Chapter 3

Arthur could barely believe his own abilities. For days now, Arthur had been sketching, painting, cursing, and painting again. But the thought of seeing Alfred filled him with such determination that he could barely believe it was him. Arthur had always been an efficient worker, but never like this.

"I'm so close," Arthur whispered as he grabbed a smaller brush to add more texture to Alfred's hair. He wanted it to look just like he had seen it that day, unkempt and beautiful. Every little detail brought him back to that day in the park, and the more he went back to that day, the more he longed to go back to it, even if it was just for a moment. To see Alfred, actual Alfred, smiling and laughing in the sunshine, would be wonderful.

Arthur was determined to finish the eyes last. Alfred's eyes had captivated him from the moment he peered into them, and he wanted them to not only be the first thing he saw that day, but the last thing he painted.

Painting had its side effects though, and Arthur grumbled through a splitting headache. He hadn't bothered to sleep much, and the smell of paint overwhelmed his senses. He'd done long, tiring painting sessions before, but never this grueling. The cold attic made his body shiver, and some of the time he had to go downstairs to make himself a warm cup of tea. He would hold his hands on the outside of the cup gently to warm his frozen fingers. Still, all of that didn't matter to Arthur as much as his painting did. None of it mattered as much as Alfred.

Arthur had never minded being alone before. Being alone meant he could do things his own way. It meant he could wake up late, make as much tea as he wanted, and paint until the sun rose in the morning. It meant peace, and order.

But Alfred meant something else. Alfred meant joy, and adventure, and a rosy-cheeked dance in the candlelight. It meant waking up early, but staying in bed to hear Alfred's heart beat in his chest. It meant holding hands, but only because if he didn't, he might lose him in the crowds as he rushed through with a smile on his face and a chuckle in his throat. It meant happiness. Alfred meant love.

Arthur sighed. He wanted to see Alfred so badly, and not just in a dream. He wanted to go back to the park, and bump into him again. Maybe if he could do it again, he would of asked Alfred to stay longer.

Arthur had never noticed how truly lonely he was until he was without Alfred, and it hurt him deeply to know that he might never see him ever again.

-Small time skip-

Arthur could barely believe his eyes. In front of him, smiling, was a perfect painting of Alfred. Every small detail, his hair, his eyes, his jacket, they were perfect. Arthur almost felt like he could touch him.

"You did well," Alfred said suddenly. Arthur glanced around confusedly. Where has the sound come from? To his shock, he looked back and noticed the painting move. Arthur screeched, falling off his stool and onto the hard wood floor.

"What was that?" Arthur moaned, rubbing his sore behind and scowling. Arthur was sure that the lack of sleep and smell of paint must be getting to him. After all, it had been days, and Arthur wasn't looking very good. His hair was a mess, and he was covered in paint. "I better take a shower and rest," muttered Arthur to himself. He put down his brush properly after it had fallen on the floor, and hung up his apron. Arthur reached the door of the attic and sighed. It's almost finished, Arthur thought. He could almost picture Alfred, smiling, as he stared at the painting in awe and appreciation, and the thought made him smile.

After a relaxing bath and cup of tea, Arthur realized how truly tired he was. He had almost fallen asleep in the bath, and now he felt like he hadn't slept in weeks. Arthur collapsed onto a pile of blankets and pillows and smiled. He missed Alfred. It hurt to only have that one chance to see him, and no matter how many times Alfred appeared in his dreams, he still wasn't satisfied.

Soon, Arthur drifted off to sleep, and dreams of Alfred filled his brain with joy. Nothing was better, and it felt like, even if it was just for now, everything was perfect. But soon, Arthur awoke, and Alfred slipped once again from sight. No matter how many times it happened, it still hurt deeply.

Might as well get back to painting, Arthur thought. The sooner he finished the better. After grabbing a snack, Arthur trudged up the narrow stairway to the attic, humming to himself. When he finally opened the door however, what Arthur saw made him drop his food in shock.

"A-Alfred?" Arthur screeched, embarrassed that his voice had cracked while doing so. No, it had to be another dream. How else could Alfred be here, standing in front of his-

Arthur looked at the painting in shock. It was completely empty. No Alfred, no bomber jacket, nothing. It might as well have been an empty canvas. But how? Arthur was perplexed. None of this made any sense.

"Heya," Alfred answered happily. The look on his face made it impossible to tell exactly what he was thinking, which only made things worse for Arthur. "It's so good to see you. I missed you so much."

"I missed you too," Arthur replied confusedly. Something wasn't right. He had to find out if he was dreaming. The mirror. Arthur had read somewhere that in dreams, you can't see your own reflection. He dashed quickly past Alfred and looked into the mirror, and was disappointed to see, or, not see, that he wasn't there.

"You're not real," Arthur said trembling. "You're from the painting." His lip quivered, and tears filled his eyes. Just like last time, Arthur thought. You show up, and you leave, that's how it goes.

"You're right, I'm not," Alfred said sadly, fidgeting in his bomber jacket. "But believe me, I will see you. Don't give up."

"What good is there not to?" Arthur moaned. "Every time it's the same. But you're not real, I'll never see you again. I should just forget I ever saw you."

"No, please, don't forget me," Alfred pleaded. "I could never forget you, so please, just wait for me."

"How long long is that supposed to take," Arthur said. "Days, months, years? You're an American, Alfred. You came here for a trip, it's not like I'll just bump into you one day while at the market, complaining about eggs. You're not coming back."

"I am, please, just trust me," Alfred pleaded. The despair and helplessness on his face hurt Arthur's heart. Here was Alfred, the man of his dreams, and he couldn't even promise that he'd remember him. He felt absolutely terrible. Arthur knew that, in reality, he could never forget him, even if he tried.

"I-I trust you," Arthur replied. "I want to believe you Alfred, because if I didn't, I'd never feel the same again."

Alfred smiled. "I'll see you soon then," he said warmly. Arthur nodded, gulping down his sobs of loneliness. Just like every time. You tell me to trust you, and you leave.

Arthur awoke sobbing in his bed. Each new dream left a new sting, and it only made Arthur miss Alfred even more. Why couldn't he just forget about him? Arthur was sure it would hurt much less than losing him every night.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Arthur sighed deeply. It had to be Mrs. Johnson with another baked good. Even in his distressed state, the thought of Mrs. Johnson's delicious food lifted Arthur's spirit, and he quickly fixed himself up and ran downstairs, looking in the mirror in the front entry hall with disapproval. He had taken a bath, but his hair still looked like a mess. Regardless, Arthur opened the door.

No, this can't be. Wake me up, please.

"Uh, hey, Mr. Kirkland," said a familiar glasses bearing face. "It's Alfred, Alfred F. Jones."

Author's note: thanks for reading guys, I'm sorry this one took a while. I got sick, but I'm feeling better! Big thanks to those on Instagram for encouraging me!