Nineteen-Eighty FOOD

by Immortal x Snow

Nineteen-Eighty FOOD: a cafe run by Alfred Jones and dedicated entirely to literature puns. Home to shy Matthew and his adopted father Francis. And ground zero for Arthur Kirkland's latest literary breakthrough. It's a perfectly normal place, believe us. Just try their special: William Butter Yeast. Human!AU, FACE family, no pairings, all madness. Collab.

4. Chapter 3b

A/N: So. You may have noticed that this chapter is very long. I have no excuses and many regrets.

Allistor is Scotland (but he and Arthur are actually not related in this story), and Emil is Iceland.

---

Matthew didn't know what had possessed Arthur to give him a signed copy of his newest book, Confessions of a Man Caught in a Comma, much less to include a note saying he was "so very sorry," for all the trouble he'd caused, but he appreciated the gift all the same. Even though he could tell five pages into the book that he wouldn't like it at all. Arthur wrote stiff, technically excellent prose with nothing to capture Matthew's heart or suck him into a new world. His writing had a kind of beauty and rhythm, true, but the story bored him.

Matthew loved books. But he loved books that offered protection most of all. This one, on the other hand, seemed to peel off bits of his defenses to expose him to the most terrifying elements of all—those against which he had innumerable cracks in his walls.

"What are you reading, Matthew?" Francis asked that night after dinner. "Something for school?"

Matthew, still wondering why Francis had pulled him out of school again that day—he wasn't running a fever or falling ill or even struggling to stay ahead in any of his classes anymore—answered, "It's one of Arthur Kirkland's books."

Francis froze, the blue scarf he was knitting (not that he'd need it for the rest of the year) hanging in mid-air from the purple needles clenched in his fingers.

"Oh. Is it as terrible as I'm imagining?"

"Technically, it's nice. Great, even." Matthew shrugged. "But it's really not engaging or exciting or even fun at all."

"Just like the man himself."

Matthew chose not to respond. He continued reading for a few moments, suppressing a yawn here and an urge to set down the book for good there, until Francis made his blood crystallize with one question.

"Have you done any of your college applications yet?"

He clutched the book. His knuckles, criss-crossed with pink scars, went white.

"Francis—I mean—haven't we, well, talked about this a few times already?"

"Of course. And I still think you're making a mistake."

"S-Sure." Matthew blinked and licked his lips. They'd grown chapped from his bad habit, but he could hardly help that. "And you're—you're probably right. So I turned in my application to Sacramento State just this morning. While you were at work and before I got there."

"Matthew." Francis set down his knitting, his smile fading like a light being switched off. "Don't lie to me, mon coeur."

Matthew's heart sputtered in his chest.

"But—but I'm not lying, Francis."

"Yes, you are. It's obvious. Matthew, I just—it's just..." Francis took a deep breath and uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. Matthew clutched the book tighter, his fingernails digging into the pristine white pages. "We can't do this anymore. We can't keep living like this any longer."

Matthew strained his shoulders, curling them forward as if they could fold him in and hold him close. The muggy air smelled of dust and musty carpet that he was supposed to vacuum that morning but hadn't. He couldn't. The Bissell made too much noise, the way the cigarette burns smoldered too much beneath his sticky long sleeves. Everything was too much.

In the distance, held off only by the thin walls of their apartment, the structures meant to keep them both safe and warm, something shattered with a sharp crash, like a glass grenade. Matthew jumped but an instant later forced himself to remain still.

"Yes, Francis. Yes, I think you're right." Matthew smiled. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. "We can't do this anymore. I'll do better, promise. I'll be good. I'll bring you the application tomorrow at work after school so you can look at it and tell me it's good."

He stared down at his book, the words and letters all blending together in a cold, colorless jumble, like a nonsensical feverish dream. He couldn't look at Francis.

"I'm going to bed now. I'm tired. I want to sleep. Please let me go to sleep now. Please."

As he spoke, Matthew pushed himself out of the chair, limbs shaking, and backed toward the hallway. He could still feel someone standing behind him, flicking ashes off his singed cigarette, holding the remnants of a broke plate in his hand.

He turned. Then he ran.

And Francis made his biggest mistake.

He yelled after Matthew.

The sound refused to leave Matthew's ears, haunting them as he tore down his favorite book from beneath his pillow and began to read, ripping out the years-old embroidered bookmark and gasping for air as he turned page after page until he reached the end. Even the knocks on the door and the calls that please, couldn't they talk about it and it was an accident and he didn't mean it but they just needed to talk and Matthew, please, open the door.

---

Alfred tapped his pen on the bar counter, chin cupped in his free hand, waiting for his new employee to arrive.

This probably wasn't a good idea. Then again, opening the cafe in the first place didn't seem likely to make his list of most brilliant ideas anymore. At the time, when he'd been dizzy and giggly and more than confident, he thought he'd finally found his chance to follow his childhood dream of owning his own establishment.

And then he'd messed it up.

He'd given up blaming Arthur-Fucking-Kirkland. Jerk though he was, he probably hadn't meant them harm in the first place. He couldn't have expected that question during his interview. If Arthur'd gone and hated on Nineteen-Eighty FOOD every chance he'd gotten over the past two weeks, he'd only done it because Alfred had asked him to, even if he hadn't realized just what he was asking for at the time.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He didn't know why he expected Arthur to arrive early; the man struck him as more likely to arrive just on time, down to the second. And the clock on the wall—one of Alfred's favorite parts of the cafe decor, thanks to its portraits of authors that marked every hour—only read five after eight. The place was empty: even Francis hadn't yet returned from taking Matthew to school, leaving only Alfred to prep everything to open on time. Which he had done a long time ago already, leaving him with the faint tapping of his pen, the smell of chlorine from wiping down the counter after spilling his boiling coffee everywhere, and the sting of his conscience.

And the stares of the clock authors.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Alfred wasn't sure when or how he'd managed to fall asleep, but he woke, snoozing and drooling, to a dull pounding noise.

He pulled his glasses out of his hair and rubbed his eyes. Arthur Kirkland stood outside, banging on the front window just beside (or maybe on?) one of the American flags.

Right. Shit. He hadn't unlocked the front door yet.

"Sorry, said Alfred as, with the familiar chime of the front door opening, he let Arthur inside. "Hope you weren't waiting long."

"Not terribly long. Only about five minutes."

Alfred glanced back over his shoulder at the man following him to the bar counter. He'd forgotten to tell him what to wear, but the crisp black slacks and tucked-in pressed shirt so white it almost hurt his eyes would work fine, he supposed. He usually wore a rundown, typical twenty-something version of Arthur's attire, anyway.

They sat down at the swiveling, somewhat screechy black barstools, Arthur crossing his legs and Alfred swinging his.

"You're here early," said Alfred after a peek at the clock. Eight-fifteen. "Writing not going well or something?"

"All right. Rule number one." Arthur frowned. "You will never ask me about writing. Ever."

A bit taken aback, Alfred paused a moment before shrugging.

"Fair enough. Any others you need to get off your—I mean, we need to get out of the way?"

"Yes. Number two: I get free tea whenever I want, plus time to drink it."

"Sounds fine—"

"I'm not finished. Number three: no one makes a single joke about my eyebrows." Arthur cleared his throat. "Number four: I get time to talk to Matthew about books every day I work."

Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"I really think he likes his alone time in the afternoon—school tires him out and stuff—"

"Did I say these were negotiable?"

"No. No, you didn't." Alfred wondered how he was going to break the news to Matthew that his sacred reading time wouldn't be so holy anymore. "All right, then. No writing questions or eyebrow jokes, plus time to drink tea—free tea—and afternoon book club with Mattie. That it?"

"For now, yes."

"Awesome." Alfred poured himself another cup of coffee, as slowly as a scientist measuring out some toxic chemical. He'd rinsed his hands under freezing water enough times today already. "Well, you're shaping up to be about the most low-maintenance employee I have."

"Can't say as that was my goal."

"No, seriously. No one wants to work more than two days in a row, they all fight over who gets which section of the cafe, everyone wants as much free food as they can carry—you get it." He chuckled. "But I guess I was there once, too. Trying to make it through college on a server's pay, balance classes, all that crap."

Alfred poured nigh half a sugar shaker into his coffee.

"Anyway. I can't really start you off as a server, though. Not until you've done some time as a host, at least, which'll help a lot, actually. Assuming we start getting people again, but—well, you know."

Arthur just looked at him.

"I mean, unless you had something else in mind."

Alfred almost hoped he would object to a host position. He couldn't see this grouchy, pompous author deigning to lead people to tables and hand out menus—then again, he couldn't have imagined Arthur deigning to work at the cafe at all—but he really did have to learn hosting before he could much of anything else, except work as a janitor.

He decided not to tempt Arthur with that one.

When Arthur gave no answer, Alfred said, "I guess I'll go ahead and show you the table chart," before leading the other man to the host podium, which was decorated with strips of wallpaper and streaks of paint to look like a copy of Nineteen-Eighty Four. Menacing blue eye and all. Maybe this actually beat the clock o' authors, Alfred thought.

"It's pretty self-explanatory." He handed Arthur the chart with a smile. "Each table in the cafe has a number. And see how they're different colors? Each color makes up a section. Different people work in different sections every day. When I'm not swamped at the bar—so like this morning and this afternoon—I get section one, that row along the windows there."

Arthur's gaze followed Alfred as he pointed out his row of tables and all the other sections.

"Oh, another thing. You'll have to answer the phone when I'm busy. That shouldn't be too hard. It's mostly people wanting stuff to go. If that happens, just grab me and I'll take it. Any questions so far?"

Arthur shook his head and remarked that everything was perfectly simple and self-explanatory, thank you.

"Okay then. Let's see. We don't open for a while yet, and I've done all the prep stuff I can do until Francis gets here. I'm gonna go steal some of his pastry dough. You want any?"

One look from Arthur had him backpedaling and giggling his way to the kitchen.

When he returned, a small bowl of cookie dough in hand, Arthur was sitting in his usual table with a cup of steaming tea. How he'd managed to find it without anyone showing him where they kept the Bigelow and Twinings, Alfred wasn't sure. The man must have had a bloodhound nose for the stuff. Maybe he could start calling him a teahound.

He figured he'd better not push his luck any further.

That plan failed when he caught Arthur running his fingers along the spines of the books in the big shelf that ran around the cafe and, to his surprise, smiling to himself. After a moment, he picked one, extracting it from between the other books as a paleontologist might pull a fragile fossil from rock and mud, and opened it. His grin didn't fade but only grew a little wider with each turn of the dusty pages.

Alfred walked over, licking melted chocolate from his fingers. Okay, so he'd ruled out any questions about writing, but that didn't mean he couldn't ask about reading, right?

"Whatcha got there?"

Apparently not. Arthur looked about ready to throw the book at him.

"Geez, I get it. You're just like Mattie." He wolfed down another hunk of dough. "Neither one of you likes to be bugged when you're reading. You book junkies are all the same."

"And you aren't a 'book junkie'? Your words, not mine, of course."

"Hm?" Alfred ran his finger along the edge of the bowl, trying to pick up any last bits of the wet dough and wondering if he could get any more without Francis noticing. Probably not. "Well, no. You two are always reading or writing or whatever. You coulda been born with books in your hands. That's not me at all. I hardly ever read."

"You? Hardly ever read? Have you ever looked around this place?"

Alfred looked back at the clock and podium, his gaze switching back and forth between the thin lampshades hanging over the tables and the bar before meandering over the bookshelves.

"Sure, yeah. I mean, I get that it's full of books and stuff, but that doesn't mean I like books or reading or anything."

"You don't like books and yet you created and run a cafe based entirely around literature." Arthur took a sip of his tea and gave Alfred a smug smile.

"Well—okay, fine, books are nice. Doesn't mean I read them or anything. I'm not really smart enough to understand all that stuff. I bet I couldn't even figure out one of your novels."

"That's half the purpose of my books, you know. They're hardly pedestrian. But you're missing the point, as usual."

Alfred sat down on the other side of the booth, expecting Arthur to grumble and gripe at him to move, but no objection came.

"What makes you think you're not smart enough?"

"I didn't finish college. That's one thing. I don't have the brains for reading."

"Oh, please, I started writing my best work before I'd even stepped into Oxford." Arthur waved his hand. "Of course, I came out smarter, but I was smart enough before I started classes. University isn't a recipe for instant intelligence."

"You sure? You mean a degree's not a package of Instant Brain—Just Add Water?"

"I have no idea what you're going on about now."

Alfred laughed. "Never mind. You wouldn't get it."

"And maybe what I'm saying is lost on you. But whether you're stupid or not, you do read, Alfred. Even if it's just to come up with asinine—don't you dare laugh at that word—puns. You read. Even if it's for your own rather unconventional and, frankly, incomprehensible reasons."

"If you say so." But Alfred's eyes were twinkling as he stood up and went to open the door for Francis, who had just arrived and, as usual, couldn't find his key. "I should go through your books for puns. We could name something after you."

"You wouldn't dare—"

"I've already got one. Confessions of a Man Caught in a Compote. How's that?"

"I'll quit before that happens."

"Nah, you won't. I don't think you'd quit if your life depended on it at this point."

Alfred smiled.

He knew he had Arthur Kirkland under control. Though he hadn't expected him to bring light to the darkest, saddest parts of his life. To make him smile where before, he'd only feigned a folksy, aw-shucks kind of ignorance. A pretend stupidity. When deep down, he apparently wasn't that stupid after all.

Maybe in the end, Arthur-Fucking-Kirkland still had a bit of power. Just a tiny bit.

---

As Alfred had expected, no one came into the cafe except the Awesome Oldies (sans Romulus's grandsons this time), and they seated themselves at their regular table, though not without some protest from Arthur.

"Can't you read?" He grabbed the stand of the black sign beside the host podium. "It says to wait to be seated."

"Somebody's got a stick up his ass," said Helena as she sat down beside Hatshepsut and tucked her white curls behind her ears.

"Be nice, Helena," said Hatshepsut.

"Why be nice to a weakling like him?" asked Romulus. "I could have taken him down any day back when I was in my prime, easy as pie. Speaking of pie, Alfred, get me some—"

"Shut up, Romulus," said the two women.

With nothing else to do, Arthur had spent most of his morning at his booth with a book and two different kinds of tea until Francis got fed up with his laziness.

"There's plenty of stuff for you to do," he said, shoving a mop into the writer's hand. "Like clean up the kitchen. And when you're done with that, sweep the floor out here. Romulus makes a mess of everything he touches."

Arthur had protested at first, but after a quick glance at Alfred, he rolled his eyes, glared at Francis, and trudged after him to the back of the cafe. He spent the rest of the morning cleaning up whatever Francis told him to, though he held his ground over cleaning the bathrooms. Alfred had to take over there.

He'd just started clearing the plates from the elderly trio's table, mopping up the crumbly mess of pie crust Romulus had left all over the cushiony seat and mumbling about what to do with the pill bottle Helena had left on the table, when Matthew walked in.

Before Francis could say anything, Arthur had already greeted the boy and wrenched his backpack from his tight grip.

"Hope you're not too tired from school," he said. "Let's go sit down—I picked out this wonderful book that I think you'll like. Just let me go take it back down from the shelf."

"And leave me to finish cleaning, I assume," called Francis from the kitchen door.

"There's always time to clean, but there's never enough time to discuss great works of literature. Aristotle himself said the contemplative life was higher than the active."

"Yeah, listen to the Macewindows."

"Macedonians, Alfred."

"I bet when you went to Oxford, you were the annoying, all-knowing prick," said Francis.

"No, actually." Arthur reached for the book he'd picked to discuss with Matthew. "I was the shy, quiet kid who spent all his time in the library. If you must know."

Matthew stiffened, his fingers gripping the tabletop so tight both Francis and Arthur could see him straining from a distance. Francis stared at him, waiting for some sort of reaction. None came.

Arthur's gaze slowly shifted back and forth between the two. His brows furrowed.

The silence, thick and smothering, lingered for a few moments, not even Alfred daring to break it, until Arthur retrieved the book and brought it to Matthew's table. Francis disappeared back into the kitchen.

"So this gentleman, Allistor Kirkland—no relation, of course," said Arthur, pushing the book toward Matthew, who hadn't yet let go of the tabletop, "was inspired by Lewis Carroll and his work. I thought you might enjoy reading his first book, Sonata in a Mirror. It's far from best book I've ever read, and not the best he's ever written, but you came to mind straight away when I was perusing it earlier."

He waited, staying quiet and still until Matthew let go of the table finger by finger and reached for the book. His hand rested on its smooth cover, only a little scuffed and scratched in comparison to some of the other books Arthur had found on the shelves.

Arthur kept his voice just as gentle.

"I went to school with him, you know. Quite a nice fellow. He was also a patron of the library. Had his own special desk in the corner on the top floor and everything."

Matthew's gaze flickered up to meet Arthur's. His eyes didn't seem angry but rather as if they were waiting for something. Staying cautious for the tiny flash on the horizon that he couldn't quite make out yet. Waiting for it to make a move toward him.

And then easing as he saw it was not a threat at all.

"You make it sound like everyone there holed up in the library. That sort of defeats the point, doesn't it?"

"It was a big library, Matthew." Arthur laughed. Smart kid. "We probably all could have fit in there if we needed to. Fortunately, Oxford had a lot of libraries. Allistor and I just happened to pick the same one as our own.

"Read that book and tell me what you think of it. You're probably so busy with other work, your bag is so heavy." He lifted it up with a grimace, eliciting a small smile that hardly reached to Matthew's eyes—but a smile all the same. "But still. Just read a chapter or two and give me your thoughts tomorrow."

"Okay. Do you need anything else?"

"What? Oh, no, I'll leave you to read. Maybe you'll finish that one—unlike Alice in Wonderland, yeah?"

"I finished it." Matthew's gaze fell away from Arthur's and back to the table. "Last night."

Arthur didn't have to be an author or even a psychologist to guess that finishing the book meant something more to Matthew than it should have. Something more negative, at least. He always felt a little wistful at the end of a great story, as if he'd finally been forced to close the lid on a treasure chest that contained wisdom and understanding—prizes brighter and worthier than glittering gold. And sometimes, the lessons a book taught him burned so bright he hurt for days afterward.

Some books even blinded him for life. Carved their messages into his heart, cold as it was, and so deep that he felt the indentations with every throb.

This book had written something terrible into Matthew.

"Ah, did you? Nice story, isn't it?"

Matthew tilted his head from one side to another.

"Yeah. It was nice."

Francis came back from the kitchen then, and Matthew was quick to flip the book open and hold it with one end on the table, hiding his face as he turned to chapter one. Arthur didn't talk to him again until the next afternoon when he returned from school, looking as tired and red-faced as ever. The moment he walked in, Arthur carried his bag to Matthew's usual table as he had yesterday and sat down across from him.

He had to sit in silence for a few moments before Matthew said something about Allistor's book. Arthur was impatient and knew he could have forced the boy to answer any question he posed—whether he had enjoyed the book, whether he had thought it well-written and worth his time, whether he had liked the author.

He decided to wait instead.

"I read the first two chapters last night before bed."

Arthur nodded and took a sip of his tea. He'd offered Matthew a piping hot cuppa, but he had declined with a small shake of his head and an equally little smile.

"I think it's good." Matthew took Sonata in a Mirror out of his backpack and put it on the table. He'd stuck a pen in it to mark his place. "Allistor writes well."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. Isn't that what happens to people at Oxford who hole up in the library?"

Arthur opened his mouth to respond, thought about Matthew's sarcastic remark and his cocked eyebrow (almost daring him to disagree, he noted, though Matthew seemed to fear his own defiance), and granted him a chuckle.

"Touché." He took a cell phone out of his pocket. "How'd you like to meet the man himself?"

---

Francis smirked.

He had to admit, he liked seeing Arthur overrun and berated. Someone had to give the asshole a piece of his mind.

Hearing Allistor Kirkland, Pulitzer-Prize winner and famous novelist and most certainly no relation to a certain cantankerous Englishman, chew Arthur Kirkland out for every petty sin he'd ever committed—locking him in the library, laughing at his commencement speech at Harvard a few years back, calling his pet Bichon a poodle in an interview in some paper that neither author remembered—pleased him enough. His kind gesture had clearly backfired.

Francis still sighed a little for his son. True, the boy hadn't even shown up to meet this Kirkland fellow when Arthur had called him last week and asked him to come to the cafe ("Isn't that the place you slammed on that English TV show?" "Shut up, Allistor."), though the thought of meeting an author whose book he'd enjoyed so much had buoyed even his drowning spirits. Instead of coming to the cafe after school, as Arthur had arranged for him to do so he could talk to Allistor, Matthew was spending that afternoon at home with a migraine. Francis hadn't thought it wise to question the boy any further than asking if he wanted to go to school which, of course, he didn't.

He should have known that Matthew would go if he hadn't left already. Ever since their fight, Matthew had gotten up before him to walk the whole five miles to school by himself in the early morning.

He didn't know what to say to make him smile. He didn't know how to tell his son that he was safe, that he wouldn't hurt him. He didn't know how to break his heart open and fill in all the cracks with his love.

But Arthur-Fucking-Kirkland did.

Allistor shoved his chair back, slammed his teacup down on his speckled black saucer covered in spilled cream, and put on his jacket. He said something to Arthur, who simply smirked in reply, but Francis couldn't hear quite what from his hiding place just behind the kitchen door. Beside him, Alfred asked, "D'you think he left me a good tip?"

Francis rolled his eyes. He sometimes wondered if Alfred cared about anything else. Oh, right, he cared about alcohol.

The front door banged shut, and Alfred tiptoed out of the kitchen and over to the table where Arthur sat sipping his tea and drumming his fingers on a book. Francis poked his head out of the door and pretended to stir the pastry dough in the bowl he clutched to his chest. Held tight in his arms, where Matthew belonged.

"Well—I mean, I guess I'm sorry. That he was mean to you and Matt didn't show up and all that—"

"Oh, Alfred." Arthur stirred his tea with a small silver spoon he must have brought himself (Francis didn't remember having any teaspoons like that in the cafe). "Yet again you underestimate my brilliance."

"Um, okay."

"I have saved the cafe."

"Since when did you care so much about us?" Francis didn't bother pretending to stir anymore. The metal spoon stopped in the batter as he clenched his fist. "Since you could get something out of us?"

"Francis, let's listen to him."

"Oh, right, let's listen to the person who fucked us over how many times now?"

"And works of pure art those acts of sabotage were." Arthur smiled. "But this is even more brilliant. I didn't bring Allistor here so Matthew could meet him. Well, I did, but there's more than that. Using some choice stories from our university days—ones he may not want others to know—I got him to agree to bring his entire staff here while they're in town promoting his newest book, Noli Timere, Mon Amour."

"Isn't that technically mixing languages or something?"

"Isn't that technically missing the point, Alfred?"

"Get on with it, you two."

"No, no, I get it," said Alfred, pocketing the wad of bills Kirkland had left him. Francis couldn't help but wonder if the man had left dollars or pounds. He figured Alfred wouldn't notice the difference for a while. "Since no one will believe a word you say about Nineteen-Eighty FOOD anymore, you got someone else to do the promotion work for you."

"A little rough in terms of finesse, but not terrible, Alfred. You got the basic points. Specifically, I picked someone who was so upset about his precious dog being called a poodle that he doesn't pay attention to my interviews anymore. Someone who won't know a thing about what I said regarding this place. And he can bring the entire board of the Sacramento Magazine if he likes what he sees."

Alfred jumped up and down, stopping just short of throwing his arms around Arthur. The two men sat down and began discussing a plan of action for the coming weekend when, Arthur said, about twenty people would be coming to the cafe for dinner. As much as Alfred waved for Francis to come over and plan out a menu with them, he still shook his head and walked back into the kitchen. Needed a cigarette, he said.

The wide room with its shelves of ingredients and racks of spices always created a sense of serenity that started somewhere deep inside Francis and radiated outward until it tingled, warm and close, just beneath his skin. He'd grown up cooking and baking the way Matthew had grown up reading books. Whisks and spoons and sifters had been his rattles and pacifiers and coloring books. His first birthday present had been an Easy-Bake Oven, and he'd taken such joy in creating different recipes for his Maman and Papa to eat. The moment he graduated to the stove and real oven, he'd made crêpes and omelettes for breakfast every morning. His parents had wanted to send him to culinary school in France, to help him transition from a young sous-chef to an experienced exec.

But they had been poor.

And moving to America, even out to California, hadn't given him the money he'd hoped it would. Many restaurants liked his French accent and training enough to disregard his lack of citizenship and questionable eligibility for work. He'd been lucky. Yes, "lucky," that was the word for it, Francis thought. He should have been thanking the stars that had aligned to give him a job just before his landlord had evicted him. He should have been blessing God for giving him money to pay his bills and to feed himself. For giving him Alfred as his one of his first real friends after a year of floundering in Sacramento.

His ingratitude had probably been what kept him stuck in sous-chef or, worse, line-cook positions. His failure to accept things as they were kept him on the ground, but not on his knees.

He'd saved that moment of prayer for the day he'd adopted Matthew.

And yet now the world was taking away his son, too.

Or, rather, Arthur Kirkland was taking him away. Just as he'd taken their livelihood away. Just as he'd monopolized Alfred's friendship.

Just as he'd yanked Francis's joy clean out of his heart.

He lit his cigarette, not bothering to step outside, and let it burn to ashes between his lips.

---

When the fateful Saturday arrived, Alfred insisted on giving Arthur the night off. He thought that maybe Francis would want some help in the kitchen but decided against offering him any aid that reeked of an Englishman.

"We'll be fine, really." He straightened his bowtie and smiled at Arthur. "I think I've already worked out all my kinks. Drunk phone calls do tend to get rid of all of those problems."

Arthur gave him a look that was probably meant to cut him down a bit but only made him laugh.

Alfred had grown out of most of his nervousness long ago. Tiring and hectic as it could sometimes (more like always) be, working as a server had bolstered his confidence and people skills, both of which tended to waver in most young men during their teenage years. Alfred's had developed instead.

For the most part, anyway. Meaning when he was sober.

Alfred glanced back at the clock o' authors. Fifteen minutes until Allistor would arrive. He had time, especially since Arthur had warned him that the man was not exactly punctual.

"He'd arrive after lectures had already finished and call it 'on-time,'" Arthur had scoffed as they'd put the finishing touches on their plans for the night.

As the author turned to leave, Alfred cleared his throat. Now was a good a moment as any to ask.

"Why're you so insistent on helping us?"

Arthur turned and raised an eyebrow.

"Why do you insist on bringing up the phone call every second?"

"Why are you answering my question with a question?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air.

"You're a bit of a lost cause, you know?"

"That's another question, isn't it?"

"You—oh, whatever. That's beside the point. You keep bringing up the phone call because you appease your guilt by making jokes about it. You feel better about yourself if you can laugh at yourself."

"Way to go, Freud." Alfred gave him a thumbs-up, which looked a little ridiculous given his handsome suit and shoes polished so well that they reflected every glint of the cozy cafe lights. He didn't care. "And—you know I'm sorry. Not because it sank us. Not because it's made my life and Francis's life and Mattie's life hell. But because it was a shitty thing to do."

Alfred looked down at his shoes. The polish didn't seem right on him. He'd look better in slightly scuffed sneakers and dirty, mismatched socks.

"I know. It was a very shitty thing to do." Arthur pursed his lips. "And yet, I guess I have to forgive you. It's what civilized people do."

"Aww, thanks, man." He tried to brush off Arthur's forgiveness as something he'd expected, but, in fact, Alfred had expected none of this. Neither redemption nor a second chance. Nor even a friendship with this strange man.

"But now it's my turn," said Alfred. "You're helping us because you're a good person deep down beneath all that grumpiness. Alfred 1, Artie 1. Would ya look at that: we're even."

"First of all, no one gave you permission to call me 'Artie.' I will make that rule number five: no nicknames." Arthur folded his arms. Alfred just giggled. The more like a sourpuss Arthur looked, the funnier Alfred found him. "And in response to your first query, I invoke rule number one."

"Dude, you know I don't remember the numbers of your rules—"

"Of course you do. Rule number one: you will not ask me about my writing. Ever."

"But I didn't—"

"I came to help you for the same reason I write. And you're not allowed to ask about that."

Alfred looked back at the clock. Ten more minutes until Allistor's arrival. He fingered the gritty edges of the tens and twenties he'd put in his book in case any of the author's crew wanted to pay him with cash. They likely wouldn't, opting to use some shiny gold credit card instead, but Alfred believed in being ready for any situation as a waiter. The last time he had walked into a shift unprepared, a party of thirty rowdy teenagers had happened. And he didn't want a party of thirty rowdy teenagers to happen again.

He didn't often act like it, but Alfred could be responsible when needed. He'd worked his way through three years of college and found himself an apartment and new life without anyone's help. He knew how to be an adult. He didn't like being grown-up, but when pinched and pushed and pulled in all sorts of directions, Alfred soared and raced to do anything he had to take care of himself.

But even more than that, he jumped straight into anything he thought would help those he loved. No matter how much it hurt him or frustrated him.

"I'm not allowed to ask about it, sure." Alfred straightened the crinkled edge of a twenty that he prayed wasn't a counterfeit. The detector had been broken ever since Romulus set hands on it and accidentally broke the "shiny, pretty" UV lamp. Francis still hadn't gotten over it, though Matthew'd pointed out that they did have other methods of testing currency. Alfred just didn't find them as cool. "But that doesn't mean you can't talk about it if you want. I'll listen."

"Like hell you will." Arthur sighed. Then, he shifted a little, the dim ceiling light sparkling off the silver pen in his breast pocket and straight into Alfred's eyes, making him squint so much he almost missed the sad shifting of Arthur's gaze to meet his. "It's the guilt. I write because of the guilt."

Alfred paused. He wanted to think of a kind, intelligent response, but all he could muster was, "Really?"

"Yes, really." Arthur's stare mixed the most defensive parts of a frown with all the heavy fear of a sad smile. "I don't want to go into the details. But it's the guilt."

"I don't want to ask you about it or anything. You can keep it a secret if you want."

"Please."

"I mean, I got plenty of secrets myself." Alfred folded his hands behind his back and leaned against the wall. "Like when I went to my uncle's funeral as a kid. I was like two or something."

"Oh?"

Alfred ignored the hint of condescension in the author's voice and his raised eyebrow—wait, he wasn't supposed to make fun of those. That was rule number whatever. "Yeah. I was at the reception afterwards, and for whatever reason, I thought it'd be a good idea to jump up on a table and start dancing and taking all my clothes off."

For what was probably the first time in his life, Arthur Kirkland had run out of words. He squinted, mouth open, head tilted, staring at Alfred.

Then, he began to laugh, and it was Al's turn to stare.

Sure, he'd seen the writer smile before, both as a pleasantry and as an insuppressible sign of the joy he seemed to get from reading and talking about books. His smile whenever he showed Matt a new book or picked one off the shelves just slid onto his face, unhidden, perhaps even unnoticed.

When he had pages to turn or covers to open, when he wasn't forcing himself to play nice, he had a handsome smile.

And, Alfred found, he had an even warmer laugh. Real and natural. Not sweet or gentle on the ears—his awful accent sharpened all the soft edges of his voice—but the kind of laugh that buoyed those who heard it, as though they'd been lost outside in the cold and had found shelter and warm, fleecy blankets to wrap themselves in.

He wondered when this laugh had disappeared. When a frown and scalding words had stolen its place, when Arthur had realized he had to hide his amusement. When he stopped sheltering others and maybe even himself with his delight.

Alfred would probably never know. At least, not for a long time. The look Arthur had given him earlier revealed deep wounds that bled still, though not within the man himself. The scabs oozed on other hearts, injuries that Arthur had inflicted but struggled to staunch, to stitch, to heal.

He understood that part of the guilt thing well enough, he thought.

And still, he laughed, too. So Arthur wouldn't be as alone.

"You know," said Arthur, "at least you probably made a lot of sad people happy."

"Try telling that to my parents. They were horrified. I wasn't allowed at my dad's family reunions until I was twelve, and even then they pretended my crazy big brother had been the wannabe stripper. I don't even have a big brother, man."

"Too bad." Arthur put a hand over his mouth and bit back the rest of his giggles. "I suppose Allistor will be here soon. I'll let you finish getting everything ready and go home for the evening."

"M'kay, and thanks for your help making this happen. We're gonna knock his knickers off."

"I don't think such a move is in your best interest."

"Whatever you say, Artie."

He scowled at Alfred over his shoulder and mumbled something about rule number five and how he was really going to need to learn some decency and politeness if he wanted to succeed in life, but do have a good night and don't screw up too badly.

Alfred smiled.

He could smell Francis's Agatha Crispies coming out of the oven.

---

When Arthur returned two hours later, feeling himself drawn back to the cafe to make sure for himself that, despite Alfred's phone call that everything had been fine, Allistor hadn't been awful or they hadn't screwed up.

He found Alfred, bowtie undone and hanging down his chest, plopped down in a chair and slouching next to Francis, who was nibbling on a few leftover desserts arranged on a small black tray covered with little forks and white doilies. A mess of half-full measuring cups and bowls with bits of food encrusted around the rims covered the kitchen counters behind them and filled both sinks. The faint scent of steak sauce lingered just beneath the almost-cloying smell of Francis's desserts.

"It really did go well, then?" asked Arthur, adjusting his red tie.

Francis put his feet up on only other empty chair in the kitchen. Arthur glared and got a grin in response.

"Yeah, I told you that already," said Alfred. Arthur let his shoulders fall away from where they'd scrunched up close to his ears. "We talked a lot about your books."

And there went his relief.

He turned about as green as his eyes. Alfred didn't pay any attention.

"He liked talking about the one about pirates the most."

"Oh good heavens." Arthur's hands froze around his tie, clenching it tight between his pale fingers. "Spare me. Not that one."

"And it sounded so awesome that I read parts of it in between taking care of their tables. We had it on one of the shelves in the very back. They weren't real high-maintenance, so I got several chapters done."

"Ah, well—I'm terribly sorry about that one; it just didn't—"

"I totally loved it, bro. Best book ever. Those really were some phenomenal pirates. Nice title." Alfred reached for one of Francis's pastries, but the Frenchman slapped his hand away, mumbling something about how Alfred had had too much sugar that evening already. As much as Alfred stuck out his lip and whined, Francis refused to yield.

"Wait," said Arthur, hoping to intervene lest the two start World War III in the kitchen. "Wait, you've got it all wrong. The title of that book was The Phenomonological Pirates—"

"Phenomonowhat?" Slap, went Francis's hand down on Alfred's.

"Did… did you even understand it?"

"Of course, dude. It was about phenomenal pirates—Francis pleaaaase can't I have just one?"

Arthur blinked.

"You mean you missed my entire philosophical treatise on piracy as examined through the eyes of the young protagonist on board the ship?"

"Wait, what?"

With a sigh, Francis finally pushed a slice of cake over onto one side of the tray. Alfred snatched it up and informed Arthur as he chewed that they'd served Allistor and his staff a sample of their newest item, a fruitcake he'd christened Arthur Cakeland. He shoved a piece at Arthur, who looked at it with blank eyes.

"Please kill me. Summarily."

"No, don't worry, Allistor's summary of your book was fine. He said anyone could gobble it up the way a dog gobbles up its breakfast."

"You know what? I just—I don't—I can't—"

"You don't and can't what, Monsieur Author?" Francis asked. "And please don't sob into the food. I know you're the only one who will be eating it, but it's still unsanitary."

Despite himself, Arthur sniffled.

A quiet tap on the door interrupted their conversation. Alfred about dropped his plate and jumped on top of Francis, but he relaxed when he saw Matthew trudging into the kitchen, his plaid pajama pants dragging and his shoes clapping on the tile floor.

"Oh, hey, Matt," said Alfred. "Dude, you should call if you're just gonna walk in—you 'bout scared the shit outta—"

"Matthew, what are you doing here?" Francis pushed the tray back onto the counter and rose to his feet in one swift movement. Alfred, looking from side to side, snatched up the last two slices of fruitcake and shoved them into his pockets. Arthur thought about reprimanding him but figured the older man deserved to have his desserts stolen for denying him a chair. "You don't feel well. You should be sleeping or in bed, at least—not over here. We told you we'd take care of this."

Matthew shrunk back a little against the door and pointed to Arthur.

"Why is he sniffling?" asked Matthew.

"I'm not doing something so undignified—"

"He didn't like the summary of his book," said Alfred and Francis together.

Arthur sniveled again.

"But really, Matthew, never mind him. You need to go home. I'll walk you back."

"No." Matthew swallowed. Arthur looked at him out of the corner of his eye, with Alfred turning his head to watch as well. "It's fine."

"It's not. I just want to make sure you get back okay." Francis crossed his arms and then uncrossed them again. He shifted from one foot to the other. "You don't feel well."

Matthew played with his unkempt hair, pulling down on a few wavy strands at a time. His father didn't move any closer, as though waiting for Matthew to come to him first. The room fell silent; even Alfred had stopped chewing the bits of fruitcake that had missed his pockets.

"I think he should stay," said Arthur after a moment. He didn't like the tension. He didn't like that he had only a few pieces of the story—he wanted to know the rest, and not only because he was an author. "He's part of the cafe, too."

Arthur turned to Matthew, who had decided the floor was more interesting than any of them.

"You certainly didn't just come here to stare at the floor," he said. "Did you just want to know how things went with Allistor coming here?"

Matthew nodded.

"I said I'd tell you about it when I came home, mon coeur," said Francis.

"You said you'd tell me if I was still awake. That's different."

"Dude, Matt—"

"No, no, I'm sorry. That's not what I meant." Matthew looked up. His gaze met Alfred's and then Francis's, where it stayed for a second before dropping to the floor again. "I didn't mean that at all. I'm sorry. I was just curious. And you were here late and I didn't know if things were okay, and—never mind, it's fine."

And then it started. His fists began clenching again, as though he were about to hit someone.

Arthur suspected his target could be Matthew himself.

"But I can walk myself home. I'm not a—well, I mean, I just wanted to say I'm not a kid and I can walk by myself and that's all."

He laughed. Scuffed his shoes on the floor with little squeaks that cut through the silence taking over now that his soft voice had faded.

"And I think you're precisely right, Matthew."

Arthur took the two steps between them with small, easy strides, and leaned against the wall, sticky from torn-down Scotch tape and old employee-rights posters, beside the boy. He wondered if he should put a hand on his shoulder.

"I came back because I wanted to make sure Allistor hadn't torn their heads off. Can be a bit grumpy like that, you know. I don't see anything wrong with what you did, and you only live across the street, yeah? Nothing to worry about here."

He held his hands up and looked straight at Francis. They could at least agree over this one small matter. Then they could go back to fruitcakes that really should have borne Alfred's name rather than his and talk about the teas they'd served the Scotsman's staff. They could strategize.

Or, more likely, they could rest.

Maybe he'd even deign to help clean the kitchen. He could put away at least a few of the dishes that were still half-full with water dripping from the faucet with gentle plops every few minutes.

"Leave him alone."

Or, you know, they could also disagree. Arthur was good at playing that game.

"He has a point, you know. What kind of father treats his eighteen-year-old like a child?"

"He's seventeen, and that shows how much you know about my son." Francis stepped forward. "Look, Alfred can handle the rest of the dishes—"

"—I can?"

"You stay out of this." Francis's head jerked toward Alfred, who took a step back, a frown knitting together on his face, before he sat back down and turned his back to the conversation. "Matthew, let's go home. We can forget about this."

Arthur smiled when Matthew looked up at him. Francis was being perfectly unreasonable, and Arthur could see that the boy had come to see sense. He didn't have to put up with this kind of control, this sort of manipulation.

"You're right," said Matthew.

Alfred walked out of the kitchen. No one but Arthur watched him.

"Let's go home, Francis."

Matthew didn't resist as Francis put an arm around his shoulders and led him back to their apartment. He didn't complain as the man insisted that they take the rundown elevator, creaky as its cables sounded and touchy as it made his stomach, rather than the stairs so he wouldn't be so tired.

He knew how the evening would go already.

Francis wouldn't tell him anything about Allistor Kirkland's visit to Nineteen-Eighty FOOD. He'd smile and say everything went well but wasn't he tired? Didn't he want to go to bed? They could talk about it in the morning, except that Francis would sleep in and Matthew would lie in bed reading until his curiosity got the better of him and just called Alfred for last night's special report. Al would deliver it just like an overdramatic newscaster, and Matthew would smile and think about how much he liked his surrogate brother.

He'd take down Alice in Wonderland then and hide it when Francis knocked and came into his room with pancakes and a smile as sweet as the maple syrup he'd drizzled over Matthew's breakfast.

And then he'd sit down on the edge of the bed, the worn mattress sinking even beneath his little weight, and put a hand on Matthew's forehead and remark that his fever had gone down quite a bit, and maybe he'd feel up for a walk over to the park that afternoon? They could have a picnic, if he wanted, and then they could watch all the people walking their dogs and playing catch with their children. Get some fresh air, enjoy the nice weather.

And then the people would go home, leaving only Francis and Matthew sitting on the old Afghan Antonio had given Francis years ago. Matthew would run his fingers along the rough fringe, tiny threads catching onto his dry skin like Velcro.

After a moment, Francis would clear his throat. He'd smile again.

And then he'd tell Matthew something he'd known all along:

"I'm sending you back to the foster home."

The air would grow colder and the blanket rougher and Francis's face darker until the dream would fade, and he'd awaken right where he'd been running from.

His parents' home.

---

Alfred and Arthur didn't speak as they finished the dishes, the water in the sink turning grayer with each new plate and tray they plunged into the apple-scented suds. Alfred had taken off his glasses a long time ago, the steam having fogged them up too much. He'd put them on the counter, but then Arthur had picked them up by their silver frames and set them up on a shelf where water wouldn't splash onto them.

Alfred smiled. Arthur smiled back. Neither one felt right.

Once the dishes had been stacked and the floor swept, Alfred sank down into a chair and tapped the hanging lamp with his hand. It swung back and forth as he kept pushing it as he would a child on a swing.

Arthur sat down beside him.

"Are you angry with me?"

"Huh?"

"I asked if you were angry with me." Arthur folded his hands and put them on the table. Whoever had wiped it down earlier had left streak marks all along the middle and some sticky residue in the corner. He put his hands back in his lap.

Alfred picked at the residue with his free hand, letting it cake up beneath his fingernails.

"Why'd I be mad at you? You didn't do anything wrong. You brought us that author guy and stuff and he said he liked everything and could get more people in here."

He took a breath. Nope, still hadn't gotten the apple detergent off his hands yet. At least it smelled better than that orangey stuff Francis liked. Sometimes he thought about dousing one of his old t-shirts in that detergent and taping it beneath the kitchen sink in their apartment, but he didn't want to torture Matt as well.

"I thought you might be mad because of what happened earlier. With Francis and Matthew."

"Oh, that. Wait, why would I be mad at you over that?"

"You see—never mind. Let's not talk about it. We should talk about what to do with the cafe next."

Alfred set down a stack of fliers he'd printed off to post in his apartment complex. His neighbors already found him annoying, he said; what could he lose?

Arthur picked them up and proofread them—"Alfred, I don't think you really want people to 'boo' reservations, now, do you?"—while Al outlined some of his other ideas to promote the cafe ahead of the SacMag visit.

"I'm sure people will come if they hear Allistor liked it. There's no way they could stay away. He's a popular author, isn't he?"

"Popular enough."

"So people will come. And they'll come when I put up all these ads. And we can put up signs telling people to vote for us—ooh, we can put that on the sign. 'Vote for us: details inside.' They'll wanna know what the details are, so they'll definitely come in. And then we'll suck them right into loving us and coming back for more."

Arthur snorted, but he didn't shoot Alfred down.

"Know any other authors we can get in here?"

"None in the area, no."

"Aren't you all supposed to know each other and be good friends or something, though? I mean, you all write. And you're all famous."

Arthur put down his pen in the middle of scribbling some corrections on a flier.

"You really think I go around making friends with writers, Alfred?"

"Well, yeah. I was friends with half the waiters in Northern California at one point in college. I was friends with all the other computer science majors."

"You're assuming similarities automatically make friendships."

Alfred shrugged. He thought it a fair assumption. It lined up with everything he'd experienced.

"But Alfred?" said Arthur.

He stopped polishing his glasses with the bottom of his shirt, still wet from where he'd spilled water while washing a mixing bowl earlier, and squinted to make out the author's face.

"Do you really think I have that many friends?"

Alfred put his glasses back on. And with the lenses, he could see the faint sadness in Arthur's eyes, the darkness between the twinkles of light from the dim cafe.

He shook his head. He couldn't water down a truth that the author seemed to have internalized long ago. A fact he'd lived with for years. One that might have chased him into that library or wherever Matt said he'd liked to hole up in during his years at Oxford. One that success couldn't change or gloss over, and one that whatever guilt pinned him down couldn't erase.

Arthur was a sourpuss. He was cranky and cantankerous, not to mention arrogant and rude and snobby. He had little likelihood of winning himself any allies.

But Alfred had discovered that he was also loyal. Loyalty would make any sane person want to put him on her team, but few would want befriend such a grouch. Everyone wanted a good person who did good things—but what about a good person who sometimes did bad things, too?

Maybe that's what true loneliness was. Having so much to give and so few people who would take it, shortcomings and all. And maybe the guilt strong-armed Arthur into cooperation with that sadness and accustomed him to it, like something he put on every day just like his shoes or his shirt. Something he could iron or dress up or polish and shine as he willed, but something that still never went away.

Alfred couldn't let that continue.

"You got me, at least."

Arthur sighed.

"Just look at that. You even misspelled the name of your own cafe. Ninteen-Eighty FOOD."

"Typo, bro."

Arthur tapped his pen against the flier. For a just a second, his eyes held Alfred's. The sadness had softened into gratitude in a louder "thank you" than he could have whispered aloud.

They continued to strategize, Al wondering whether to hand out samples at the nearby park and Arthur drawing up plans for newspaper ads until Alfred cut into his almost tangible mental wall that his concentration had fortified.

"Maybe you'd have more friends and be better with people if your books were friendlier."

"Friendlier?"

Arthur sipped at the cup of tea he'd brewed himself a few moments earlier. The rich scent of bergamot rising with the warm steam comforted Alfred like his mother's gentle hands or the thick arm of his father around his shoulders.

"Yeah. More open. A bit less pretentious. Less about phenomeno-whatical pirates and more about cool people. People you could understand. Like—dude, I am a genius. You should write a book about all of us at Nineteen-Eighty FOOD. Call it Confessions of a Man Caught in a Semicolon or something."

"I do not take suggestions for my books."

Alfred shrugged. "It'd be awesome, though. I'd be a kickass hero."

After a few moments of quiet sips and thoughtful notes, Arthur said, "It'd be about transvestite hermaphrodites, you know."

"Huh?"

"That's what Vonnegut called semicolons. Transvestite hermaphrodites."

"Oh. Well, I'd be a kickass transvestite hermaphrodite, too."

"You really would not."

"Would too."

"Life goals, Alfred."

"So—do you wanna write about transvestite hermaphrodites?"

"No."

"Maybe Mattie would," Alfred said. He rubbed his eyes. The clock o' authors read just after midnight.

Before the days of the cafe, he'd stayed up as late as he liked Googling random crap or playing away on his laptop (a holdover from his comp sci-major days), sometimes even calling his parents before they left for work in D.C. Now that he actually had to get up and run a business, he'd started winding down at old-lady hours.

The day had gone on forever; he wanted to sleep. Arthur would understand, having to get home himself—

"Matthew writes?"

So much for sleep.

"Kind of. I mean, he mostly reads. But sometimes he writes stuff in this red notebook instead." Alfred paused. "He's been doing that a lot more lately, I think. Or I could be remembering wrong."

Arthur set down his teacup on the saucer beside his crumbly biscuits with a quiet clink.

"Do you know their story—Francis and Matthew's?"

"Sorta. I remember when he decided to adopt Matt. He didn't say much about it to me—I thought he'd come home with like a baby or something, and then when he got back to his apartment he had this scrawny guy with him. I had to return the pacifier I'd bought him as a present—I don't think Matthew would have liked it very much." He laughed.

"But something was weird about him," Alfred continued, Arthur folding his hands beneath his chin. "I'm still not sure what. Francis is super protective of him and stuff, and he freaks out at random things. But he's pretty cool. I mean, he's like my brother. I don't care if he's weird."

Arthur nodded. "I was wondering, since they were both so tense earlier. Something's not right in that home."

"Yeah, well—Mattie doesn't tell me a lot about that stuff, but I think he said Francis really wants him to go to college, but Matt doesn't want to go because they can't afford it. Even with his good grades. And I don't think Francis would be getting any more money for adopting a kid, either. So that's probably part of what they're fighting over. I guess it's not even really fighting. They're just… not talking to each other."

Alfred waited for Arthur's reply. He hoped the self-professed great author might have some idea of how he could help his family. Some wisdom or whatever. But the man just nodded again and said, "Okay, I was just curious," hands still folded, teacup still full.

Alfred fell asleep soon after their conversation with his head pillowed on his arms in such a way that he'd have indentations from his rolled-up shirt sleeves all over his face in the morning.

By one o' clock, Arthur had decided not to awaken him. The young man must have been exhausted. Allistor and his crew couldn't have been ideal clients, no matter what Alfred said. They were too snarky, too grouchy, too rowdy. And even if he denied it, Al had to worry more about his family than he showed.

Arthur refilled his teacup a third time and settled into his chair. He couldn't leave the snoring youth by himself. He knew Alfred would be fine on his own, and he had a series of interviews himself the next day, but he didn't think it fair to leave such an honorable young man to doze by himself in an empty, lonely cafe on a dark street, where even the streetlights flickered and no cars came rumbling by.

It's probably only insomnia. Many must have it, Hemingway had written at the end of "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place." And maybe many did have insomnia (certainly not Alfred), but since he had first read the story, Arthur had thought Hemingway meant loneliness instead. With his own lonesomeness filling in, he couldn't leave Alfred to fall into the hole he was pulling Arthur himself out of. Those who lived in the light didn't deserve even a second of such darkness. The world didn't exist to procure justice, nor life to be fair, but he could do some little act of kindness to make it right for one person for one moment.

Arthur took out a notepad from his breast pocket and began to write.

They could both stay late in this clean, well-lighted place.

---

To Francis's surprise, Alfred's flier-bombing campaign worked. The publicity from Allistor eased his path, of course (plus the tabloids enjoyed printing the Scot's attacks on Arthur's popularity when they asked him why he'd endorse a cafe the Englishman had slammed), but even his damage control couldn't fix all of Arthur's rude interviews. Alfred's commitment to rising earlier than usual to make and deliver samples of Proust Parfaits to his neighbors and passersby at the park had helped, as had his constant calls to his old food service friends and computer science majors at Sacramento State. He'd even offered to pay out of pocket for some of their drinks and meals for those who complained that they couldn't afford to eat out (all of them).

And then people began to return. First came Elizabeta, who'd even managed to drag Roderich with her. Then the kids from Matthew's school—Tino, Berwald, Emil—showed up together one Friday afternoon. Even the weary tourists with their unfamiliar accents and shy giggles over the menu filtered in, like fish caught with the bait of Allistor's endorsement.

Alfred eventually had more than just the Awesome Oldies to wait on, and his small black book thickened with tips. A few tables stiffed him, of course—children of comic book villains, he called those people—but others left generous sums on their tables (and in dollars, too, unlike Allistor's wad of pounds), sometimes even more than thirty percent. His favorites, of course, were the old guys who left fivers for $2 Franz coffees, neatly folding the bills beneath their coffee mugs. Mattie always picked those tips up with extra care before he handed them off to Alfred after clearing tables and wiping them clean.

He'd returned to work as soon as the customers started trickling back in—with no customers, he really had no work to do: no tables to clean, no dishes to wash—as did Arthur, now having people to seat and drink orders to fill. Once he finally figured out the table chart, that is.

"Artie, I know you're still learning and stuff—and yes, you're too smart for this, I know—but tables 11 and 12 flip sections when we get four people on the floor."

"Rule number five. And of course I know that."

"Then why did you just double-seat section three?"

"I did not. Table 12 is in section four now."

Alfred said nothing but reached over Arthur, flipped the table chart to the page for a four-person floor, and then pointed to table 12, shaded in red like the rest of section three. He then tiptoed away, his hand failing to hold in his giggles.

Arthur had also managed to excel at standing anywhere but at the host podium when customers came in. Alfred didn't mind seating guests in his place, of course, but Arthur had, whether by accident or on purpose, become ignorant of the actual job of a host. He did try, though after he quadruple-seated one of the new waitresses, Alfred thought the time might have come for him to stop trying.

"Hey, Arthur, we're not that busy right now. You wanna try taking that table in the corner by the window for me? They're just two teenagers—they won't be hard at all."

Arthur's eyes widened a little as Alfred tossed him a notepad and pen, but he said nothing and strode over to the two girls sitting in a booth with their menus closed.

"What do you want to eat?" he asked.

Alfred leaned on the podium, hands in his pockets, waiting to see what would happen. Never in his life had he greeted someone like that. He'd offer some pleasantries first, chat about the weather, ask if the two young ladies had seen something they'd like to order. He'd worked long enough in food service to know never to rush girls with hairspray-encrusted curls and bright pink tank tops and matching Uggs.

One of them raised an eyebrow and stared up at Arthur.

"Well, you're pushy."

"Don't say that," the other said. "I could eat him right up with a spoon."

She grinned.

"Pardon me?"

"He's even got that accent," said the girl. "Like, wow. Talk about dreamy."

"Calm down, he's not worth fussing over," said the first teen. "Um, how 'bout Arthur Cakeland. Surely you can get me some of that."

"Are you implying that I can't do my job properly?"

"Well, whadda you think?"

"Ooh, that's a good idea. I want some Arthur Cakeland, too. After that super cute author—"

"Hey, gals." Alfred stepped in front of Arthur, elbowing him out of the way. "I'm so, so sorry, but the Arthur Cakeland we made this morning was a little burned. All black on the edges and stuff. Trust me, you wouldn't want it."

He glanced at Arthur out of the corner of his eye.

"How about we give you a few more minutes to find something else you'd like better, huh?"

The first girl rolled her eyes and flipped her menu open again so fast Alfred swore his hair flew up. He gulped and took two large steps back, motioning for the author to follow him.

"What the hell was that?" Arthur asked once Alfred had half-led, half-tugged him away to the kitchen.

"Look, dude." He ran his hands through his hair. "I can't believe I didn't even think of this. I'm an idiot."

"We all knew that already, thanks. What are you talking about?"

"Those two girls. They either recognized you or were about to."

"And you couldn't have thought of a better excuse to get me out of there than that Francis burned the cake?"

"I always burn it," said Francis over the whir of the mixer. "It suits you."

"Never mind him," said Alfred. He pulled on Arthur's sleeve to keep his attention. "Damn, I don't know how I missed thinking that people would recognize you. It probably would have been fine if you were a host—people don't look at their host's face twice unless it's to complain about wanting a booth instead of a table. But if you're a waiter? Everyone'll know who you are. No one could miss those—"

"Number three." Arthur frowned, drawing even more attention to his unmentionables.

"Right. Right. I meant no one would confuse you for someone else."

Francis snickered as he piped white frosting onto a batch of vanilla cupcakes. Alfred wanted nothing more than to snitch one, but that was beside the point.

"But wouldn't that help business?" asked Arthur. "If people knew I worked here."

"I'd like to think so." Alfred started tapping the hard cover of his black book. Dollar bills peeked out of it like little children curled beneath covers. "But—I mean, given what's happened before, the last time people knew you were here—like, it's just not a good idea."

"Okay." Arthur nodded. "I much prefer that such people don't pester me."

"What, people who want to eat you up with a spoon?"

"Oh do shut up, Alfred."

After that, Alfred decided to have Arthur do odd jobs with Matthew. He didn't know why he hadn't considered that job for him in the first place. They could have their afternoon book club while they cleaned tables or ran errands or stocked the kitchen for Francis.

Alfred put his hands akimbo and grinned.

He wasn't that bad at this running a business thing after all. In fact, given how his plan dovetailed with Arthur's, he might have been better than he realized.

Arthur had been waiting for a chance to talk to Matthew again. With Francis now having Matthew come sit with him in the kitchen after school instead of letting him read at his booth—the one that had belonged to him de facto since Al had opened the cafe—leaving him less time to chat with Arthur. But with the two of them working together to scrub the rough blue cleaning rags in gray water that smelled of chlorine and stroll down to the supermarket in the sunny mid-March weather for sugar, they could chat.

"Alfred says you like to write," said Arthur.

They stopped at the last intersection before the cafe. Alfred tended to race across it even when the orange DO NOT CROSS hand glowed, as though reaching out to slap him for crossing at the wrong time. Matthew shook his head. What a tragic turn to a life of crime.

"I do sometimes," Matthew said. He shifted the plastic bag holding flour and a cracked case of strawberries to his other hand. Arthur had offered—more like insisted—to carry it, but Matthew had picked up the sack without a word. It didn't weigh that much. Really. And he couldn't let Arthur take it.

"What sorts of things do you like to write? I always wrote poetry when I first started."

"You wrote poetry?"

Given what he'd read of Arthur's books, Matthew had guessed the man had studied verse. Even his prose had some sort of meter to it, a precise and tight rhythm. He hadn't, however, expected him to admit to writing poems.

"Of course." The light changed, and they crossed the street, Arthur matching Matthew's quick pace and breathing in the stale, warm air. "Sometimes I still do. The best authors learn from poetry."

In Arthur's case, Matthew thought, poets didn't teach how to excite or thrill readers. But he nodded up at the author all the same.

"I write whatever comes to mind, I guess. Whatever I'm thinking about."

And it wasn't a lie. Just not the whole truth. Matthew didn't know if Arthur wanted to hear the entire story, anyway. Snippets would suffice.

"I'm more of a reader, really—"—that was true—"—and I don't write that much. Or even that often."

"Still, you write," said Arthur, smiling. "Do you enjoy it?"

"Yeah." Sort of. Sometimes. When he wrote about anything but—"It's fun."

They stopped in front of the cafe, where Alfred had begun to tape up the "Vote for Us: Details Inside!" sign, even though they hadn't yet heard whether anyone had nominated Nineteen-Eighty FOOD for the award. Alfred had tried, only to find out neither employees nor owners could nominate their own restaurants. Matthew admired his determination. He waved back at Alfred through the glass and knew that if he could bring himself to love someone, it would be his brother. Perhaps he did love him, deep down, but couldn't say so, neither to himself nor to Al. His heart sank a bit.

"Matthew?" Arthur put a hand on his arm. He jerked away on instinct—he'd brushed the burn scars—and tried to apologize upon seeing the author's face. His words stuck somewhere between his gut and his mouth.

"I'm sorry," said Arthur. Matthew's eyes widened. No, Arthur wasn't supposed to apologize. Matthew had hurt his feelings, not the other way around. He, not Arthur, bore the strain of guilt. "I should have asked first. I just wanted to know if I could read your writing."

Now the words flooded out of the logjam in his mouth.

"No—I mean, I don't think you'll really want to—since it's not that good or anything—"

"Oh, come now, Matthew. I'm a writer. True authors write horrendous first drafts. Although mine are a bit above the curve, of course. Writers know what terrible prose looks like more than anyone else because they write so much of it." He bent down a little, though he and Matthew were the same height. "Please. I'd like to see it. Even just a page or two. No one else has to see it."

Matthew turned to look back at Alfred. He smiled and whistled as he worked, moving a little this way and that, as if dancing to some tune bouncing around in his head.

"Okay. Okay, but just a little."

He pulled the door open and held it for Arthur, but the man was already hanging on to the door from behind.

"Go ahead." Arthur stepped aside, held out his hand, and gestured for Matthew to go in first. A moment later, loosening his vicegrip on the bag in his hand, he obliged.

"Thank you, Matthew," he said, and Matthew didn't fight back against his kindness.

Since Francis wasn't in the kitchen, Matthew had no problems retrieving the red notebook from his backpack and bringing it to Arthur, who was sitting with a hot cup of tea (what else?) at their usual booth.

"Ah, yes, thank you." Arthur stopped with his cup halfway to his mouth to take the book. "Is there one in particular you want me to read?"

"Um, I think the one that begins partway through—no, no not there. You can't read that part." Matthew took the book back. Arthur's expression didn't change; in fact, he almost relaxed a little more, taking another drink of his tea while Matthew flipped through the pages. "Okay, this one. I, well, I wouldn't know, but I think you'd like that one better."

Arthur smiled. Matthew wished he could fall out of the booth.

Alfred hollered and tried to pick them both up.

"We did it, guys. It's gonna happen. We got this." He jumped up and down like a hyper puppy on a pogo stick. "They're coming they're coming they're coming next week."

"Huh?" Matthew wriggled in Alfred's embrace. Arthur just sat there, smile souring by the minute.

"The SacMag people. We got nominated. They're coming next week to check us out. This is happening." He let go of Arthur and Matthew and ran his hands through his hair, grazing his glasses. "This is actually happening holy shit it's actually happening. We gotta go tell Francis. We gotta go tell Francis like right now—come on, guys."

Matthew couldn't say no, and so he followed Alfred out the door to the corner where Francis was stamping out a cigarette. Neither brother noticed Arthur had not joined them.

---

With a sigh, Arthur put one hand on the side of his face and shut off his lamp with the other.

He shouldn't have taken the notebook home. He should have just given it back to Matthew when he'd read the story the boy had let him read. He should have told him that, while the writing was mediocre, it had some promise if someone helped him smooth out its kinks—a plot hole here, a poor choice of dialogue there—and he'd be glad to mentor him.

He knew better than to snoop, to read the forbidden pages. Matthew would notice the notebook was missing. He'd worry. He'd stress all night. It'd take over his mind until he found his treasure again. Arthur didn't have an idea of how to explain himself.

Nor did he know how to explain to Francis what he'd read in the latter half of the notebook.

Now he knew. He knew why Matthew shied away from his hand on his arm, refused to call Francis his father, buried his nose in books. Why he chose Alice in Wonderland as his shelter of choice, Matthew had not explained in the stories, but one tiny detail in the midst of this enormous story that had gnawed him to pieces didn't matter.

Arthur didn't sleep much that night. He arose, groggy and sweaty, at five and typed a few pages of his newest book on his Macbook, the keys seeming to stick together, before dressing for work. He walked to the cafe, hoping that the warm air and quiet walk and concrete crunching beneath his feet would help him think of what to tell Francis. Would help him gather his courage. But nothing could prepare him to stand in front of the man in the kitchen, having convinced Alfred to go buy him some more tea at the store ("I'll even give you a few pounds for it." "Dude, you're forgetting this little thing known as American currency." "Oh, just take it and go.").

"And what could you possibly want with me, Monsieur Kirkland?" Francis smirked.

"I know you won't believe me, but this is serious." Arthur held up the notebook. He couldn't tell from Francis's appearance whether he recognized it. "Matthew writes stories. He wanted me to read some. And I discovered something in there."

"Oh, really now?"

"Don't mess around, Francis." Arthur took a deep breath and softened his voice. "Please. Not now. I know, Francis. I know what happened to Matthew as a child."

Francis's eyes widened and his lips drew together in a harsh line.

"How?"

"He wrote stories about it, Francis. He wrote more than a few stories. And they're graphic."

"I don't believe you."

"You don't want to read them, Francis. You really don't."

Even as he spoke, Francis snatched the notebook out of Arthur's hands and flipped through it. He paused when he reached the last few pages.

Then, he dropped the book.

The Frenchman leaned against the wall and put his face in his hands. For a moment, he didn't move; then, he let his hands slide down his cheeks to his jaw.

"He wrote about it," he said, staring at the notebook on the floor, one hand clutching the doorframe. "He wrote stories about it."

"Yes." Arthur paused to clear his throat and think. "I'm sorry, I just… I don't know what to say."

Francis shook his head. "No. Don't say anything. But—did he write anything about me in the other stories?"

Arthur paused.

"Tell me, Kirkland. Don't you dare lie to me. Don't you fucking dare."

"He mostly wrote about his biological parents," he said. He picked up the notebook and clenched it between his fingers. "But he also wrote that he thinks you want to send him back to the foster home."

Francis looked up. He tried to speak but stopped. He laughed a little.

And then he began to cry.

"I don't care what they think or what he thinks or what anyone thinks. He's my son, Arthur. He's my son and those people hurt him." He wiped his eyes and took a breath that came out as a shaky tumult of words. "They hurt him and all I want to do is make it better but he won't let me."

"I know, Francis. I know."

"No. You don't. Matthew's not your child. What would you know about him or how they hurt him?"

Arthur sat down in a chair near the door, all argument gone out of him. Everything had unfolded so fast, but he was trying to understand how he didn't catch it sooner. The tired eyes. The anxiety. The distance from everyone and everything.

He didn't like Francis, but now he found himself seeking the perfect words to comfort him. And the right way to help Matthew.

"Francis, you said Matthew was seventeen. When did you adopt him?"

Francis clutched the edge of the counter and held his hand over his mouth. Arthur put his hand in his pocket and, slowly, took out his handkerchief and offered it to him. Francis looked at him and, just as slowly, took the soft cloth.

"It was less than a year ago. He'd just turned seventeen." He wiped the wet streaks running down his face and then rubbed his eyes with one unsteady hand.

"He'd just turned seventeen," he said again. "I knew I wanted to be his papa. He was so sweet and so kind. I wanted to love him. I wanted to give him everything in the whole world. And then I found out he wouldn't take it. Can you even imagine that?"

"But you did give him everything."

"Aren't you listening? I tried and he won't take it."

"Francis, you said he was seventeen when you adopted him. Do you know what would have happened if you'd decided to adopt a child a year later? He'd have aged out of the system by then. He could have wound up on the street, homeless, with nowhere to go. Don't you see, Francis? You saved his life. You did give him everything."

Arthur did not cry. He was not a man of tears. He prided himself on his stiff upper lip. But even he had a rush of warmth into his face and a sudden dampness in his eyes.

Francis's shoulders slumped, and he said nothing for some time, standing still and twisting the handkerchief around his fingers. The two men listened to the soft hum of the dishwasher, murmuring like a lullaby crooned in a dark night. Arthur tapped his feet on the tile, elbows on his knees. He closed his eyes and wished he could fall asleep there. But he had to get up. He couldn't stay in the warm sheets and soft mattress of his peaceful thoughts. He had to get up. He had to solve this with Francis.

"You need to talk to him." Arthur stood up and walked over to the Frenchman. "You two need to have this conversation as father and son. Have you ever talked about what happened to him?"

Francis shook his head. "I thought it would hurt him. And that was the last thing I wanted. I could never hurt my son."

Arthur nodded and let him continue.

"I knew, though. I saw—I saw some of his scars. And the social workers told me his story. He'd been there in foster care for years. Some of the families took him in, but they didn't last."

"You're all he has to hang on to. You have to make up for all that."

"Never mind he likes you better, clearly." Francis glared. Arthur held his ground. "He'll smile at you and talk to you. He'll let you read his work. He trusts you."

"But you said it yourself, yeah? You're his father. I can pretend if I want, but I'll never take your place." Arthur tucked the damp handkerchief back into his pocket. "But I do have one question."

"What?"

"Why Alice in Wonderland? Do you know about that book?"

"That. book." Francis grit his teeth. "I guess his parents liked to read, too. Had a whole library. When they took Matthew away, that was the book standing on his father's nightstand. The bookmark in it was his, too. He took them both and hasn't given them up since. Though he's never gone past the bookmark as far as I—no. Don't tell me he finished the book, Arthur. Please."

Arthur only shook his head.

Francis blanched.

"I'm not Alfred—thank heaven—but I think you should have today off," said Arthur. "Pick up Matthew from school."

"He won't ride with me anymore. He walks himself to and from school."

"Then walk home with him. Spend the afternoon with him. And then talk to him. Take care of him. You have to work through this together."

Francis sighed and put his hands in his pockets. Arthur's body wanted nothing more than to collapse to the floor. He'd expected a difficult, hard conversation, but not one this tiring.

Alfred popped into the kitchen a short time later with Arthur's tea. He took it and set it on the shelves off the prep area with the other boxes of PG Tips. Alfred and Francis spoke in soft tones that mixed with the swirling of water in the dishwasher, and Arthur again wanted to lean against the shelf and let the peace he felt settle deep within him.

And while Alfred opened the cafe short-staffed and Arthur sat down with his Macbook and a profound inner silence he couldn't yet put to paper, Francis returned home and sat on the couch, thinking. That afternoon, he drove to Matthew's white-brick school and took him home, setting his backpack down beside the door before they went for a walk to the park. Francis spread out the rough holey blanket Antonio had given him a few years ago, and they ate cheese and crackers and little sandwiches he'd made that morning. College students jogged in the park and moms pushed strollers and children played fetch with their dogs. Francis asked Matthew about school, and he talked about English and French and calculus until the sun went down in rays of pink and the streetlights came on. His dry skin caught like Velcro on the blanket as he ran his fingers along the worn fringe. The dusk air grew thick and heavy, promising rain and a good night for sleeping through safe under piles of blankets and snuggled up to warm pillows.

Francis smiled and told Matthew they'd better go home unless they wanted to get rained on, and he didn't want that, did he, dear heart, and Matthew said no and so they returned to the apartment. And Francis sat back down on the limp couch cushions and motioned for his son to sit down beside him. He smiled again.

"I want to talk to you, mon coeur," he said.

And he took Matthew's hand.