It was a cold Saturday afternoon at the end of November and Arthur was currently finishing his jog when he noticed Francis up front leaving the grocery store. "Francis!" he called out and the man turned, smiling and waiting for Arthur to get to him. "Had a nice run?" he asked when Arthur was next to him. "Not really," the Brit replied when shuddering in the cold. Because he wasn't running anymore, he had stopped generating heat and since it was one of the coldest November London had seen in two centuries, it didn't take long for even a runner to feel cold. "It's nearly impossible not to slip because of this stupid sleet." "Sleet?" Francis asked, brows furrowed. wondering what the word might mean. "Oh, sleet is this mushy cold stuff which happens when people walk or cars drive on the snow and it had been slightly warmer the other day." "Oh, that stuff," Francis nodded and they kept walking home, he in his warm coat and Arthur in his running-suit. They noticed a middle-aged couple in front of them searching for streets' signs and constantly checking their map. "Tourists? Here? At this time of year?" Arthur cocked an eyebrow towards Francis and they went to see if they needed any help. They were a kind couple, Americans judging by their accent, who got separated from their group in search of a cafe. After a few minutes of explaining the man finally understood. "Oh, so I take a left here and then go there! Ah, how silly of me. ... Hey, wait a minute," he started to stare at Arthur, who was slightly growing uneasy, having an idea, what's coming next. "Marge, look! You! No, but it can't be! Johnny Dreams! But you're supposed to be dead!" "I'm sorry, sir, but you have me mistaken with someone else," Arthur sighed, feeling Francis' questioning stare on him. The woman agreed: "He is right, George. Although he looks a lot - and I do mean, a lot - like Johnny - bless his soul -, he isn't him. The hair and the brows are different and we all know Johnny died many years ago and besides, he wasn't British. Oh, poor-poor Johnny." "Yeah, I'm sorry," the man apologized. Arthur shook his head and told them it was alright. After having seen them leave, Francis turned to Arthur. "What was that all about?" Arthur sighed and felt really guilty in front of him. "Francis, I... I'm terribly sorry, but I haven't been quite fair with you," he mustered and stared at the ground. "You leave a lot of things untold, I've figured as much, but it's alright. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Francis said and put his hand on Arthur's shoulder as a sign of encouragement. Arthur looked at him for a moment and finally smiled. "But now I feel that I want to, Francis. That is, if you'd be willing to liste to me yammering about my past," Arthur stammered and felt awkward under Francis' look. "I'd be delighted! You have no idea how much I'm interested in knowing about you more, it's so obvious you have a much more interesting history than you let everyone see!" the man laughed. "Yeah... interesting," Arthur said to himself and they continued home.
Half an hour later Francis stepped into Arthur's apartment and was surprised to see that the apartment seemed empty. He called out to Arthur who stepped out of the bathroom, a towel in his hands, yet already dressed. "Sorry, I was on the phone with my father before so I couldn't take a shower earlier," he said when drying his hair. "Well, let's go to my office then." Francis followed him, not being able to stop himself from watching how the Brit, asi f hypnotizing, kept shuffling his hair so it would dry faster. Arthur opened the door and said: "After you." Francis stepped into his office and immediately was baffled at how many things were in it. Small walls covered with photos and posters were first to attract his attention. "Huh, where should I start?" Arthur mustered and decided to go with the photos, pulling Francis with him. "Look at this one." Francis looked at an old photo of a 15-year old Arthur holding a helmet and standing in front of a racing car with another man, who was lifting a trophy high up to the air. "I have always mentioned I left home when I was sixteen, but I've never told you the story about it. Well, when I was still in my early teens, I decided to join racing practice. They said I had talent and after a while I was allowed to take part in non-junior races. The real off-road deal, you know? There was no way someone my age was allowed to take part of something so dangerous, but they bent the rules in sake of glory. It makes me sick, thinking about it now, but back then I was just a young boy, ecstatic of the opportunity I've been given," he said when Francis was looking at other racing related photos near the one Arthur showed. "But then," he said quietly and the Frenchman turned to him, feeling a little worried from the sudden change of tone in the Brit's voice. "It was supposed to be an easy race, although on a tricky terrain. I had been driving through it so many times, so I knew where were the deadliest turns and so on. I was in first place and there was still half a lap left. Benjamin - the man lifting the cup there - was my card-reader and a very reliable one at that. I remember, he told me there was a U-turn to the left coming up next in the thick woods, but I knew it wasn't true. Like I told you before, I had driven through the lap a dozen times, so I knew everything about it. I was certain it was to the right. Benjamin, he... he kept pressing me and told me it's to the left. I decided to trust him and when the turn came, I..." Arthur stopped and bit his lips. "I should had trusted my instincts, Francis," he continued with a hushed voice, "I should had turned right, but instead I turned off the track at full speed. There... there was practically nothing left of the car, I survived somehow, but Benjamin, he... he died because of my mistake." Francis felt awful seeing how Arthur was so broken about it. "It wasn't your fault," he said, truly believing in what he said. "They told me as much," Arthur coughed, "but his family accused me. I was a kid, Francis, a mere child, illegally racing and I felt I was really the one to blame, that I had it coming. Unable to bear the guilt, I left home one night and went to the states to Alfred's; I had saved up for something like that for a long time." He smiled with a sad look. "My mother was so broken after that. She kept calling me and begging me to come home every single day and after two years I finally returned, but because of different reasons." Arthur stepped towards his electric guitar hanging on the wall and Francis followed him. "In the states I was known as Johnny Dreams," he said, embarrassed, and pointed at a tacky poster hanging from the wall. Francis let out a surprised laugh when he saw a young man, Arthur, playing the guitar hanging on the wall. "It really is you," he grinned and looked at Arthur. The Brit laughed, eased by the fact that they were now on a less depressing topic and covered his brows. "I had to trim them every day so they wouldn't grow back," he smiled and looked at Francis, who was glimpsing back and forth between the Arthur on the poster and the one standing next to him. "Your current look suits you better," he laughed. "So what's the story behind "Johnny Dreams"?"
"You see, when I went to the states, I had to earn money in some way. I found an old electric guitar from the trash one day and decided to learn how to play. I listened to so many rock-artists and thanks to my musical hearing I was soon one of the best guitarists out there, if I do say so myself. I started doing gigs, but Alfred said that I need a certain look to attract more people. So, one day, he came home with a bottle of black hair dye. I dyed my hair black, trimmed my brows, wore punk clothes - all in all, I made an alter-ego called Johnny Dreams. It was so easy to lose the British accent when talking, but it grew tiresome after a while. I was so popular and what's best is that no one back home knew it was me, which made it all so much easier. But after two years I grew tired of the fame and sick of the people in the music industry and I wanted to end it all. I wanted to go back home, to England, I missed my family, but I couldn't just leave the USA just like that, so Alfred and I came up with a plan so cunning, well, it seemed so at that time, but now that I think about it, it was really stupid. We were renting an apartment where Johnny supposedly was staying, so we decided to make it look like a break-in and murder kind of gig. Celebrities are both loved and hated, which made the plan believable. We thrashed the place, broke the window and sprayed the blood we had stolen - we left money at the reception as compensation, though, but seriously: what were we thinking breaking into a hospital?! - along the walls, so it would look like a brutal murder; we knew the blood had come from different donors, which probably caused even more confusion. We even put a lot of it in drags and smeared it along the floor for it to show like Johnny's corpse had been dragged out the window. After days of not paying rent, the house manager went to see if there are people in the apartment and came across the scene Alfred and I had fabricated. I still have the newspaper cut Alfred sent me back to England." Arthur pointed at a framed article which read "Johnny Dreams' mysterious death, possibly involving dozens of people! Body and the famous guitar still remain to be found!". Francis was amazed. "I would have never guessed you to be the young reckless type," he laughed and looked at other photos of Arthur posing as Mr. Dreams. "Is that the guitar?" he asked when looking at the instrument. "Yeah, that's the one," Arthur smiled. "It was far too expensive and high quality to just leave it there. Plus it added more to the mysterious murder." Francis couldn't help but to feel that Arthur felt much more at ease now that he had told him if not everything, then the most cardinal events of his life. He went to sit down at the big armchair in the corner when he noticed a basket full of yarn on an end table next to it. In it also were half-finished gloves made from the same colors as the scarf he had received from Arthur. "You know, you never did told me the name of the store where you got me that scarf," he said, lifting the gloves. "Could it be "Kirkland's Knitting's" or something like that?" Flustered, Arthur took the gloves from his hands. "Shut up," he said gruffly and put them back in the basket. "You look too cute when you're offended," Francis laughed before his mind going blank. "Why did I just say that?" he thought furiously, but a moment later he was at ease, knowing that Arthur hadn't heard him. "Don't tell a soul!" Arthur threatened him and Francis shook his head. "Don't worry and you shouldn't be ashamed of something like that; I think it's amazing if a person can do such nice things with his own hands. Are the rest of your clothes also done by yourself?" "Some," Arthur said, blushing from feeling content and cursing himself for doing so. Having decided it was better to change the topic, Francis asked about all the other photos and throughout the evening Arthur told him about all of his travels, adventures and the people he had met.