would remove the image from his memory and help him to forget that he was suddenly very warm, too warm, all around his cheeks and his collar and the tips of his fingers, and that he couldn't seem to stop hearing the little moan of the other man, couldn't tear his thoughts away from the expressions on their faces, the position of their hips, the…the…Alfred swallowed.
So his brother was gay. That was all well and good; to be honest Alfred had suspected this for a while and really couldn't bring himself to be bothered. What was bothering him, however, was the sudden dizzying pace of his heartbeat; he lifted his fingers to his temple confusedly and sunk into a sitting position against the wall. Matthew still hadn't come out to try and deny anything; did that mean that, just beyond the thin strip of plaster, he was still…they were still…Alfred found himself suddenly seized by a fierce desire to press his ear against the wall, no, to open the door and finish what he had started, to see the whole thing through to the end, oh, he wanted to know was going to happen, he realized that was achingly curious and absolutely couldn't stand it any longer, and then Matthew opened the door and stepped out into the hall, gazing down at him almost apologetically, wearing nothing but his favorite skinny jeans, the edge of the crimson maple leaf glaring at him from above the waistband.
"Sorry about that, bro."
Alfred glanced up, both grateful and furious, but most of all confused.
"D-don't…don't worry about it."
"Sure," Matthew paused for a moment. "Alfred, I'm…I'm gay."
"No shit."
Matthew chuckled; that was a good sign. "And I…"
Alfred sighed. "You're going to go away soon, aren't you?"
Matthew nodded; he looked genuinely sorry. "I just can't…I need to…"
"Where?" asked Alfred tiredly.
"I'm not sure," Matthew didn't look at him. "Maybe Canada. Maybe Hollywood. Somewhere. I just need to get away from..." he gestured vaguely at their surroundings. "…all this. And," he was silent for a very long moment, biting on his lower lip in an uncharacteristically ashamed fashion. "I want…I sort of…I want to find him, Alfred. I need to know…who he is."
"Your father," said Alfred blandly, just to be sure.
"Yes," his voice was barely audible. "I love our dad, but…I need to find my father."
"I know," said Alfred. "I understand. When do you think you're going to leave?"
Matthew shrugged and joined him, leaning up against the wall, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling.
"This summer, probably," he said eventually. "There's an underground film crew that's willing to take me; I just need to be sure that's what I really want."
"It sounds like you."
"Yeah," Matthew smiled, finally looking him in the eyes. "It does, doesn't it?"
Alfred nodded and they were silent for a moment.
"Hey, Matt," Alfred found he was speaking against his own volition.
"Mm?"
"When did you…figure it out?"
"What out?"
"That you're gay."
Matthew shrugged noncommittally. "I guess I kind of always had an inkling that I was a little different," he examined a fingernail, brow furrowed pensively. "But if I had to be more exact, I'd probably say that it really started a few years ago. I would make out with a girl, hell, I'd fuck her, and it would do nothing for me. Funny," he chuckled. "I just thought that was how sex had to be. I was a little confused, but I took things as they were, which is to say, highly mediocre." He paused, a hint of nostalgia appearing on his face. "That is, until a boy kissed me at a party about two years ago. And it was like nothing I had ever felt before. Surely," he nudged Alfred affectionately, "you already understand it, because you get girls like there's no tomorrow. But…imagine that feeling all over again, except you're just realizing that it can be that way in the first place, and, well…I was hooked. Have been ever since. I take it, I give it, really it doesn't matter to me as long as I'm doing it - and I'll do it whenever and wherever I can," he chuckled wryly. "I'm such a fag."
Alfred swallowed. A feeling? One that he was supposed to know already, that Matthew was sure he knew already…well, if only Alfred himself could say the same. In all his escapades with the opposite sex (and there were many, though he was technically still a virgin), he could remember nothing but mediocrity, perhaps at best a halfhearted sort of enthusiasm. But what did that entail, exactly?
Alfred didn't know, he remembered that brief moment of frenzied desire he had felt not but five minutes ago, and realized that he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.
After lunch, they sat and talked for a while, and eventually Mrs. Jones got up to clear the table, and Mr. Jones set about putting away the grill, and Alfred suggested that he and Arthur take a walk around the farm, explaining that he wanted to show Arthur around, get him acquainted with his old childhood haunts, although Arthur had a sneaking suspicion that he actually wanted to apologize excessively for all the awkwardness and use that as justification for pressing him into a tree stump or something equally unsanitary - he had that little restless glint in his eyes that meant he had been sitting still for too long and was therefore up to nothing good. Even so, the late California afternoon had stretched itself so prettily across the sky, a sort of haze of rich tired blue and gold and green, and the air was so mild and sweet, and Arthur was, after all, so very eager to escape the scrutiny of the Jones, that he agreed despite his misgivings and trotted after Alfred through the pastures until they reached the edge of the woods. Alfred searched along the line of trees for a moment, then let out a cry of victory and showed Arthur to a little path that led into the forest; after a little while longer of walking, they reached a clearing, and Arthur was startled to see that they had emerged onto the lip of a hill, the dark grassy valley rolling out before their feet, stained almost amber by the dying sunbeams that stretched up from the horizon.
"This was my second favorite place in the world," proclaimed Alfred proudly, sitting down and dangling his feet over the edge of the hill, gesturing for Arthur to join him.
"It certainly is lovely," admitted Arthur, settling down next to Alfred and allowing him to weave their fingers together. "Tell me, what is it with you and hills? It seems we always end up gazing into the sunset or something together."
Alfred smirked. "I'm just that damn Hollywood."
Arthur chuckled appreciatively. "Touché," he paused for a moment, returning his gaze to the view. "And it is rather nice, I suppose, if not a little clichéd."
Alfred sighed in agreement and they fell silent for a spell.
"Sorry about my parents," murmured Alfred eventually. Arthur shrugged.
"It was rather cute, actually, if not a little unnerving." He laughed. "It seems they're laboring under the delusion that you are some sort of impressionable young woman, a pure young thing, and of course nothing more than putty in my not-necessarily-trustworthy grasp."
"Well, Artie," Alfred grinned, and cupped his hand over the back of Arthur's neck to bring him close and press a kiss to his temple. "Maybe they're not entirely wrong."
"Don't call me that," Arthur pushed at him with no real force. "And kindly shove off."
"You did deflower me," Alfred pointed out, and Arthur snorted.
"Don't flatter yourself; I merely plucked off the last petal, my dear."
"You're mean."
"We've been over this countless times before, lovely."
"Lovely?"
"Sarcasm, Alfred."
"Boy, if only my parents could hear you now."
"I know, I'm a monster," Arthur chuckled and brought Alfred's head down to rest on his shoulder, running his hands through his hair rhythmically, almost absently. "Now hush."
For once, Alfred did as he was told, turning his cheek more comfortably into the crook of Arthur's collarbone, the frames of his glasses shifting over his nose, eyes reflecting little bits of the landscape from behind the smudged panes.
"Arthur," he murmured eventually. "I want my word."
It took Arthur was minute to realize was he was talking about, then he clicked his tongue softly, shaking his head but smiling despite himself.
"Don't be impatient; it's not the premiere yet."
"But it almost is," moaned Alfred, voice muffled against Arthur's neck.
"I repeat myself: not yet."
"Are you saying you haven't thought about it at all?"
"What, pray tell, are you planning on doing if I don't have your word ready for you in time?"
Alfred shrugged, glancing up at Arthur sleepily. "Nothing much, really. But you'll know how disappointed I am," the slightest smirk toyed with the bow of his lips. "And it will eat away at you inside."
Arthur chuckled affectionately. "Will it, now?"
Alfred nodded, turning his nose back into his collarbone. "Until there's nothing left…"
"Alright, then, my word is empty."
Alfred groaned. "Don't joke about this; it's serious."
"Yes, yes, of course it is," Arthur smiled softly, maintaining the rhythm of his fingers through Alfred's hair as he gazed back out over the lip of the hill. It was late autumn, so the sun had begun to set already, touching suggestions of orange and pink at gold at the fringes of the horizon, and the air was cooler; if it hadn't been for Alfred's warmth pressing against his side, Arthur might have shivered.
"Lost," Arthur sighed after a moment. "The world as my script sees it is lost."
Alfred finally lifted himself from Arthur's shoulder so that he could look at him seriously, the late afternoon light soaking one side of his face and casting a curious shadow on the other, though still his eyes gleamed curiously, almost a little worriedly.
"I've heard that one before," he said eventually. Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"Certainly not from me."
"No," Alfred paused for a moment, and then turned back to Arthur with a smile. "And just by the way, it doesn't work for your script," he stretched his arms over his head, sighing with satisfaction when there was an audible pop. "First of all, it's such a cliché I can't even find the words to fully express it to you. Second of all, even if Alfred doesn't have a purpose, I wouldn't say he's lost…more of oblivious. Or something – just not lost. And lastly, as it seems I always have to point out to you, the concept of lost doesn't have anything, anything at all, to do with the American Dream, and you know it. The premiere isn't far off, Arthur," he winked. "I suggest you start thinking harder."
Arthur frowned. "I'm not about to start taking suggestions from you, thanks very much."
Alfred merely grinned. "Your funeral."
"Yes, I'm sure," murmured Arthur, and despite himself, he missed Alfred's warmth against his side, because it really was getting colder and the breeze had picked up, cutting through the thin material of his dress shirt. He hugged his arms around himself and glared down at the expanse of farmland stretching before them, kicking his heels against the side of the hill. Alfred raised an eyebrow, smirked, then leaned over and kissed him, and although Arthur wasn't entirely sure that this place was as secluded as Alfred might believe, at least he was warm again, so he wrapped his arms around Alfred's neck in an effort to make him stay. Eventually, Alfred broke the kiss and pressed their foreheads together, grinning triumphantly at him. Arthur snorted and looked away, nonetheless keeping a hand balanced at the back of Alfred's neck, fingers threaded in his hair.
"I was a little cold," he muttered eventually, and Alfred laughed out loud.
"If that's what they're calling it now," he grinned, and before Arthur could protest, he had leaned in and kissed him again.
Matthew had always been the type to make a scene, so Alfred was rather surprised by the subtlety with which he handled his farewells. In fact, he even had the good grace to let their parents in on the plan the night before he was going to leave, which certainly made for awkward dinner conversation but on the whole relieved a lot of the tension come the following morning, when Matthew stood on their porch surrounded by duffle bags, decked out in his favorite skinny jeans, neatly tucked into a pair of combat boots with the entire effect of the ensemble set off by a sharp tweed blazer, his hair tied at the nape of his neck in a little milk-blond ponytail, smile sad but eyes bright with anticipation.
Their parents hugged him goodbye, wished him good luck in Hollywood, and although their mother eyed him with something like disappointment, even Alfred could sense the tacit agreement between Matthew and their father: what Matthew had to do was understood, and eventually, when all was said and done, he was welcome to come back home. Alfred was grateful for this even though he knew this wouldn't be the last time that he saw his brother by any means, especially not since he had decided to become an actor once he had gone to college and gotten some sort of degree.
He drove with Matthew to the end of their estate and sat in the car beside him as he gazed out at the rode curving away in front of them, the slightest smile curving his mouth.
"Are you nervous?" Alfred asked eventually, when Matthew made no move to ask him to get out of the car.
"Oh yes, terribly," Matthew was grinning now. "And I'm savoring it."
"You're weird."
"At least I'm not mainstream."
"Shut up, Matthew."
"No, you shut up, Alfred," and Matthew turned and looked at him so fondly that Alfred suddenly wanted to beg him not to go even though he knew he had to.
"Be…" he paused. "Be okay, alright, man?"
"Of course," Matthew's smile softened. "I'm only on the other side of these hills, you know. You can come see me whenever. Except when I'm on the road, of course, but otherwise, come, bro, really, and get your taste for Hollywood…before the taste is all gone, that is."
"How reassuring."
"Just being honest. Now get the fuck out of my car."
Alfred grinned and hugged him tightly before he hopped out the passenger side and craned his neck through the open window, giving his brother a cocky little salute.
"Bon voyage, mon frère !"
Matthew stuck out his tongue, "the entire population of Quebec just got a stomach ache," and then he stepped on the gas and was gone, leaving nothing but a little explosion of dust marking where he had left. Alfred gazed after him for a moment, then turned and began to trudge back to the house, kicking up the dust of their driveway as he went and occasionally shouting at the cows, grinning when he received a curious but not particularly alarmed doe-eyed glance in reply.
His parents had already gone inside, and when Alfred went in and saw them sitting at the breakfast table over coffee and toast, he felt compelled to tell them that Matthew had gone, even though of course they already knew. Even so, they nodded and invited him to join them; Alfred wandered over, pouring himself a cup of coffee and buttering his toast, and just like that their lives returned to normal.
[It was already Alfred's senior year when he was absolutely sure of it. He supposed the realization was a combination of a lot of things – the various girls who had thrown themselves at him over the years, the rush in his pulse when he stepped into the locker room, to name a few – but most of all he attributed it to his brother, to Matthew, and not only to that time that he had stumbled in on something he shouldn't have, but to his brother's entire attitude regarding the subject, his blatant, unaffected, absolute lack of shame, because it was almost encouraging, and after Alfred had recovered from the initial shock of the realization he found that he was grateful for it.
He told his parents, and his father sighed and muttered something that sounded like really, both of them? before he smiled reassuringly and told Alfred that was just fine, while his mother merely crinkled her brow, echoed his father's sigh, and restated just how fine everything was. Alfred was grateful, and because he didn't know any better, he came out at school as well, and though at first everyone was alarmed, they calmed down quickly because he was Alfred F. Jones, star quarterback, breathtakingly handsome, all blond hair and blue eyes and gleaming white grins, and therefore absolutely impervious to bullying, so why even try? He even went on a few dates with another boy at one point, kissed him a few times, and began to understand that feeling Matthew had been talking about, though he never went beyond there, mainly because he was busy applying to colleges and trying to make good grades and stay on the football team all at the same time, on top of continuing to practice his acting. (When he announced to his coach that his attendance at practices might be a little spotty due to his being recently cast in the school musical production, he wished he could have gotten a snapshot of the expression he received, but even so he was allowed to participate in both activities, and the school was so awed by his good-natured capability to switch between worlds that they never said a word regarding his sexuality, not even behind closed doors, because the moment his name came up someone would immediately jump in and start talking about what a good guy he was, and then nobody would say anything nasty for fear of being reproached by their peers, although it was most likely that they were all harboring similar thoughts.)
When Alfred called Matthew one night and told him about his realization, he could hear the pride in his brother's voice even over the phone.
"Nobody's giving you any shit, right?" he asked once he had finished his congratulations. Alfred shook his head, remembered that Matthew couldn't see him over the phone, and then said no, nobody had bothered him at all, in fact, he had even gotten a few dates recently. At this, Matthew whistled, then chuckled softly.
"If that's the case, have you done away with it yet?"
Alfred blinked. "Done away with what?"
He could practically hear Matthew rolling his eyes. "Has your dove been soiled yet, Alfred?"
"My…dove?"
"Your virginity, Alfred. Is it still hanging around your asshole or not?"
Alfred blinked, nearly dropped the phone in his surprise, scrambled to bring it to his ear again, and blushed, stammering into the mouthpiece.
"Y-yes, of course it is! Er…" he blushed harder. "I haven't lost it yet."
Matthew snorted. "How virtuous of you. You're making me feel like a slut."
"Well…sorry, I guess."
Another snort. "I'm just kidding you, bro. Take your time, I guess. You've always been a little bit more of a sap than I ever was."
Alfred sighed, paused, took a deep breath, and then:
"Matthew, when you first came out, what was it like? Was it scary?"
"Not really. Why? Are you scared?"
"Not very. Just a little. But…" Alfred bit down on his lower lip. "I want to know what it was like for you."
Matthew was quiet for a moment, then he sighed.
"I guess I just felt…" Another pause. "…lost, for a little while. But it went away."
"Sure," Alfred murmured, gripping the phone tightly to his ear without really realizing it. Matthew was quiet for a moment.
"You'll be okay, Al," he said eventually.
"So will you, Matt," answered Alfred, and then they hung up.]
Alfred and Arthur returned to the house to find Mr. and Mrs. Jones bent over the computer in the study. Upon noticing that they had returned, Mr. Jones sprung from his seat and bounded over to Alfred, pounding him on the back and shouting his congratulations. Alfred straightened his upset glasses and tried to calm his father in order to get him to explain all the excitement; with a little effort it was revealed that the New York Times had published their review of Keep Dreaming, America online, and that it was more than a little flattering. Arthur was the first to the computer, even going so far as to push Mrs. Jones aside a little bit so that he could grab the mouse and scroll up to the beginning, eyes flitting across the screen as Alfred hovered at his shoulder, practically pressing his face into Arthur's neck in what was evidently an effort to get as close to the computer as physically possible.
A crispy planned, timely plotline…
Arthur scrolled down; Alfred let out a little protest and he returned to their old position with a little huff of irritation.
Graceful filming, efficient script…
"Are you quite finished, Alfred?"
"Yeah, yeah, go down some more, we don't have all day!"
Makes an interesting if not somewhat facetious statement regarding…
Considering the message, perhaps it would be better to keep the secret of the film crew's nationality a secret from the American people…
Young upstart Alfred F. Jones…
"That's me!"
"I'm aware; kindly be quiet."
Certainly looks the part, clearly a sign of a deft casting manager…
Arthur chuckled and Alfred stuck out his tongue before actually reaching out and covering his hand to force him to scroll down some more.
…making his mark in the tabloids, but what of his acting?
Well, it certainly can't be denied that…
…capture the…
…and in conclusion…
Arthur was left gazing at the screen for a moment before Alfred let out an enormous whoop of victory and punched the air, glasses lopsided and cheeks flushed, grinning from ear to ear.
"This is unbelievable…" said Arthur. Alfred nodded, gripping him by the shoulders and shaking him in his excitement.
"I know! Did you see what they said, Artie? Did you?" Alfred didn't wait for an answer. "They said I was convincing! That my bumbling if not endearing mannerisms," he punctuated these lines with air quotes, "combined with a few particularly deft turns of phrase, capture the near-antiquated charm of the boy-next-door, if only because blind innocence – the very trait essential to Mr. Jones' skills as an actor – has always been an indispensible ingredient in that particular formula. That's good, that's really good!" He paused, raising an eyebrow at Arthur's unchanged expression. "…isn't it?"
Arthur shook his head. "This is unbelievable."
Alfred blinked, tilting his head to the side. "In that really good way, right?"
Arthur glared. "Most certainly not!" He shrugged off Alfred's hold. "Aren't you reading this, Alfred? It's utter bollocks!" He glanced at Mrs. Jones apologetically. "Excuse my language, but it's true. I mean, come on," he gestured sharply at the screen. "Could they possibly be any more condescending to you? Really, I'm of half a mind to march over there and give them a sound talking to! Bumbling, if not endearing, mannerisms? My god, they're acting as if you're some sort of child!" Arthur turned his glare on Alfred. "Blind innocence," he spat, "my arse! I most certainly will not stand for them to mock you like this, Alfred, and neither should you!"
Alfred blinked once, twice, and then grinned.
"Aw, Artie, you're sweet."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, his anger abating in favor of surprise. "I beg your pardon?"
"It was a good review, Arthur, practically a rave," Alfred winked. "No need to go all protective on account of a few backwards compliments."
"Backwards compliments…why, those were nothing short of insults!"
"Well gee, Arthur, better watch out or you're going to make me feel bad," said Alfred with no real seriousness in his voice, casting a smirk at his parents.
"I…how…so you're going to blame this on me?" spluttered Arthur. "What on earth…when I'm just…I mean, read it, Alfred!" he gestured furiously to the screen. "Nobody, I repeat, nobody, is allowed to be so condescending to you, at least not while I still live and breathe!" He paused for a moment, realized what he had just said, and blushed furiously, all his anger running away to be replaced by embarrassment as Alfred beamed and laughed at the same time, and as the Jones exchanged knowing glances, smiling at each other: their son was in safe, in not perpetually disgruntled, hands.
D'aww. Jones seal of approval. Ain't that cute.
(And, my dear RikaChieko, I dedicate Mattie's tramp stamp to you.)
Next chapter comes the premiere, some stuff I'm not gonna keep a secret, some MOAR stuff I'm gonna keep a secret, and something of a conclusion – though really, that will be dealt with in the epilogue. :3
Two Answers (that I have to put in the text because…):
Qu'est-ce que c'est – (…because you are an anon.) - I never thought to dissect the literal meaning of the phrase…meh, my enormous Larousse dictionary says that sous-titre is the French equivalent of cut, and I was careful to make sure I got the specific film definition. Thank you for your interest; it's always flattering to know that people pay enough attention to notice little things like that. ^^
Mormoka – (…because your PM feature is disabled, waah.) – you're gonna LOVE chapter ten. AWWWWW YISSSSSSS.
(As an aside, if we reach 100 reviews this chapter, I may actually shit my pants with joy. You all are so kind – not only is this my first fanfic around here, but it's so far been painfully long and full of unnecessary wordiness, and yet, I've had so many alerts and reviews and favorites that I just…eek, I don't deserve any of you, thank you all so much!)
And I'll tell you a secret: stay tuned, because I do indeed have plans for the future - in English, no less! ^^
All my love and gratitude, and until the next chapter!