[FIC] Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship, 3/6
Francis doesn’t bring home women anymore, and he’s mildly surprised at how easy it is to give up that part of his life. Although the flirting hasn’t ceased (he hasn’t changed that much), it now never goes beyond thinly veiled innuendos and lingering, lusty gazes.
Instead, he seems to spend most of his time with Arthur, coordinating schedules and seeing him nearly every day. He tries to learn as much as he can about the other man, curious about his life, but Arthur is excruciatingly tight-lipped.
So he decides to bite the bullet one day after he drops Matthew off at Arthur’s house for another play-date by offering a bit of himself first: “I went to university in England, you know.”
Arthur arches an eyebrow, wonderfully sarcastic. “I’m surprised they let you in.”
“Oh, I assure you, they jumped at the chance to let someone as magnificent as me into your dreary country,” Francis teases.
Arthur rolls his eyes with a wearied “Don’t you have to be somewhere?” and Francis, laughing, exits his house.
He manages to pick up a few things here and there-learns that Arthur grew up in London, took the Tube to and from school, learned to play the baritone saxophone when he was twelve, and moved to America sometime after Alfred was born. It’s not enough, he thinks, not nearly enough, but each little tidbit brings him closer to Arthur, somehow.
Despite how little he knows about Arthur, or perhaps because of it, it’s gotten to the point where he honestly can’t remember how he (and Matthew) ever lived without him, which frightens him to an incredible degree. So he does what he does best and pushes the thought to the corners of his mind and tries to forget.
He doesn’t forget, though, not really, and the thought bubbles up to the surface every so often, gently insistent.
When this happens, he keeps himself busy until the thought flutters away, at least temporarily. Today, his distraction is in the form of a loud-mouthed, obnoxious man he likes to call one of his best friends.
“Been spendin’ a whole lot of time with Eyebrows lately,” Gilbert says, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Is he your new babysitter, or something?”
“Or something,” Francis mutters, sagging against the back of his couch. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply and slowly, heavy with alcohol.
Gilbert gives him a long, slow look through bloodshot eyes. He slams his nearly empty beer bottle onto the coffee table. “Okay. Out with it.”
“With what?” Francis blearily opens his eyes.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Gilbert accuses. He scrutinizes him once before something seems to click in his head, and he reclaims his bottle, taking another swig. “Ah. I get it. You like him?”
Francis very nearly drops his own bottle to the floor; somehow, he manages to wrap trembling fingers around the cold glass. He shakes his head, almost frantic. “No-no, no, no. No.”
“Hell, I’m not judging you.” Gilbert snorts. “I’ve got a questionable record, myself.”
“No,” Francis persists, determined to prove Gilbert wrong. “It’s-god, it’s Arthur. He’s just Matt’s friend’s dad. I flirt, I tease, but I don’t like the man. Come on, you know me.”
“I do know you,” Gilbert says, rolling his eyes. “That’s why I’m right.”
Francis starts to feel irritated. “Gil.”
Gilbert merely waves away his annoyance. “I don’t get what the big deal is. Your woman’s been gone a long time, and face it, she ain’t coming back, so just fuckin’ get a move on already!”
Francis’ expression grows dark. “Gil,” he repeats.
“You know if Toni were here he’d say the same thing,” Gilbert continues, blithely. “Hey, we should call him.”
“Gil, drop it,” Francis growls, fingers tightening around the neck of his bottle. Gilbert’s eyes flicker from his hand to the tension lined in his face; he shrugs, leans back, and rests his bare feet on the table.
“Tch, whatever.”
Francis is in a sour mood for the rest of the night.
Arthur finds that Francis doesn’t flirt with him anymore, not as much. Oh, he still gives him the deliberately charming smiles, but there’s a distinct absence of touching-he no longer brushes his shoulder against Arthur’s when he drops by to pick Matthew up after school, no longer leans in to whisper teasing comments in Arthur’s ear just to get a reaction.
Arthur actually misses it.
He feels as though he’s somehow gotten a divorce but has to keep up appearances for the sake of the children. He tells himself he doesn’t care so many times that the words don’t even sound like words anymore. Most of all, he’s furious, absolutely bloody furious, at the fact that he’s even letting this get to him in the first place.
“Dad, Jolly Ranchers!” Alfred insists, hefting up a large bag of candy and attempting to drop it into the cart. Arthur focuses his attention on him, frowning.
“You can’t have any.” He shakes his head firmly. “Put it back and come help me get the milk.”
“But Daaaaad,” Alfred whines, hugging the bag of candy more tightly to his chest.
“No, Alfred,” Arthur barks, impatient, “now put it back.”
Alfred huffs and stomps back to the aisle, dumping the bag unceremoniously on the shelf. When he returns to Arthur’s side, he mutters, “Mattie’s papa would have let me get it.”
This stops Arthur dead in his tracks; instead of blood, it suddenly feels like ice running through his arteries and veins. Alfred pouts, sticking out his lower lip and staring morosely at the floor.
He thinks of Francis and his natural charm, his pleasant and generous smiles. He immediately scowls. “Unfortunately for you, he’s not your papa,” he snaps, “so you’ll just have to put up with me.”
The screeching of the grocery cart is unnaturally loud against the backdrop of their silence. Alfred is still sulking, and Arthur doesn’t know what he’s even feeling anymore. He drops the carton of milk loudly into the cart.
He pauses at the corner of the dairy aisle, relishing in the feel of frigid air hitting his skin as the refrigerator doors open and shut. He squints at his shopping list, struggling to make sense of his own chicken-scratch. The letters refuse to congeal into legible words, and he crumples the list in defeat.
A slight hand slips into his, gripping onto his thumb. He looks down to see Alfred shivering. “Co-cold,” he stammers.
Arthur jumps, berating himself viciously as he ushers him away from the dairy aisle. He kneels down and rubs at Alfred’s arms. “I’m sorry, Al,” he murmurs, tired and frustrated with himself. He pulls him closer, massaging concentric circles down the middle of his back, mentally willing away the gooseflesh on his skin. “I’m so sorry. I’m-I’m sorry.” A myriad of images assaults his mind, of Alfred waiting for him at the daycare center well into the evening, of Alfred asking where’s Mommy, of Alfred bursting into his room in the middle of the night, wide-eyed and terrified of the storm. “I’m so sorry.”
Alfred pulls away, bewildered. “Daddy, they’re just Jolly Ranchers.”
Arthur chokes out a laugh and holds him for a few seconds longer.
He doesn’t know what compels him to ask Francis to come in for drinks when he shows up to take Matthew home.
He doesn’t know what compels Francis to accept.
It starts off as one of the most awkward drinking sessions Arthur’s ever had. Instead of raucous and wildly inappropriate conversation, there is only a discomfited hush, broken periodically by the steady swallowing of alcohol.
The silence is stifling, and it is probably what causes the words to fall clumsily and awkwardly out of Arthur’s mouth: “What happened to Matthew’s mother?”
Francis, to his credit, looks only mildly startled, and covers it quickly with a thoughtful, measured stare. “You first,” he says evenly.
Arthur fleetingly considers telling him to sod off, but stops himself with another mouthful of beer. The alcohol seems to loosen his tongue, seems to loosen his inhibitions, and he finds himself beginning to speak.
“She died after Alfred was born.” The words are monotonous on his tongue, a recitation of facts and nothing more. “Postpartum hemorrhage, they said.” The wry, bitter laugh of a man who’s loved and lost escapes him, and he stares expressionlessly at the fourth finger of his left hand-it is the same as ever, pale, stark, and empty. “We were going to be married.”
Francis doesn’t comment, just gazes down at his drink as though the alcohol is the most interesting thing in the world. Arthur takes the opportunity to remember late-night feedings and early morning work shifts, struggling to make ends-meet in order to buy diapers and formula. Remembers the rush of exhilaration in his bones when he bought the plane ticket to America. Remembers starting over from scratch in an entirely new world, Alfred in his arms.
Francis still hasn’t said anything. Just when Arthur thinks he’s reneged on his end of the deal, he speaks.
“She left shortly after Matthew was born. No idea where she went. Doesn’t call or anything.” Arthur soaks in the bitterness in his voice, soaks in the sight of Francis raising the bottle and throwing his head back, trying to catch the last drops of beer. He misses, and Arthur watches them trickle down his throat.
“And you know what?” Francis chuckles without humor, turning to face him with tired, tired eyes. “I would have married her, if she’d wanted it.”
Arthur silently slides over another bottle.
Their relationship is a tightrope walk, an accident waiting to happen. Both are adept at walking the fine, fine line; despite numerous close calls they somehow always manage to keep upright, balancing precariously with arms outstretched and trembling.
Here’s the thing: It doesn’t matter how good either of them are at the balancing act, because the rope is frayed and already beginning to split, and it’s only a matter of time before they fall.
Here’s another thing: There’s no safety net waiting for them at the bottom.
Matthew, strangely enough, is the one who snips that first thread.
They’re at a baseball game, Little League, and Arthur and Francis have wound up sitting next to each other. It’s a hot and humid day, and Arthur can feel drops of sweat forming on his forehead. As he reaches up to wipe them away, he steals a glimpse at the man next to him, who looks cool and comfortable and not at all bothered by the heat.
“You’re wearing black,” he says, aghast.
“Yes, what of it?” Francis asks, gracefully adjusting his sunglasses so that they perch just so on the bridge of his nose. Arthur is overcome with the urge to punch him in the face.
“How can you not be melting?” Arthur demands.
Francis has the audacity to laugh, and even pulls out a handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans. Arthur watches the action more closely than he should.
“That’s a secret,” Francis teases, handing him the handkerchief. Arthur scowls, but takes it and wipes the sweat off his face. He moves to hand it back to Francis, who quickly stops him.
“Keep it,” he says, and Arthur can’t help but feel like a silly teenage girl whose boyfriend just gave her his jacket to wear.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, he groans.
Matthew and Alfred make their way to their fathers five minutes before the game starts, bright-eyed with anticipation and excitement, effectively distracting Arthur from his thoughts.
“I’m gonna hit two home runs!” Alfred boasts. Arthur chuckles good-naturedly at his antics, brushing strands of hair away from his face.
“Be careful,” he tells him.
Beside them, Francis gives Matthew encouraging words and a gentle, reassuring smile. The sight of it somehow makes Arthur warm all over, but he attributes that to the sultry heat of the weather. As Matthew moves past to go out into the field, Arthur calls him back.
“Your collar,” he explains, straightening it with a deft tug of his fingers. He rolls his eyes. “I’m surprised your father didn’t catch it.”
Francis opens his mouth, presumably to say something in his defense, but everything becomes irrelevant, moves in slow-motion, seems to come to a halting, gripping stop as the coach calls Matthew’s name and Matthew murmurs an indistinct, absentminded, “Thank you, Daddy,” and moves away.
The game starts amid loud cheers from the parents as the first pitch is thrown. Minutes that feel like hours trickle by until Arthur finally turns to Francis, only to find the same pale, stricken expression mirrored on his face.
“Matthew, do you want a mother, sometimes?” Francis sits at the edge of his bed, watching him carefully.
Matthew returns his gaze, searching his expression. Francis knows what he’s doing: he’s trying to read his face in order to figure out what answer to give. Francis shakes his head, shifting to sit and lean against the headboard. Matthew instinctively moves, turning on his side. In the soft lamplight, his eyes are wide with anxiety.
“Tell me the truth. I won’t be mad, I promise.”
Matthew’s fingers lock around the blankets in an iron grip. “Sometimes,” he whispers. “But, Papa, we’re okay. Just the two of us, we’re okay.”
“Of course we’re okay,” Francis soothes, rubbing at his shoulders. “But, I just-well. I just worry about you. With the women I used to bring home, for example… I never realized-”
“Most of them were nice,” Matthew says, hurriedly, clutching his father’s hand.
“All of them should have been,” Francis immediately retorts, heatedly. He raises another hand to his head, rubbing at his temples. “Are we really okay, Matthew? Your friends at school… with mothers and fathers… it doesn’t bother you?”
“No,” Matthew answers, and Francis knows he’s being honest. “Alfred doesn’t have a mom, and he’s fine.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Francis smiles fondly at the thought of the energetic, bubbly little boy. Soon thereafter, he thinks of his father, scowling and foul-tempered, but with an undeniable softer side. “And his father-he’s kind to you?”
“Oh, yes!” Matthew nods, suddenly enthusiastic. “He makes very yummy tea and his scones aren’t so great, but he’s so nice, and he puts on music when we come over, and I like him very much, Papa, don’t you?”
My son is in love with Arthur “Eyebrows” Kirkland, Francis realizes belatedly, stunned.
“You do like him, right?” Matthew worries his bottom lip.
“Yes, of course.” Francis is quick to reassure him. “I-well, before I let you get to sleep, let me just ask you one more question.”
Matthew blinks at him, waiting. Francis can’t help but remember his small voice, calling Arthur Daddy without even thinking, the action natural and easy as breathing.
He falters, changing his mind at the last second. “Should we go on a picnic tomorrow?” he suggests, cheerful.
Matthew beams.
“Damn it, are you even listening to me?”
Arthur blinks, staring at Lovino’s angry face. Right, he thinks, work.
“Of course,” he says, hastily, “potatoes are the abomination of all carbohydrates.”
Lovino snorts. “Nice try.” He narrows his eyes. “I emailed you my article for the week, haven’t heard back from you. No lectures on dangling prepositions this time?”
“Oh, lord,” Arthur groans. “Right, right. The review for the Italian restaurant that opened up on Fifth. How was it?”
“A fucking disgrace,” Lovino snarls. “Serving pizza doesn’t automatically make you Italian, goddamn it.”
His rant goes on for a good seven minutes, and Arthur drifts off, feeling aches in his joints and a throbbing in his head. He thinks of Matthew calling him Daddy in the baseball field, of Alfred asking when is Mattie’s dad coming over and is he bringing croissants, of Francis and his runaway girlfriend, pensive and morose over cheap bottles of beer in his living room.
“…and you’re not listening to me again, are you?” Lovino says flatly, looking distinctly unamused.
“I think I’m coming down with something,” Arthur mutters, shaking his head violently.
Lovino scowls. “With the way you’ve been daydreaming, it’s like you’re lovesick.”
Arthur chokes on his spit, and sends his co-worker a fiery glare, indignant. “I-I am not-”
But Lovino’s already standing, clearly bored. “Yeah, tell it to someone who cares. Clearly you’re too busy thinking about whatever, so I’m off.” He leaves Arthur’s office and saunters down to his cubicle. Arthur watches him go with irritation.
“I am not lovesick,” he tells himself, disgusted by the very thought.
Halfway through his second attempt at editing Lovino’s article, his cell phone buzzes on the table, effectively distracting him from his task. He reads the message:
I can pick the boys up this afternoon.
Funny, how receiving a text from Francis worsens his headache even further. He slowly types out a reply and sends it.
Okay. Thanks.
He stares down at his screen, waiting for a reply. Although, isn’t that silly? It’s quite apparent that the conversation has ended, and further messages would be completely unnecessary.
It seems that Francis has the same idea in mind. His phone remains disturbingly quiet for the rest of the afternoon.
When he finally decides he’s done for the day, he clocks out two hours earlier than normal, three p.m. sharp, and drives home in a daze. His head is pounding, his throat is sore, and his voice is halfway gone. He makes himself a cup of tea before collapsing on his sofa, plugging his iPod into the speakers and letting the soft music wash over him.
He’s asleep in a matter of minutes.
Francis rings the doorbell three times and stands outside the door for a solid five minutes. No one answers. He frowns.
“Your father’s car is in the driveway, so he must be home, right?” He looks down at Alfred, who seems puzzled.
“Spare key?” the little boy suggests, rummaging through a pewter flower pot until his fingers close around a metal key. He presents it to Francis triumphantly.
Francis unlocks the door, ushering both boys in and shutting the door quietly behind him. He can hear the faint sounds of music coming from the living room, and moves in that direction, intent on investigating.
Alfred and Matthew get there before him, hands pressed over their mouths to keep quiet. Francis cocks an eyebrow at the gesture, and Alfred whispers, “I think Daddy’s sick.”
Francis’ gaze flickers briefly onto the couch before he replies, “Why don’t you two go to the kitchen? I’ll make you both something to eat.”
The pitter-patter of feet is his only answer, and he finally moves closer to the couch, his sock-clad feet making only the barest noise against the carpet. He earns himself a clearer view of the sleeping man, whose face is flushed with fever. The right side of his face is sitting in a pool of his own drool.
It’s disgusting and completely unattractive, but Francis can’t help but think that it’s one of the most adorable things he’s ever seen.
It seems only natural to slip his phone out of his pocket and turn on the camera to zoom in on Arthur’s face. The camera makes a satisfying click as he takes the picture.
Strictly for blackmail purposes, of course.
Arthur emerges from his fever-induced sleep to the smell of chicken noodle soup and the sound of laughter. He thinks he’s still dreaming until the clatter of silverware jolts him out of the haze, and he throws off his blankets.
This gives him pause. Blankets?
And music? He turns his head to find that his iPod is still plugged into the speakers, playing something slow and gentle.
He gingerly gets onto his feet and slowly makes his way towards the kitchen. He’s still nauseous, but the nap seems to have done him good. As he passes the door, he notices two extra pairs of shoes, and grows oddly nervous.
Francis ladles out a few spoonfuls of broth onto a bowl, humming to the song playing in the background. Alfred is smiling widely, chattering on about the events of his day. Matthew is the first to see him hovering in the doorway, and waves shyly.
Alfred turns. “Hi, Dad! Feeling better?”
“Yes, yes,” Arthur says, distracted. The sight of Francis cooking in his kitchen, wearing his apron and feeding their children seems to do strange things to his heart. Peculiar, indeed. “What-what are you doing here?”
“Surely you didn’t expect me to leave Alfred alone with an incapacitated parent, did you?” Francis winks, and places a bowl of soup on the table. “Come, join us.”
He does so, albeit a little confusedly, and takes a spoonful of soup. It’s warm and undoubtedly delicious, soothing his aching throat. He glances up only to see Francis watching him.
“Is it good?” he asks.
Arthur wants to lie and tell him it’s the worst thing he’s ever tasted, but somehow can’t bring himself to do it. Maybe it’s the fact that it really is one of the most delicious things he’s ever eaten. Maybe it’s the fact that both Alfred and Matthew are watching him with wide eyes, waiting for his response. Maybe he’s just tired.
“Very,” he replies, and blames the fluttering in his stomach at Francis’ answering smile on his fever.
“Say ahh.”
The look of malice Arthur shoots him is oddly endearing. “I can take my own medicine, thanks,” he hisses, voice hoarse, and reaches for the spoon.
“You’ll spill,” Francis warns, and Arthur’s hand freezes in the air. The cherry red syrup clings precariously to the edges of the metal spoon. Alfred frowns.
“Daddy, you have to take your medicine,” he lectures.
“See? Even Alfred says so.” Francis smirks.
“A spoonful of sugar-” Matthew begins, trying to be helpful.
“Helps the medicine go down!” Alfred cuts him off, bouncing on the balls of his feet, absolutely delighted with the reference. “Ooh, I have an idea! Let’s watch Mary Poppins! We have it on DVD. You wanna watch it, Mattie? Daddy really likes the lady that plays her. He thinks she’s pretty.”
Arthur pointedly avoids Francis’ smirk. “Don’t touch anything,” he admonishes the children. “Wait for me, I’ll-agh.” Francis takes the opportunity to jam the metal spoon roughly in his mouth, and enjoys the annoyed glare he receives for it.
“Sit with the boys, make sure they don’t break your TV,” he suggests. “I’ll wash this off.”
The sound of retreating footsteps signals Arthur’s exit, and Francis lets the warm water run over his hands. He dries his hands on a towel, takes quick strides to the living room, and makes himself comfortable between Arthur and the armrest.
“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” Arthur mutters.
Francis chuckles. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I promise.”
Arthur snorts.
Francis immerses himself in the movie, humming along occasionally to the music, and when the boys start belting out “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” at the top of their lungs, he joins them without a qualm. Beside him, Arthur huffs in mock annoyance, but Francis only elbows him playfully. Predictably, Arthur gifts him with a scowl.
At some point during the movie, Francis becomes aware of a not entirely unpleasant weight settling against his shoulder. In the flickering light of the television, he glimpses Arthur’s face, eyes shut, lashes dark against his cheeks. He checks on the children, who are both enraptured with the film. He shrugs, as if to say, what can he do, and settles back against the cushions.
Three times, Arthur’s head slips off his collarbone, lolling at an uncomfortable angle. And each time, without even thinking, Francis cradles his jaw in the palm of his hand and rests his cheek back against his shoulder.
Two hours later, the movie ends, and as the credits begin to roll, Francis carefully disengages himself from the sleeping man. He rests Arthur’s head against one of the couch pillows, and peers over at the two boys only to find that Matthew is fast asleep and Alfred is not far behind.
He makes sure Alfred brushes his teeth and washes up properly, tucks him into bed, and says goodnight.
“Do you think Dad’ll be better tomorrow?” Alfred asks, fighting off sleep.
“I’m sure he will be,” Francis soothes. “Still, I’ll pick you up in the morning and drop you off at school, okay?”
“Okay,” A barely audible murmur. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Francis says, turning off the light and closing the door behind him. He returns to the living room, greeted by the sight of Matthew curled up next to Arthur on the couch. He is somehow entranced by the picture, and almost hates to lean forward and lift Matthew into his arms.
Matthew doesn’t wake, but Arthur shifts. Francis reaches for a discarded blanket on the floor and drapes it over him with one hand. Arthur opens bleary, half-conscious eyes.
“What’re you doing?” he asks through a yawn.
“Going home,” Francis replies, softly. “Don’t worry about tomorrow. I’ll stop by and take Alfred to school.”
Arthur appears to be too tired to argue. “Don’t forget,” he reminds him, burrowing deeper under the blankets.
“I won’t, I promise.” Francis adjusts his grip on his slumbering son, and moves towards the front door.
“Piecrust promise,” Arthur accuses, words slurring together with sleep, “…easily made and… easily broken…”
Francis recognizes the quote. “I’ll just have to prove you wrong then,” he says.
He lingers in the doorway, slipping his shoes on and gripping Matthew’s backpack by the straps. The sound of Arthur’s slow and steady breathing bids him goodbye as he closes the door behind him.
That night, he lies awake in bed, Egyptian cotton sheets cool against his bare skin. He closes his eyes, but sleep doesn’t come, chased away by persistent thoughts of fever-flushed cheeks and broken piecrusts.
|| Four ||