With heavy lids and throbbing muscles, he sighed a yawn as he fought to keep alert while the subway rocked back and forth over the tracks. It had been a long day serving tables and helping close up the restaurant before trudging to the subway only to be forced to stand on weary legs. Yawning again, having to pull up his arm to cover his mouth while tears watered his sky blue eyes, forcing him to slip his fingers under the square lenses of his glasses to wipe away the drowsiness. The routine was beginning to set in after a week in this place, though he hadn't quite gotten settled with the pace everything moved. Everything here was so fast, rushed and all done with a purpose to get from one place to another, not that there was anything spectacular to do until you got somewhere. Having grown up in two places where everything was slow, people took their time; New York might as well have been on a different planet.
Just as he was about to return to dozing, a voice squawked over the PA, jolting him awake once more, "Next stop: Station XXX. Please exit to your right."
A few moments later, the train pulled to a stop, jarring the passengers as the breaks squealed and hissed before the doors slowly opened. And the empty station was suddenly filled with bodies as all went their separate ways, some grouping off and voices chattering indistinctly as they drifted away. He stood in the very centre of the platform, watching as the flow parted around him, a few bumps and pushes, but overall he was completely ignored. He felt like some alien object in their midst, foreign, invisible. The doors behind him slid shut and the last train sped away. After the initial roar of the metro as it snaked back into the tunnels, the rush faded to a mere echo in the subway, a distant beast.
Flicking up the specs once more to pinch the bridge of his nose and rub at the grit forming in the corner. Seriously, he needed to get to bed; the stairwell to the surface seemed to be getting longer, despite his glasses, and a faint haze at the edges was making him nauseous. Smacking himself with his fingertips, the young man trudged up the steps and into the cold November air of the city. The city itself was callous, no warmth in the stone and concrete jungle. Electrified lights buzzed, signs glowed, cars flashed by, and any personal touch was void in every bit of it. A cold wind tousled blonde locks as he continued down the sidewalk, the streets not quite full as during the day, heading to a humming neon sign of a cheap hotel.
One step at a time through the dingy lobby and up the carpeted steps to his room on the second floor, he didn't even bother taking off his shoes before collapsing on the comfy mattress that embraced him. The old wool topcoat scratched his neck and his glasses pressed uncomfortably into his brow, but moving was just too much trouble, even for the sake of comfort. As if to mock him, his cellphone in his pocket vibrated with an incoming call.
"Just had to call now, right Mattie?" he grumbled, fishing the silver flip phone out and glaring at the caller ID. This was the hardest part of the day: returning to his old life for a few minutes before remembering he was completely alone. With an exhale, he answered the request.
"Alfie!" a small voice over the line exclaimed, "I've been trying to call you all day! How are things? Is everything going well? What have you been up to?"
"Could you be a normal person one minute and ask one question at a time? I've been working all day, I am exhausted, and no, I have not found a place to live just yet." He rambled on in a languid daze, as his muttering went on; the words becoming slurred and tumbling over each other in an incoherent mess.
Matthew remained silent for most of the strange incantations that filtered through the wire before chuckling in embarrassment, "Well, if you ever get lonely, or if things don't work out, we'll still be here if you need us. So, uhm . . . by the way, you'll come for Thanksgiving, right?" Silence permeated from the earpiece as he waited anxiously. "Alfred-?"
"Don't count on it Mattie," Alfred spoke clearly, though rushed, as though he simply wanted the conversation to end. At least, that's what he hoped the younger would pick up on.
"B-but Alfred, we always have Thanksgiving as a family, that's the meaning of Thanksgiving."
Alfred muffled the frantic voice in his comforter and waited for silence as he face-planted into his comfy pillow. He was so close to falling asleep, so comfortable, so warm, but the phone bill would be huge if he fell asleep with it off the hook; and knowing Mattie, he'd sooner fall asleep with the phone to his ear than let this conversation go. His arm fussed as he forced the muscles to constrict and bring it back to his ear, "Mattie, I'm pretty much dead at the minu-."
"What about Arthur, Alfie? Won't you at least come up and visit him?" The younger brother whispered the sentence, as though frightened if speaking any louder would cause an explosion.
"I need to sleep. Like I said before, most likely not. My phone will be off tomorrow." Without even a proper 'good-bye', the cell flipped shut with a muffled clap. Groaning, trying to forget about the conversation, Alfred closed his eyes and relied solely on exhaustion to lull him to sleep.
The city faded away behind the old Volkswagen, the large buildings that scraped along the heavens became smaller than toy soldiers with every shift of the sun. The five-year-old in the booster seat was having more than a few doubts of the man in the front seat who drove in silence. Not even the radio was on and it as starting to make the boy antsy. Matthew slept in his car-seat without a care in the world as the great expanse of New York Nothingness sped past the windows.
"Uhm, Arthur," Alfred called earnestly, gripping the padded bar that crossed over his lap with childish vigour, "Where are we going?"
"You'll be staying with me since mum and dad can't anymore," he spoke the titles of their parents with a degree of disgust, but the sharpness of the statement flew well over that persistent cowlick in his head. "I live in a different country up north called Canada, so that's where we'll be."
"Why couldn't you just live in our house?" Large blue eyes burned into the back of the other's skull as he awaited a reply, mouth hanging open on loose hinges.
Green eyes glanced into the back seats with the top rear-view mirror, feeling the curious intensity of the gaze. "No, it's safer where I am, and there is more room for little boys to run around."
"Really!" the child chirped in excitement, his rear lifted entirely off the padded cushion of the safety seat, "We didn't even have a backyard before, and the playground was really dirty!"
"I know," Arthur smiled, his eyes trained on the road, "but this is a new start for us."
Suddenly looking forward to his new home, Alfred began bouncing in the seat, a large smile on his face. There was some silence once more, the sound of the tires crunching over the asphalt bored the child all too soon, "Arthur," he whined once more, slurring his words cutely with a lisp that rivalled Shirley Temple, "Are we really brothers?"
"Yes. Why are you asking me such a strange question?" He looked back again at the boy, his brows furrowed as he contemplated the bizarre workings of the mind of a toddler.
"You're old."
"That wasn't my choice Alfred."
"And you have huge eyebrows!"
Arthur whipped his head around, looking at the urchin incredulously. The look made Alfred laugh so hard, he collapsed over the front of the car seat, kicking his feet in mirth. Matthew, startled awake by the outburst looked around himself in a daze, almost on the verge of tears until he saw his brother cackling beside him. Soon both boys were a giggling mess in the back seat while Arthur focused solely on the road, a shy smile on his lips and ears a shade of pink.
'What a wretched dream,' Alfred thought as he sat in the lobby with a warm cup of coffee, looking through the morning newspaper for any apartment listings that he hypothesized he may be able to afford. Thanks to Matthew asking if he was coming home the night before, he had to suffer that dream; a memory he didn't quite remember unless he was asleep. Taking a bite out of a doughnut with another swig of the bitter coffee, he brooded in silence to himself. Why did it always have to be the same thing? Having only moved out to the States for a few weeks, he hated it enough that he was using Francis to keep a steady flow of income. Despite his pride, Alfred couldn't deny that he was grateful to have at least one familiar face in this place. Aubrey, Francis' younger sister, had opened a restaurant in Manhattan and had graciously given him priority employment; though of course with the begging of her annoyingly stubborn sibling.
He couldn't go back yet, not for anything or anyone. He still had to prove himself.
After the phone hung up abruptly, not even giving the teenager time to wish his brother good luck for home-hunting and say the customary 'good night', he huffed under his breath, hanging up the phone flippantly. Sulking in his chair, he had his back to the machine, as though it had suddenly embodied the one of his loathing.
"Matthew~? Did you finally get a hold of him?" a sing-song voice carried through the home from the kitchen, "How is Alfred?"
"Being the same as ever," the soft-spoken boy muttered darkly, feeling unwanted in it all, "He said he wouldn't be coming to Thanksgiving. I mean, he never misses a chance for free food! Especially yours."
The blonde man laughed as he appeared in the doorway, mixing a bowel of a chocolate batter, for what the young one didn't know, "Don't take it personally mon petit. It is simply something he realizes he must do."
"But why must he cut me out of his life entirely? Why can't I be a part of what he must do? I'm his only blood relative now and he just throws me to the side so he can do whatever he wants!" Tears burned behind lilac eyes while he sucked in his bottom lip to nibble at.
Settling down on the arm of the chair, still stirring the mixture as he smiled softly at the fifteen-year-old, Francis allowed a small laugh, "How do I put this? There is a journey every man must take when they reach a certain age. Usually eighteen, that's how it is for Alfred and many in his generation, for Arthur it was when he was nineteen. Myself, I had it when I was about your age. It's a journey of one's identity. Every boy must make it before they can truly be considered men. It's how we prove our worth to God and society."
"And you have to take it alone?" he mumbled softly, not sure if he should really believe this cliché excuse for his brother to act like a jerk.
"Always," Francis winked a mischievous blue eye with glee, "You can't let another person interpret who you are, it is only for the one making the journey. You'll understand when it comes your time. Until then, want to help me make some new treats for the bakery?"
Matthew knew this was just to get him off the topic, but the Frenchman was really trying. With a sigh and an inclination of his head, the teen stood and pulled his guardian with him to the kitchen. "I want to make some crêpes!" he announced, though his voice much softer than that of any other person.
"Of course, of course~."
Alfred watched in owlish curiosity over the counter as some strange experiment was going on in the kitchen, Matthew beside him mimicking every little gesture the five-year-old made. There were pots and pans strewn all about with strange colours foaming from under lids. The stove was on too high and what used to be food had been left too long in the oven. The water was going loudly in the sink and every sign of disaster was ringing. Oblivious to it all, Arthur stood in the midst of his demented orchestra, composing his own symphony of toxins holding a bewitching spell book, the page opened to a delectable picture of sugared pork chops. Sweat poured from his brow from stress and nerves as he attempted to make dinner for the new family.
Not even a day in the new house, and Alfred was already worried about his older brother. He seemed to be trying really hard. Really, really hard. Nonetheless, he was simple . . . well, a hurricane when place inside a kitchen. Of course, all Alfred could think of was how much trouble Arthur would be in for making such a giant mess. A pot over a scorching flame burped, the lid jumping a good foot as the discoloured, charred contents plastered itself against the wall.
"Ah! No! Not the sauce!" the young man shouted, ignoring the oven to flip off all the outlets, only to be met with the screech of the fire alarm as the meat ignited. Alfred watched with wide eyes as the fire leapt out at Arthur, the older sibling battling back viciously. It was like one of those cartoons!
In the end, the meal was well below the par of 'Edible', every bit of it from the charcoal slab of meat to the half-frozen steamed vegetables. The plate looked up gloomily at the perplexed face of the five-year-old, as if to blame the cook at the other end of the small, round table who had buried his face in his arms. To ignore the platter was not an option, though he mentally admitted to being jealous of the carrot mush Matthew was currently struggling to place in his mouth. With a silent sigh, he took a bit on his fork, the flesh literally breaking off in chunks from the fire. Hesitantly, he took a bite, the sweet, smoky, bitter taste overflowing his senses. Despite it all, he couldn't honestly say it was bad, but it was a sheer impossibility to say it was good, but decent to the human garbage-disposal's tastes.
"It looks worst than it really is. Really," he smiled, hoping to cheer up the depressed adult.
Arthur lifted his head with a forlorn, sceptical gaze, "Really?"
"Really."
Being two, Mattie couldn't understand anything being said between the two, but as they both chuckled he looked between them a good few moments before suddenly laughing with them. The small house was full of gaiety.
Alfred stared blankly out of the window of a prospective studio. The price was just out of reach, and for something as utterly cramped as it was, even negotiating a payment plan to make it more affordable in the long run was really a waste of breath. Leaving the building, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of the surtout, the collar flipped up to keep the frigid wind from slipping down his neck. The sun inched higher in the celestial sphere. Not a cloud in the sky, the streets illuminated brightly. If it wasn't for the flags thrashing on their lines and pedestrians dressed. From where he stood, he could see no trees, no bare branches, not even the autumn colouring of the leaves. Something was missing to him, something he felt go missing years ago. Why had he ever chosen New York for his new place of residence?
'What am I doing?' he thought cynically, Trying to find happiness in this dead city.'
"Come again soon~!" Francis called after the young lady as she left, the bell connected to the door tinkling merrily. Owning a popular bakery had always been his dream since childhood. His Mémère had once told him a funny little saying, "The torch of love is lit in the kitchen," and he wholeheartedly believed that happiness could be spread through food made with honest loving-care. With a content sigh, he set to work placing new, fresh cakes in the display, the older ones would be refrigerated in the back and then delivered to various charities later in the day, any leftover would be sampled out the next day.
The chime rang out again, drawing his attention back up to the counter. A young father with his son browsed the selections, the boy in either the second or third grade, holding a familiar action figure.
The sound of children laughing was something that filled his heart with joy. The giggles and coos of glee were more contagious than a cold in the early spring. As it was, with school right around the corner, there was less of the childish levity to be replaced by vehement objections and the irritated scolds of nagging parents. As it was, Francis was in a fairly good mood despite the negative atmosphere, looking for a few things in the store. He preferred making one stop to satisfy all his needs, that way he'd spend less time out of the kitchen. Travelling pass the toy section on his way to clothing, the aisles were virtually desolate, all the tykes being dragged away from their haven to be fitted for attire.
"Arthur!" an excited voice exclaimed from the young children's corridor, "Look at this!"
"No Alfred, not today."
With his interest piqued, Francis watched a dismal child sulk back to the older toy's section, holding a toy train. Not a minute later, he ran back, holding something else. "Arthur!"
"Not today; now put it back." The familiar voice was doing its best to keep from sounding livid, though that was working against him as the Frenchman watched the boy repeat the trip. Standing off to the side, the blonde couldn't help but be amused when 'Alfred' sprinted with a Captain America action figure.
There was silence and Francis could just picture the large, blue puppy eyes begging silently, holding the toy up over his head. As if on cue with a sigh; "Aright."
There was the sound of a cart moving ahead and the ecstatic squeals of an overjoyed child. He was pretty sure he knew who this Arthur was around the corner, but now he was absolutely curious. The Arthur he knew had always been temperamental, angry, and had even joined a gang when the two were in high school. Who was the Arthur with the disgustingly sweet child who gave up fighting innocent whimsies? Green eyes widened in surprise when they met cool blue; the shock evident in the deep irises. Alfred stood close by, cuddling the toy and ignoring the adults, a baby sat in the cart quietly, focused on his own pile of toys and clothing.
"It's good to see change."
The two left, smiles on their lips as they held the box in their arms. The door hadn't even closed when Matthew ran in, his backpack still in hand and his high school uniform neat, despite how out of breath he was. "You're late Mattie~," Francis sang, tidying up the back of the store, "You're not becoming a delinquent, are you?"
"What? No! Of course not! I was held in to finish a test, were you swamped or something?"
"No, no," he chuckled, beckoning the other around the counter, "I have some deliveries in the back; could you send them out for me?" Francis was being weird, his smile too large and not touching his eyes. It was getting close to the day, that was for sure. Nodding, silent, the teenager did as was requested. Without Alfred, this year was going to be more depressing than all the others.
Three weeks of living in a hotel, the service was getting old. Doughnuts for breakfast every day with a scalding cup of coffee; the comfy mattress was becoming irritating to the point he was probably more willing to sleep on a slab of wood, even the pillows were finding themselves abandoned on the floor come morning. He felt spent, discouraged, and he missed home. There was competition for cheap places with the yearly influx of college graduates, and it was hard enough being the only poor sap. Maybe he should get a broker, even if they were insanely expensive, but then he wouldn't be doing this on his own. It would have all been a farce and all his self-inflicted hardship would have been in vain. Even worst, he wouldn't be able to look Arthur in the eye.
"Don't bother coming in today. I'm working you too long and you need the time to actually find a place to stay. I'll have you work overtime tomorrow to make up the pay."
Aubrey had said that after waking him up at five to the obnoxious ring of his cell. She spoke like some middle-aged woman, even though she was only ten years his senior, talking down to him from her pedestal. It wasn't like he didn't know about her delusional fantasies of being a duchess, but seriously, she didn't own him.
Rubbing his temples irritably as the subway pulled to a stop, he filed off with a few of the other passengers, battling against the incoming hoards. It was still early, and like an idiot he faced-off with the cranky New Yorkers who wanted to get to their jobs and get on with their lives. The streets were always busy, the cars crawling by in a motorist's nightmare. The neighbourhood was what he'd call sketchy, for every normal person running past, there were just as many whom he couldn't help but cast quick glances at. From what he could see, however, none seemed openly hostile, nor were they grouped together menacingly. Or maybe that was just what he was looking for from all those films he had watched.
Glancing back at the newspaper ad he had torn out the day before, having been unable to check this location out, Alfred scanned the addresses until he came upon a charcoal gray building lined with row after row of the classic fire escapes. Five stories high, it cast an ugly shadow over the street. Normally he would have left right then and called the landlord making some excuse of why he couldn't make the appointment, but desperate and willing for anything at least halfway decent, he stepped inside.
"Good morning!" a young woman with a bright smile and glowing powder blue eyes greeted him enthusiastically. She was not what he had expected in the least, picturing a little old lady from the sound of her voice over the phone. She had a heavy accent, from where he couldn't tell, but it was definitely not American. Short blonde hair framed her face, decorated with a couple hair-clips to pull her bangs to the side and held in place with a white headband. She wore peculiar clothing for the city, what he would call farmers' clothing, a pair of blue overalls and a long-sleeved blouse. A faint blush crept across his cheeks as the boy forced his eyes to train on her pretty face and not her "bountiful" bosom.
Stepping forward, holding out his hand politely, Alfred smiled politely, though one couldn't call it genuine. It had been so long since he smiled truthfully. "My name is Alfred Kirkland. I called about an ad for a room."
"Room? Ah, room! Yes, we have room," she continued smiling, taking his hand in both of his. Her fingers were callous, from years of an unknown work, she had lost the velvet touch to her skin. It was also rather endearing how she spoke her broken English proudly, though he wondered how much she really understood what he said. Suddenly she broke away, leaving him in the lobby as she disappeared up the stairs.
The American didn't know if he should follow her, but all uncertainty was pushed aside as she came down with a tall young man, a little younger than himself. He wore a large scarf and coat that reached his calves. His face was round, holding deceiving youth in his features as he looked the visitor up and down warily with dubious lavender eye before smiling in a subdued manner. "Hello. My name is Ivan, I am Katyusha's brother. She said you were here about the empty room, yes?"
"Ah, yes. Alfred Kirkland, pleasure to meet you," he held out his hand and received a very brief shake in return.
"I'll show you up then."
Turning on his heels, the teenager led the way up. He was silent on his own accord, making the climate in the narrow hall more than a little awkward. Unable to take the stale air, Alfred accosted him; "So, uh, you speak good English. I can hardly hear an accent."
"I've been in the United States since I was ten, I had a long time to learn." The lull resumed, as though it had never been broken, though this time Ivan was the first to speak, "I want to warn you that the last tenants were none too happy about being evicted, so the place looks like a real mess. Our deal for you is if you take it and fix it up with your own money, we'll let you stay, free of charge, for a year. You have the freedom to do whatever you want with the place as long as it doesn't greatly disturb the other tenants."
Alfred stared at the back of the other's head incredulously, "Are you serious?"
"Of course I am," the Russian sounded as though he was offended by the American's disbelief. Suddenly, he stopped down a similarly cramped hall. The door was like all the others, the numbers newly repainted, "Here is it."
A little, metal key slipped inside the knob, the lock clicking back audibly before the door was slowly opened. When Ivan had said the room was in bad shape, he really wasn't kidding. The windows were brand new, and the ugly cream walls were disrupted by fresh plaster. The carpet had burn marks and was torn from the concrete in various places. There was no furniture, but what surprised him more was the fact that the room was large, compared to many of the other places he'd seen, and had a separate room entirely for the bedroom and bathroom.
"Say I take it and fix it up, what would the rent be for a place like this?"
Ivan shrugged, "The same as it is for all the others, twenty-five-hundred."
"Tell your sister I'll take it."
Days passed. Weeks passed. Holidays came and went. Matthew sat on his bunk, looking over to Alfred's longingly. He missed his room mate, missed his brother. He had fallen into a depression when his phone calls were blocked, his sibling blocking him out of his new life. What was going on? Did Alfred find a place to stay? Did things work out? What if he was killed by some hoodlums and dropped in a ditch somewhere? What if his wallet had been stolen and no one could tell who he was or who to contact! Anxiety mounted, loneliness piled, desolation resulted.
"Mattie?" Francis called softly from the door, peeking in cautiously, worried for the boy, "You're looking thin."
"I'm not hungry," the teen muttered, hugging his knees close. As it was, his clothing that had fit two months ago were now hanging loosely over his shoulders.
Sighing, the Frenchman settled beside his ward, "This is unhealthy Matthew. Come and eat, Arthur would not want you to do this. Neither would Alfred."
"Ha!" he barked a cold laugh, "He doesn't care about me. He made that very clear on my eleventh birthday."
"Mattie-."
"He told me he wished I was never born!" Tears of anger and pain fogged his eyes, cheeks flushing red from the emotions. "I always knew he hated me, but I always tried to be a brother he could love! I always tried to be someone he could count on! Why? Why am I left all alone?"
"Matthew-."
"You're just going to tell me that it was long ago, but he has never said anything kind to me! I suck at video games, I throw like a girl, I'm a doormat to be walked on! He's never even said 'I love you'. He doesn't call me his brother, and he hates me!" Four years worth of pent up tears streamed down his face, the words falling silent to be replaced with heartbroken sobs. Unable to say anything, Francis wrapped his arms around Matthew's shoulders, rocking him gently, laying a kiss on his head.
"He still blames me."
"Hush now. It was never your fault."
Matthew sat up in bed, hugging his teddy bear tight as raised voices downstairs grew in ferocity. It was nine, an hour pass his bedtime, but it was impossible to sleep with the argument in the foyer. Slipping out of bed, his footie pyjamas of little polar bears muffling his footsteps, the eleven-year-old skittered to the landing, looking through the pars of the banister. All the lights were on, the centrepiece being Alfred, dressed in his baggy, torn jeans and shirt, a bulky hoodie unzipped and a stupid cap turned backward on his head. His glasses didn't match the outfit, making him look more like a wannabe than an actual delinquent. That is, if he hadn't been escorted home by the police.
"Vandalism? Vandalism! You are being escorted home by police officers for tagging! Do you realize how humiliating this is?" Arthur shouted, looking on the verge of pulling his hair out. Pacing the hardwood floor in a fury, he wouldn't even look at the transgressor who slumped back against the front door, hands in the pockets of the jacket and the most unimpressed expression he could muster.
"It's not your problem, so don't worry 'bout it," Alfred drawled, scowling in disgust.
Humourless laughter was the only response, "What planet did you just drop off of you insolent piece of work, this is my problem!"
"What is?"
"You! Everything about you! What is this? Where did you get these clothes? That ridiculous hat? Actually, take it off. Take it off now, you're in a building you manner-less heathen!" The two's eyes met for a long while, waiting to see who would back down first only to have Alfred slowly take it off and stuff the cap in his pocket.
Obviously sore about losing, the younger parried back, "You never cared any other time! You're too busy babying that brat upstairs! You never gave two shits about me!"
"Watch your mouth Alfred! Matthew has nothing to do with your mistakes!"
"Oh yeah?" the blue-eyed teen sneered, "So while You're busy cooing over Mattie's report card, you don't even give me a 'good job'. I guess I'm expected to be perfect, it that it?"
"You are supposed to be a good example for your little brother!"
"Well excuse me if I'm not fucking Jesus."
Matthew winced as the raw slap echoed through the house. It was as though death had settled over the home; everything on the ground floor was frozen. Arthur with his hand raised, Alfred looking off to the side, his cheek burned with a red hand print. They didn't even look like they were breathing, stagnant in time; those few moments were an eternity.
And in a second, it was gone.
Breathing hard Arthur kept his composure, but something in his eyes made Matthew think that the actions was never intended. Of course, Alfred wouldn't know that.
"No child of mine will use those words," he glowered, jaw set tight. He was unwilling to give to this child, refusing to lose.
Tears glossed the defiant blue pools in shock before glaring up at his guardian with absolute hatred. "I'm not your child asshole! You're just my bastard brother!" Without even waiting for a reply, he stumbled into the night, slamming the front door behind him. Arthur stared at the floor in disbelief before staggering back and retreating to the back room.
On the landing, Matthew cried quietly, waiting for everything to settle before slinking down the stairs and disappearing through the back door. This was all his fault after all, because he demanded attention. His fault Thanksgiving was served to a broken family. If it wasn't for him, would they all still be together?
"You did an excellent job on it," Ivan murmured, looking through the remodelled room. The carpet had been completely removed and replaced with wood finish, the walls repainted, modern furniture accenting the chic look. None of the other rooms looked this good, and leaving it up to the care of the tenant had turned out for the best. Too bad they couldn't charge higher rent, but then again, it made them look good.
Alfred smiled proudly, honestly, "You think so? I was worried I went too far. But I hope you realize this means you're stuck with me for life now, right?"
Ivan returned the grin shyly, having formed a friendly relationship with the strange American over the course of the year, "I don't know if I mind so much anymore."
"Oh?"
"Katyusha wanted to ask if you would like to spend Thanksgiving with our family. We've all grown rather fond of you. Even the other occupants." He started shyly, fumbling over the words before quickening the pace, embarrassed. As if to prove that point, he attempted to hide his crimson face in the folds of the scarf.
"I would love to, but this year I have to get back in touch with family. Maybe another day?"
After Ivan left, Alfred took a deep breath, ready to officially finish what he set out to do. Stepping into the bedroom, kneeling by the bedside table, the landline resting on the top, unplugged. It had been there all this time. He couldn't run to them though, he couldn't go back until he had finished. His palms were clammy, nerves tingling under the skin as his stomach churned with anticipation. His fingers trembled as he pushed the jack into place, a dial tone humming in the receiver. He steadied himself as he dialled the number he hadn't so much as thought about the past year, hearing the ring for the first time.
"Hello?" a voice answered on the other end.
"Hey, it's me. I'm coming home."
The trees were still, though the weather was cold without a breeze. Alfred stood alone on the path, nervous as he had ever felt. This far outweighed any major final in school, or asking your crush on a date. It was a nervous that made him physically sick, his stomach writhed and fluttered. Without them, he would never be able to go through with it.
As if by decree of God, the sound of two pairs of footsteps approaching from down the way drew his thoughts from his anxiety. Leaves danced to the ground, a morbid display to contrast the clear skies and the bright calls of the songbirds. Matthew had grown, almost as tall as he was, but slouched in a miserable fashion. Beside him, Francis gave a bright smile, though it didn't touch his eyes. The past year had been hard with Alfred spending it repenting for what he did when he was fourteen while he left those around him to wait on his decisions, putting their lives on hold for his selfishness.
His heart ached at the sight of his brother, gaunt and depressed. With all abandon, he ran to them, wrapping his arms tight around Mattie's torso, burying his face into the crook of his neck, "Matthew, I'm so sorry. I should have said this long ago."
"I'm not ready for this yet Alfred," he whispered, voice quivering with emotion, though what exactly he could not tell.
Reluctantly, he released the embrace, dropping his arms, "I understand."
"Let's go, we'll be late if we delay much longer," Francis interrupted, urging them forward. Both nodded in agreement, the three walking in absolute silence down the stone pathway. Alfred had never stepped foot here since he was fourteen, his head bowed in shame.
'I swore to you I would come back a man worthy of your name.'
They passed through an iron-wrought fence, the metal twisted to fashion flowers, as lifeless as the city he had come from. But no, he had found life in his new home, he could find life in anything. The path disappeared, leaving them to tread over immaculate grass, his dress shoes trampling the perfect blades, one after the other until he froze. A hand on his shoulder almost made him leap out of his skin, turning, Matthew smiled faintly, a subtle turn of the corner of his lips. All the encouragement he can muster to send the older first. It's about time. Returning the action in gratitude, he took his first steps into this place.
"I told you I would make you proud to call me your son."
There was no response as he reached out to the one before him, his fingertips grazing the cold granite.
"A small town community is shocked to the core as one Arthur Kirkland, age twenty-eight, died last night in a violent robbery, leaving behind his two adopted sons who have been taken in by a family friend. More on this story at eight."