"Welcome, Merry Christmas. Alfred's in the living room but he's still a little crabby so tread carefully."
"I can hear you Matthew!" A shout comes from around the corner.
"Good, then maybe you can lose the crankiness!"
"I'll lose the crankiness when you stop trying to treat me!"
"You knew the rules, you oaf! I come down to take care of your useless person and you become my willing guinea pig!"
In response there's just a wail of frustration and Matthew smiles slyly at his guests.
"I think I'll have him house trained by the end of the month."
Arthur tuts and gives Matthew a disapproving look, but it's hard to hide his amusement.
"Now, boys, there's no need for bickering."
"Ah, yes, petty arguments are to be forgotten for the holidays," Francis sings behind him, sweeping in to give Matthew a hug and looking meaningfully to Arthur.
"Except for with you, then how would I ever survive?"
Francis pouts but abandons it shortly to focus on doling out affection to Matthew. He murmurs something in French, Matthew attempts to hide a laugh, and Arthur takes it as his cue to stomp out of the room dramatically and leave them to their secrets.
"Alfred!" He rounds the corner and calls for the boy, looking for his Anglophone compatriot. "Where has Matthew stuffed you away?"
"I'm here, Arthur, rotting away until death embraces me."
Sure enough, when Arthur enters the small living room Alfred is lying on the couch covered by a heap of blankets except for where a thick cast runs down the length of his leg. He looks just a tad irate and a whole lot miserable.
"Oh, poor lad," Arthur tuts but can't help his smile. Alfred looks so much more like an angsty child when under the watchful mothering of his brother and influenced by a powerful cocktail of pain medications.
Christmas was supposed to be in Paris this year but a call from Matthew early Saturday morning called for a fast change of plans. Alfred, in his eternal gracefulness, had taken a nasty spill down a staircase departing from work on the Friday evening before Christmas and completely shattered his entire right leg. Matthew, in grudging loyalty to his brother, left Montreal immediately after receiving the call from the hospital and drove the nearly six hours south to New York where Alfred has been living for the past three months. A cracked femur, broken tibia, and an absolutely obliterated knee cap required Matthew to stay and care for his bearish brother until Alfred had to return to the hospital for surgery later in the month.
What that meant was that Christmas in Paris was canceled and required relocation to Alfred's tiny apartment in New York City. On the phone when Matthew broke the news he sounded profusely apologetic, probably himself disappointed to not fly to Europe for the holidays, but also for ruining their carefully laid plans. But Arthur insisted, firmly, that canceling a trip to Paris was perfectly alright.
So Arthur and Francis hopped on a plan, de Gaulle to JFK, early this morning to arrive in New York, also, early this morning. It took another hour drive via taxi to arrive at their destination, and they were properly exhausted, but excitement curbed any desire to pass out. They hadn't seen these boys since July.
"Now," Arthur starts. He hasn't delivered a proper condescending lecture in months and he's almost salivating in anticipation. "You're not being difficult for Matthew, are you? He's sacrificing a lot to care for you."
"God, he hasn't sacrificed any of his mothering tendencies! He won't stop prodding and poking, and he refuses to let me eat anything good! It's torture, cruel and unusual punishment to get his kicks! Unconstitutional! If I have to go one more minute without eating one of the Christmas cookies I know Matt keeps baking, I swear I'll mutiny." Alfred pushes his glasses off and onto his forehead then uses his wrist to dig deep at his eyes.
"Do you know what I think?" Francis strolls in with a smirk.
"What?" Alfred pulls his glasses back on and looks to Francis hopefully. Surely, a foodie of his caliber would never deny him Christmas staples.
"I think you are a whiner."
Alfred musters all his energy to look as disgusted and offended as possible.
"You don't know anything about me, Francis!"
"See?" Matthew says as he walks in. "Crabby."
Alfred groans, loudly.
"Belt up, Alfred. You're hardly in the Christmas spirit. You should thank Matthew for all he does for you," Arthur scolds.
"Bah humbug!" Alfred responds, childishly.
"Well, then," Arthur stands and brushes off imaginary dust on his pants. "I suppose we'll just celebrate without you." He glances at Francis and Matthew with a smirk and the three depart the living room, heading for the kitchen.
"I just pulled chocolate cookies out of the oven, they should be perfect for eating," Matthew sings as the leave.
Alfred wails.
Alfred remains grouchy for the remainder of the afternoon but they know better than to take much offense. Much of his belly aching is rooted simply in pain and, as Matthew repeats like a broken record, there's only so much medication Alfred can have. Luckily, Matthew promises his next dose is due within the hour and at that time Alfred generally falls into a blissful and quiet sleep.
In the meanwhile, they're gathered in the living room, only the glow from Alfred's small Christmas tree lighting their conversation. Francis' delicious dinner sits low in their bellies and they drink alcohol to pointedly annoy Alfred and his medically mandated sobriety (annoyance of each other is their collective specialty). They discuss painting and writing and winter and politics and the evening is generally warm with Christmas spirit.
"Arthur, tell the children about the woman on our flight over."
"Francis, they are not our children, as much as you want to pretend they are."
Francis grins and reaches for Matthew's arm, a happy flush on his face. The two are sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall to the left of the Christmas tree with plates of cookies at their feet. Arthur sits opposite of them, also on the floor, just in front of Alfred's stretched out legs as the last defense between the medicated boy and the sweets that taunt him.
"Well, I do not know about you, but dear Mathieu is practically my own flesh and blood."
"Just because you both speak French does not make you related," Arthur mumbles.
"Hey," Matthew returns, a grin also sliding onto his face. "You know nothing of our unbreakable bond!"
Arthur rolls his eyes as Francis twists his arms around Matthew, pleased with his response. Then Francis looks at Arthur over Matthew's shoulder, expectant look in his eyes.
"Oh, please. It was simply a woman who recognized me and got a little excited. That's all."
"'That's all'!" Francis laughs. "This woman attached herself to you! My poor Arthur was so flustered and embarrassed." He pulls his face into a serious scowl and attempts an imitation of Arthur's accent, "'Please, madam, I do have a flight to catch.' It was, truly, incredible to witness."
"Did you get her phone number?" Alfred asks from the couch.
"At least tell us you have her name so we can Google her," Matthew laughs.
"Hey, maybe she has a fan website! I would love to be in an Arthur Kirkland Fan Club, maybe I could be the President!"
"Now, boys, you know I have had that position claimed for years," Francis smirks at Arthur and the brothers let out a groan.
"Well," Arthur states flatly. "I'm glad we can all have fun at my expense."
"Oh, but my dear, what other fun is there to have?"
Arthur shoots Francis a glare, but there's no use. Francis is grinning, Matthew is laughing, and even Alfred has removed himself from pouting to smile and stick an uninjured toe into Arthur's scalp before he bats it away.
Arthur moves swiftly to change the topic and, before long, it has become late into the evening and their conversation dwindles from between four people to between three. As soon as Matthew notices Alfred's slowing eyelids he tuts and stands, walking to the kitchen and returning with colorful tablets.
"Al, you hoser," he flicks his brother's forehead for good measure. "It's time for night night."
"Don't tell me what to do, turd," Alfred grumbles, words slurred in sleep.
"'Turd'?" Matthew quotes as he hands Alfred a glass of water and the pills in his hand. "That's the best you can do?"
"I would appreciate if you didn't judge your dying and agonized brother."
"You're not dying," Arthur chimes in while picking up dishes off the floor.
"Says you!" Alfred retorts.
Matthew also moves to pick up a cookie tray off the floor but takes one off and hands it to Alfred.
"Merry Christmas, you ungrateful brat."
Alfred's eyes, as drowsy and unfocused as they are, light up and he reaches eagerly for the gift.
"Mattie," he says slowly. "You are my favorite identical twin brother."
Matthew rolls his eyes.
"I'm your only identical twin brother."
"Yeah, but I have lots of fraternal twins that still rank higher than you."
It's 23:00 already and the dishes are clean, the living room is picked up, and three of the four are ready to retire. Once he was given his long awaited pills Alfred was out within seconds and Matthew returned to the living room only to sigh. He pulled off his brother's glasses, briefly brushed his bangs aside, and pulled the blankets up to his chin. Oh well, another night sleeping of Alfred's comfortable bed instead of on the couch. Shucks.
Arthur and Francis have a small guest bedroom that serves them just fine. Odd for an apartment in New York City that they believe Alfred could afford, but as much as they want to ask questions, they don't. Arthur does think about it a little deviously, though. One day he'll stop footing the bill for all their plane tickets and then they'll see, they'll all see!
He says goodnight to Matthew, enveloping him in a hug then leaving him to Francis where the two talk for a while in French before Arthur can hear a pair of bonnes nuits. Francis comes in, settles to his left, and gives his traditional kiss and brush across the cheekbone of goodnight.
Their bed is not large, but it's cozy and warm. He figures both himself and Francis will sleep way beyond what is decent, only allowing jet lag to catch up with them when it is out of their conscious control. Tomorrow is Christmas Day but they have no real plans, just a few gifts to be distributed and most likely another day of stories at Arthur's expense or flaunting the mobility they all have but one.
He misses London, he always does, but he's here with his insufferable Frenchman and the two boys who are difficult to understand and silly in their ways but never fail to make Arthur feel immensely proud. London is his home and England is his loyalty but this family, the four souls of this apartment, are his purpose. Has maybe always been his purpose. When you are lost, no matter the time, I will find you, willing or unwilling, until time itself stretches into nothing at all.
He's between a life, dense and dark and full, and another, wide and blank and calm.
"Joyeux Noël, mon cher," Francis murmurs into his shoulder.
He doesn't respond right away, taking a moment to breathe, until Francis pinches him in the ribs.
"Merry Christmas, you twat."
Arthur is heavy, but with food and warmth.
C'est fini!
I know this premise has been done by every corner of this community but I had never seen it rooted in FACE and I wanted to give them some of my very old but persisting love. Always the fam that occupies the largest chunk of my heart.
Thanks for reading!