[FIC] picking up trash in dresses (3/3)
xix.
It begins with an innocuous post on Facebook, something Alfred hadn’t even been tagged in, something he probably would’ve never seen had he not been mindlessly scrolling through his news feed.
Alfred snickers and logs out.
xx.
Life without Francis is odd at first, but they grow used to it soon enough. Still, there are times when Matthew will sigh at the sight of Francis’ empty room (he’d never found a roommate, hadn’t tried searching for one very hard, really), and there are other times when Alfred will get a craving for crêpes on Sunday afternoons, glancing wistfully at the corner where Francis’ piano used to be. (It’s been replaced by a medium-sized bookshelf, now.) Arthur doesn’t, though, doesn’t sigh or look lonely or show any sign of acknowledging Francis’ absence at all.
But what Alfred forgets is that Arthur’s always been like that, foolish and stubborn and perpetually in denial; he forgets that Arthur is, surprisingly, a damn good actor when he has to be, and disturbingly proficient at hiding behind thick novels and books of poetry.
Eventually, however, his mask does crack.
“Have you seen Arthur?” Alfred asks Matthew, stifling a yawn. “I’ve just finished this killer essay and I wanted him to look it over for me.”
Matthew glances up from a thick sociology textbook. “Er, I saw him with his sewing kit earlier. He’s probably in his room.”
Alfred wrinkles his nose. “What’s he sewing now?”
Matthew shrugs, but is spared from answering by Arthur himself, who walks briskly into the living room with towels draped over his arm. Alfred’s gaze quickly lands on the newly stitched cursive letters and points at him accusingly.
“Did you seriously just-like, what’s the word, embroider our towels?” he demands, staring in horror at the A.J. permanently stitched on his previously immaculate yellow towel.
“Monogram,” Matthew supplies helpfully, but is largely ignored.
“Be quiet,” Arthur snaps, throwing Alfred’s towel squarely in his face. Alfred pulls it off his head and runs his fingers idly across the stitching, still frowning. Well, it’s not the worst thing in the world, he supposes.
Arthur hands Matthew his towel, too, a crisp M.W. stitched neatly across the bottom, and then holds up the next one-it’s light blue, and Alfred knows it’s not Arthur’s, and the letters F.B. are seared across the fabric like a brand ironed across skin. He exchanges surreptitious looks with Matthew, and sees the exact moment Arthur realizes what he’s done.
“I-” he begins, and falls silent, glaring angrily at the towel as though it’s entirely at fault.
Matthew hurries to explain. “Francis-he left it, in the bathroom, and I meant to throw it away, but I kept forgetting, so I just kept it in the closet. I can take it-”
Arthur whirls around and flees to his room. The door slams, and both Alfred and Matthew wince at the sound.
“That went well,” Alfred quips, and Matthew sends him a halfhearted glare before returning to his reading.
Later that night, Alfred takes out the trash. The plastic bag is considerably bulkier than normal, so he peers inside and shakes the contents curiously. Stray patches of light blue fibers peek out from beneath discarded napkins and Capri-Suns, and Alfred rolls his eyes at the sight. Arthur can be such a drama queen sometimes.
xxi.
xxii.
Alfred has never actually been to any of Matthew’s hockey matches. It’s just never worked out, schedule-wise, and Matthew’s not really the type to broadcast these sorts of things anyway. But Alfred’s heard, through the grapevine, that their university team is actually pretty good, and that Matthew, apparently, is a beast on the ice.
“Too damn cold,” Alfred mutters, teeth chattering as he shuffles over to his seat. Arthur rolls his eyes at him.
“You didn’t have to come,” he points out.
Alfred bites his lip and huddles into his coat. Wraps a scarf Arthur’s knitted for him last Christmas around his neck as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I just…thought I should. To show my support, right?”
“You’ve never bothered before.” Alfred stares at a fixed point on the ice, acutely aware of Arthur’s probing gaze. “Last year, you never came. Not to a single match. I should know; Francis dragged me to each one.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to be a third-wheel on your dates,” Alfred sneers, and then flinches ever so slightly as Arthur glares at him. “…or maybe I just want to watch a hockey match. Is that a crime?”
Arthur watches him for a long time, trying to figure something out, something Alfred himself hasn’t really figured out yet. “No,” he says at last, turning away to face the rink as the match begins.
And Matthew is-he is glorious. Alfred forgets everything, forgets the chill in the air, forgets the uncomfortable conversation he’d had just minutes before. Alfred knows how to ice-skate, enough to make his way around the rink without falling, but Matthew zips across the surface without pause or hesitation, body tense with concentration, and it is breathtaking.
Then Matthew slams a player from the opposing team into the boards directly in front of Alfred, his eyes glinting with menace. Alfred suddenly feels uncomfortably hot.
Matthew lifts his gaze briefly to meet Alfred’s.
Alfred holds his breath.
And then it ends, all too abruptly: Matthew skates away, drawing Alfred’s eyes to his shoulders, his back, and yeah, his ass. He sags heavily against the seat, makes a strangled noise in the back of his mouth.
Arthur snorts. “Pull yourself together.”
“Shut up,” Alfred moans.
xxiii.
After that, Alfred and Arthur come to a mutual and tacit understanding: Arthur doesn’t say anything about Matthew while Matthew’s in the room, and Alfred keeps quiet about Francis in general. It’s a pretty good system, actually, and they stick to the rules pretty faithfully, neither one daring to cross that invisible line.
Instead, their conversations happen in terms of looks-significant, raised-eyebrows Looks. Alfred uses his sparingly, saves them for days when Arthur comes home with a bag of croissants from the bakery (“They were at half-price since they were about to close!” he always insists, tips of his ears reddish-pink as he sets the paper bag down on the kitchen counter), while Arthur seems to use them on a daily basis, whenever Alfred starts babbling a little too much around Matthew, when Alfred comes home with a fresh bottle of maple syrup from the grocery store every other Friday.
“You could just tell him,” Arthur says one day, twirling a blue pen in his hand.
“So could you,” counters Alfred.
Arthur says nothing.
xxiv.
xxv.
Alfred’s never really been a big romantic. He’s had his fair share of crushes, had his fair share of dates back in high school, but it’s not like he went around trying to be a regular old Casanova. There was one girl, but. Well. It had never worked out, and he’d gotten over it quickly enough, and that was the end of that.
So this weird whatever-it-is with Matthew? Is clearly just a crush. Like the celebrity crush he’s fostered on Johnny Depp ever since the first Pirates movie came out. And while he could totally choose to act on the squishy feelings he gets whenever he’s around him (Matthew, not Johnny), he decides against it, because he and Matthew are buddies, they’re best buds, they’re bros.
Until-
They’re walking to class, something they’ve done dozens and hundreds and hundreds of dozens of times before. It’s cold, today, a February chill, but at least it’s not snowing. Alfred tightens his scarf around his neck, narrowing his eyes at the sight of Matt who’s perfectly comfortable in a thin long-sleeved tee.
And then his thoughts shift from a stupid complaint to something far more frightening: the realization that he wants nothing more than to press his side against Matt’s and slip his hand into his back pocket and share body heat to show the entire world, the entire fucking world that Matt is his and he is Matt’s-
Alfred curls his hands into fists, curls his fingers so tightly that his nails carve marks onto his palm.
He’s in trouble, now.
xxvi.
“-so I think it’s really possible that I might be in love but that’s totally cool, isn’t it, because aren’t the best relationships, like, the ones where they’re best friends and stuff?”
“Mm,” Arthur grunts, nose-deep in a book of Shakespearean sonnets.
Alfred shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “He smells really good, too.”
Arthur makes a sound of disgust. “Ugh. Alfred.”
“What? It’s true!”
“If you’re going to be in love, that’s fine, just don’t do it in front of me,” Arthur states plainly, returning to his book. “And stop acting like a blushing schoolgirl with her first crush. Matthew’s hardly inexperienced.”
“Well, yeah,” Alfred admits, “but he hasn’t-you know, been with anyone in college. Right? I haven’t seen him with anyone.”
“Sure, he has,” Arthur turns a page calmly, “he and Gilbert had a-” here he makes a vague motion with his hands, “-a thing.”
Alfred's mood comes abruptly crashing down. “What?”
“I said,” Arthur repeats, “that Matthew and Gilbert had a-”
“I heard you the first time!” Alfred crosses over to sit next to Arthur, inadvertently wrinkling sheets of loose-leaf paper in the process. “But-wait, what? When was this? Who else has he been with?”
“Sometime last year after a lot of beer, and a few more times after that, also involving a lot of beer,” Arthur recites dully. “And-I don’t know, I hardly keep track of the boy, but there was something with Ivan, too, wasn’t there? And then there’s that other boy who used to bring him tulips. And marijuana.”
“I thought the tulips were Francis’,” mutters Alfred sullenly. “And-what, Ivan, too?”
“Hockey thing, I assume,” Arthur says.
Alfred curls up, drawing his knees to his chest and glaring at the coffee table. This calls for a moment of Serious Thinking. Because, okay, obviously Matthew’s a totally good-looking dude, a bit quiet and invisible sometimes, a bit on the passive-aggressive side, but he plays damn good hockey and has fantastic hair. Besides, Alfred has awesome taste in everything, so if he likes Matthew, then it only stands to reason that lots of people would have liked him too. Right? Right.
He scratches at his collarbone, feeling odd. Nauseous, almost.
“Oh, do shut up,” Arthur grouses, hitting him with Shakespeare. “Your brain’s not accustomed to doing that much work. It’s crying out for help.”
“Do I have to, I dunno, stake my claim or something?” Alfred wonders, utterly serious.
At this, Arthur actually deigns to put Shakespeare aside-just for the moment, of course. “Alfred Jones, do not do anything stupid. Do you understand me?”
“What do you-” Alfred begins, but doesn’t get any further than that as the object of their discussion arrives home, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“I’m home!”
“Matt!” Alfred leaps off the couch and bounds over to him. “Have I told you how awesome you are lately?”
Matthew gives him an amused look. “Does that have anything to do with the fact that I’m making mac and cheese for dinner tonight?” he calls over his shoulder as he strides into the kitchen.
Alfred shoots Arthur a triumphant smirk. “See? He’s making me mac and cheese.”
Arthur waves him off impatiently with a flick of his hand. Alfred laughs it off, and moves to follow Matthew into the kitchen. But then he pauses for a second, just a second, intending to remind Arthur it’s his turn to do the dishes tonight. The words die on his tongue, halted momentarily by the picture Arthur makes, alone on the couch, surrounded by his books. They’re obliterated completely by distant memories of lazy afternoons in the past year, where two boys, not one, sat on the couch, sipping tea and coffee, anything but lonely.
xxvii.
Alfred downloads a copy of The Proposal from the Internet and watches it one dreary afternoon when he’s home alone. It’s good as far as romantic comedies go, the cast is nice to look at, and the romantic leads are American and Canadian (which may or may not have had to do with his choice to watch said movie in the first place), so all in all Alfred thinks it was an afternoon well spent.
But when the movie ends, he figures it’s time to at least attempt to do some schoolwork, so he curls up on the sofa with his physics textbook on his lap, eyes darting across the pages as he commits formulas and theorems to memory.
Thirty minutes later, he blinks awake to the realization that he’s somehow sprawled out across the entirety of the couch, physics textbook carelessly laid out on his stomach, pages wrinkled against his shirt. Matthew’s come home since then, sitting on the floor in front of him.
The Colbert Report is playing on TV, volume practically muted. He turns back to find Matthew chuckling quietly at whatever he hears.
His heart feels-full.
“Matt,” he murmurs, voice clogged with sleep. “Matt. Mattie.”
Matthew smiles at him, and it’s so warm. “Yeah?”
“If you-” he yawns abruptly, not bothering to cover his mouth. “-if you were ever in danger of getting deported from the U.S., I’d totally marry you. You know?”
Matthew lets out a quiet laugh. “You do know I’ve got dual citizenship, don’t you?”
“Thought that counts,” Alfred mumbles as his eyes slide shut, glasses pressing awkwardly against his nose and cheeks.
Gentle hands pry his glasses off his face and ruffle his hair tenderly. Matthew’s soft smile is the last thing Alfred sees before he finally drifts off to sleep.
xxviii.
“Arthur, did you know that France and England are really close to each other? Like, crazy close.”
Arthur glances up from his mug of tea, giving him that look of his that speaks volumes of his opinion on the American public school system. His annoyance is intensified by the fact that it is seven-fifteen in the morning, clearly far too early for any sort of geographical discussion.
Naturally, Alfred ignores this. “I mean it!” he insists, and points to his laptop screen, which displays a map of Europe he found on Google. “Look at how close they are. They’re practically touching!”
Arthur scowls.
“And-what’s this, the body of water that separates them? The Channel? That’s nothing. Don’t people swim across that all the time and stuff?” Alfred hums with excitement. “There’s no reason for you not to visit him, especially when you go back to London all the time.”
Arthur’s face changes, goes tight and strained, closed-off. “Too bad, then,” he bites out, “since I can’t fucking swim.”
Irritation blooms in Alfred’s chest, and he finds himself suddenly tired of their stupidity. Arthur’s already walking away, retreating, as he always does these days. “Then take a fucking boat!” he yells at his back.
xxix.
Alfred decides to go about this the straightforward way. After all, he’s never been the sort to beat around the bush, so on a quiet Thursday evening, he plops down on the couch next to Matthew and says, “Dude, I like you.”
Matthew throws him a bemused look before returning to his math problems. “Thanks, Al.”
This isn’t exactly how Alfred had envisioned the aftermath of his confession, and he begins to panic. A bit. “No, I mean-I really like you. Really.”
“Okay,” Matthew says distractedly, “hey, can you hand me that pencil? Right there? Thanks.”
“Matt, I’m trying to tell you something,” Alfred starts again.
Matthew scowls at the numbers on his paper. “What am I doing wrong?” he demands, shoving the worksheet in Al’s face. Al goes cross-eyed trying to read it.
“You dropped a negative sign back here,” he explains. “Screwed up the rest of your calculations.”
Matthew’s eyes widen. “Damn,” he exhales, beginning to erase his work. He looks up briefly, offering Alfred a small smile. “Thanks.”
Matthew really does have the prettiest eyes, Alfred thinks. “Oh, yeah, sure, man. No problem.”
“Weren’t you going to tell me something?” Matthew asks suddenly, brow furrowed in concentration, attempting to solve the math problem a second time.
And for some reason, all of Alfred’s confidence is gone, vacuumed away. “Uh, oh, yeah, but. I forgot,” he stammers, quickly standing and backing into the kitchen. Matthew doesn’t notice, too engrossed in his work. Alfred fills his glass with water from the tap just so his hands have something to do.
Arthur, munching on a leftover scone nearby, coughs into his hand. It sounds suspiciously like, “Pathetic.”
Alfred narrows his eyes. “At least he’s still in the country.”
Arthur elbows him. Painfully. “Shut it.”
Predictably, Alfred does no such thing. “If you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring on it,” he sniggers, waving his hand at Arthur’s nose.
Arthur hurls a scone at his face. It actually leaves a bruise.
xxx.
Alfred is taking an introductory drawing class with Professor Vargas this year in order to fulfill his fine arts requirements. Alfred likes the guy-he’s fairly lenient, totally chill for an old dude, and an all-around decent prof, even if he does have a weird complex with his grandchildren.
Today he’s wandering around the art building, attempting to find Vargas’ office to get some advice on his latest project, sketchbook tucked loosely against his side. It’s an old building, replicas of famous paintings adorning the walls, dusty and creaking with old, untold stories.
When he finally finds Vargas’ office (Room 429), the room is empty. Alfred scowls as he comes in and plops gracelessly down on a sturdy office chair. Always curious, he allows himself to examine the interior. It’s messy, a typical professor’s office, stacks of papers carelessly piled on his desk, thick art history textbooks on his shelves, paints and brushes and rough sketches everywhere. This is not what catches Alfred’s interest; this is boring, unimportant.
What does catch his interest is the single canvas painting sitting on the floor in the back corner of the room, not quite hidden, but not quite for show, either. Without sparing a second thought, Alfred heads straight for it, kneeling down to get a better view.
Oh.
Oh, wow.
Eyes wide, Alfred does the first thing that comes to mind: he flees the room.
xxxi.
“Why are you dragging me into the art building?” hisses Matthew, wrenching his elbow away from Alfred’s grasp. Tries to do so is more like it; Alfred’s grip is unrelenting. “Al, I can walk on my own. Al. Let. Go.”
“No, dude, seriously,” Alfred tightens his grip, coming to an abrupt halt outside Vargas’ office. “This is really important. Italics and Capitals and Underlines important.”
Matthew looks unimpressed. “Let me guess. You created a life-sized sculpture of Superman. Made entirely out of burgers.”
Alfred blinks. “No, but that is a totally awesome idea.”
Matthew sighs. “Al, what are we doing here?” he asks, and Alfred suddenly notices the bags under his eyes and the tired expression on his face. (That’s right, he remembers, he pulled an all-nighter finishing a term paper for his sociology class.) A vague feeling, something almost like guilt, rises in his chest, making him squirm. He drops Matthew’s arm.
He begins to ramble. “You know how in video games, sometimes you’re just kinda going along, killing zombies and aliens and it’s awesome but then out of nowhere you find a super amazing special item that gives you, like, a million life points and gets you to the next level and stuff?”
Matthew’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “Yes?”
“Well, it’s like that, but way better,” Alfred reassures him, and steps into the room. It’s still empty (does Vargas even use his office?), and the canvas is still in the corner, unmoved, untouched. Matthew follows him with significantly more hesitation, eyes darting nervously to the hallway.
“Look,” Alfred urges him, and Matthew does.
“Oh,” he says, dropping down to his knees and tracing fingers over the faint watercolors. “Oh, Francis.”
Because here it is-Francis’ final project, finished, hidden away in a dark office of the art building. It is, in all honesty, a strange piece of work, subtle watercolors spilling out all over, blending and bleeding into each other. But there’s no denying the sheer intimacy of the piece. Not in a sexual way, not really, but in almost every other possible way. There is a bed, yes, wrinkled sheets gathered over the arch of a foot, the shape of a calf and up over knobby knees; a book held in the grip of spindly fingers, thin shoulders resting against the headboard, dark, horn-rimmed glasses framing vividly sharp, green eyes. This is a man who lives in this bed, who knows this bed, and Alfred’s only seen rose-colored sheets like that once and they weren’t Arthur’s.
“What are you doing here?” Alfred spins around guiltily to find Professor Vargas looming in the doorway, frowning curiously at the two of them. Sneaking his hands behind his back, he slips his phone out of his back pocket and hands it to Matthew as he meets Professor Vargas at the door.
“Was looking for you, hoping to get some critique for my project,” he quickly says, flipping open his sketchbook to a random page and shoving it directly into Vargas’ face. Matthew appears next to him, sliding the cell phone back into Alfred’s back pocket. Alfred shivers.
“Shadowing’s a bit off,” Vargas comments, walking into the office, ushering Alfred in. Matthew takes the opportunity to slip off undetected, and Alfred only half-listens to the art professor’s critique, wondering exactly what it is he’s discovered in this messy office.
xxxii.
It is raining and Frank Sinatra is singing.
He is singing “Fly Me to the Moon”, to be precise, when Matthew comes home, dripping wet and thoroughly disgruntled. Alfred glances up at the sound, feeling warm at the sight of him.
“Hey, what’s up?” he asks, taking a break from his entirely unproductive study session. Matthew groans something tiredly beneath his breath before collapsing onto the couch, stretching his legs out so his feet rest on Alfred’s lap. Alfred shoves them off laughingly before turning to face him fully. “Matt?”
“I want to die,” he moans pitifully.
“Aw, don’t say that.” Al leans over and straightens Matthew’s glasses so they’re not lying askew on his nose. Matthew’s eyes blink open.
“Today sucked,” he declares. “I absolutely failed my calculus exam, I know it, and then I got caught in this fucking rain and I-” He turns wide, dejected eyes to Alfred. “I just want some poutine.”
“Poor baby,” Alfred teases. “But, you know what? When I get sad, I put on Hakuna Matata and start singing and dancing in my bedroom. Always makes me feel better.”
“I know. We can hear you.” Matthew rolls his eyes.
“Come on. You know you want to.” Alfred grins mischievously at him, hitting a button on his laptop.
Matthew groans. “Al, no.”
“Hakuna Matata,” Alfred begins, completely in sync with the music, taking Matthew by the elbow and tugging him to his feet. “What a wonderful phrase.”
“Al,” Matthew starts, but allows himself to be twirled around the room anyway. Al gives him that puppy-dog face, that pouting bottom lip, until Matt finally gives in, smiling slightly as he dutifully recites, “It means no worries for the rest of your days…”
“It’s our problem free philosophy,” they both sing as they spin clumsily around the room. Matthew’s face is flushed by the time the song ends, eyes impossibly bright, hair in disarray, an errant curl falling into his eyes. Alfred wants to tuck it behind his ear, grab his face in both hands, and kiss him.
So he does.
xxxiii.
Alfred remembers the first day Matthew ever made them pancakes: a rainy Monday morning during the second week of the semester, all dreary and muggy, utterly unpleasant.
He can still recall the smell of pancakes in the air, warm and inviting, Francis’ long limbs sprawled gracefully across the chair while they were waiting for Matthew to finish, and Arthur trudging into the room like a zombie, staring blearily at the growing stack of pancakes at Matthew’s side.
He remembers taking that first bite of pancake, warm and fluffy, maple syrup sliding down the back of his throat. Remembers turning to Matthew and moaning, “Where have you been all my life?”
And then, Matthew, flashing him a quick and disarming grin. “In a cupboard, under some stairs,” he replies cheekily, eliciting an honest, genuine laugh from Alfred’s lips.
Looking back, maybe that’s how it all started. (He’s always had a weakness for good food and pop culture references.)
xxxiv.
“This doesn’t explain why you’re in my room, under the bed,” Arthur says dryly, giving Alfred a thoroughly unimpressed look. “Get out.”
“You can’t make me no Artie don’t you fucking dare-” Alfred hisses as Arthur kneels down and attempts to drag Alfred out of his temporary (perhaps permanent, if Alfred has anything to do with it) hiding place. Alfred doesn’t budge at all, and Arthur soon gives up, red-faced from exertion.
“I could just call him in here.” Arthur huffs as he sits down on the edge of the bed. Alfred gives his ankle a sharp prod.
“He won’t come in,” Alfred murmurs. “He’s probably sitting in his room thinking. Thinking about-thinking about how he hates me and oh god Arthur what if he never speaks to me again what if I’ve ruined our friendship forever and ever and-”
Arthur’s leg swings backwards and kicks him. In the face. Alfred squawks indignantly, hand coming up to clutch at his nose.
“Sorry,” says Arthur unrepentantly.
Alfred checks to make sure blood isn’t seeping out of his nostrils, then glares up at him. “I was going to share a super top-secret discovery with you, too.”
Arthur falls heavily on top of his bed. “What, pray tell, could it possibly be?” His voice drips with sarcasm as his feet tap out a steady rhythm against the floor.
“Not telling now,” Alfred mutters, sliding open his phone and browsing through the pictures in his albums until he finds the one Matthew’d taken just a few days ago. It’s slightly blurry, and the lighting isn’t so great, but it’s enough to see what’s important-namely, Arthur.
“I don’t care,” Arthur retorts, entirely unconvincingly. Alfred taps his phone screen thoughtfully.
“Not even if it has to do with Francis?” Alfred watches as Arthur’s feet twitch, halting momentarily in the air before resuming their staccato drumming against the carpet.
“No,” he snaps.
Arthur’s leg begins to shake restlessly. The rapid up-and-down motion of his foot begins to make Alfred dizzy, and he slaps at his calf.
“Here,” he says, shimmying halfway out from beneath the bed and handing Arthur the phone. The other boy takes it immediately.
The change is minute, but staggering. Arthur stiffens, goes completely still, and his face simply closes off into a mask of utter indifference. Alfred draws back into the darkness under the bed out of pure instinct, and watches wordlessly as Arthur stalks out of the room, tossing Alfred’s phone on the bed behind him.
“Art-” he starts belatedly, but the rest of the word is swallowed by the slam of the door.
xxv.
Alfred does a spectacular job of hiding from Matthew for the next day and a half, though he knows he’s only been able to succeed so far because Matthew’s hiding from him, too. He hasn’t quite figured out how he feels about that.
He arrives home at four-thirty, a bit ahead of his usual schedule because class has been let out early. As soon as he opens the door, Arthur’s furious, furious voice assaults his ears.
He freezes at the doorway, unsure of what to do next. Arthur’s voice echoes from his room, permeated with anger, “You fucking coward,” he hisses, “how dare you, how dare you make that without telling me-and then run off to the other side of the world, you fucking coward-”
Arthur falls silent for a while, and when he next speaks, his voice is less angry and more resigned, more bitter. “I know I left first. I know. But you-you didn’t have to let me go so easily.”
Alfred leaves as quietly as he can.
xxxvi.
Alfred recognizes the poem, but doesn’t bother to leave a comment. Later that night, though, in the dimly lit living room, his eyes alight on a book of poetry sitting innocently on the coffee table, clearly a belonging of Arthur’s: a well-worn, dog-eared collection of e.e. cummings.
xxxvii.
The next morning, Alfred sees this in response to Francis’ post:
xxxviii.
Alfred inspects his creation: a bowl of fries slathered with instant gravy and cheese. It’s edible, at the very least. Never actually having had poutine, he can’t be too sure about the taste, but he hadn’t burnt anything, so it ought to be all right, right?
He walks to Matthew’s front door and knocks.
Which is weird all in itself. He’s never knocked, never. The doors between them have always been unlocked, and they’ve always barged in on each other, stealing mugs of coffee and platefuls of crêpes without any trace of awkwardness. Prickles of anxiety crawl beneath his skin, and he hates it. Things with Matt should always, always, be comfortable.
Matthew opens the door, confused. “Why’d you knock?”
Alfred coughs. “Um. Here.” He thrusts the bowl of poutine into Matthew’s chest, who accepts it with no little surprise.
“You made me poutine,” he says with startled eyes.
“Yeah, you-uh, you’d said, earlier, you know, that you’d wanted them. I don’t know if they came out all right, I’ve never had ‘em before, and I was just sort of-I dunno, making it up as I went along and-oh, okay,” Alfred trails off as Matthew walks inside the apartment. He hesitates for all of two seconds before following him inside.
“They’re not so bad,” Matthew comments as he bites into a fry. There’s a spot of gravy just at the corner of his lip, and Alfred wants to lick it away-no, no, that’s what got you into this mess in the first place, jackass.
“Good,” Alfred says, awkwardly.
God, and that’s exactly what this is: awkward. Painfully so. And it-it sucks, because being with Matt has never been like this. Confusing, yes, but awkward and strange and uncomfortable are words he never wants to associate with Matt, never.
“So, are you going to bring it up, or am I?” Matthew finally says, glancing briefly up at him before returning to his food.
Alfred decides to fling his pride out the window, banging his head soundly against the kitchen counter. “You.”
“Fine.” Matthew pauses. “Why did you kiss me?”
“Wow. No build-up at all or anything,” mutters Alfred, lifting his head to glare balefully at him. Matthew reddens and eats another fry.
“Look,” Matthew begins, avoiding his eyes, and Alfred realizes he’s just as uncomfortable as he is. He doesn’t know what that means. “If you want, we can just-I don’t know, just forget about it. That’s fine. I wasn’t. You know. Expecting anything, really.”
All his life, people have told Alfred that he can’t read the atmosphere. That he’s clueless when it comes to people’s feelings, that he’s as dense as a rock. And Alfred’s always laughed it off because, yeah, okay, maybe he is a bit slow when it comes to this sort of thing. But-but-
Not now. Not when Matthew-Matt, Mattie-is standing there, waiting.
“I don’t want to forget it. I-I-” He searches for the words, the right and proper words, but comes up with nothing. He can only think of the movies he’s seen (those damn romantic-comedies), of how he’s not Darcy, never could be Darcy, can only think that he wants so much more than five hundred days of summer, that he wants all of Matthew’s days, spring and summer and autumn and winter, and maybe that makes him a selfish bastard, and maybe he doesn’t care.
So he takes the plunge.
“I want to grow old and dance to Disney songs with you,” he blurts out.
xxxix.
Matthew starts, first.
Then, he stares. Just-stares at Alfred, appraisingly, silent. And Alfred lets him, lets Matthew study him like an x-ray, fractures and imperfections laid bare for him to see.
And then, and then, Matthew smiles, and Alfred thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, better than a game of baseball on a sultry summer afternoon, better than fireworks coloring the sky on the Fourth of July.
He moves closer, falls against him, sagging in relief.
(It’s okay that he’s not Darcy. Matthew’s not Elizabeth, either.)
xl.
“I’m back, you wouldn’t believe the absolutely horrid day I’ve had and-oh my god.”
Alfred and Matthew instantly spring apart, shirts discarded, pants unbuttoned.
“Hi, Arthur,” they chorus guiltily.
xli.
xlii.
“So. You and Matthew.”
Alfred lets out a sigh, perhaps a tad dreamier and giddier than normal. “Yeah.”
Arthur snorts. “Was only a matter of time, I suppose, with the eyes you were making at him.”
“Was it that obvious?” Alfred asks, a bit sheepish.
Arthur raises a thick, thick eyebrow. “You bought him a bottle of maple syrup every week. Every damn week.”
Alfred grins, unrepentant, drumming his fingers against his knee as he watches Arthur work. He writes so many words, he thinks, so why can’t he find the right ones? “You know… I think Francis knew, too.”
Arthur pauses in his typing, stiffens for a moment, and then continues with a soft, tired sigh. “Francis always knows,” he says.
Alfred takes in the half-eaten croissant on the paper plate sitting on the armrest by Arthur’s side, crumbs spilling everywhere, the book of e.e. cummings’ poetry that’s still sitting on the table, and wonders if Francis knows about this, too.
xliii.
The summer Alfred turned eight, his parents took him to England. He, naturally, hated it. England was cold and wet and rainy, even in the summer, and while the fish and chips weren't terrible, he missed the fireworks on the Fourth of July, the feeling of freshly-mowed grass between his toes, sizzling barbecue on the grill in the backyard.
His cousin Arthur made things worse.
Alfred couldn't understand him through his thick accent, he had these weird creepy eyebrows-Alfred was half-convinced that they’d jump off his face and attack him, and he talked to himself. All the time. Now, Alfred was a good kid, smart and bright and always cheerful, always ready to make friends, but there were some people who were just better off alone.
And then came a Saturday evening, two days before their flight back to America. After a warm and hearty meal of roast beef and potatoes, Arthur scurried off to the living room, flipped on the television (the telly, Alfred snickered to himself), and plopped down on the carpet, utterly entranced.
Bored with the adults' conversation, Alfred meandered into the living room as well, sitting down a fair distance away from the other boy. He watched with faint interest as the theme song played, as a blue police box zipped through time and space, as a girl wandered into an abandoned house filled with old, creepy-looking statues.
“What’s this?” Alfred asked, wide-eyed.
“What do you mean, ‘what’s this’?” Arthur ripped his gaze away from the screen to fix Alfred with a disbelieving stare. “It’s Doctor Who. Don’t you get this in America?”
“I don’t think so,” Alfred replied, horribly fascinated by the show.
“Yanks,” Arthur muttered disgustedly beneath his breath.
“Hey, I heard that,” Alfred protested halfheartedly, eyes still glued to the screen, “and America is awesome, okay, it’s sunny and pretty and why did that statue just move?”
“I don’t know!” Arthur snapped. “If we keep watching, we’ll find out!”
It’s funny, the way two people grow closer together. In the course of forty-five minutes, Arthur went from being Alfred’s stodgy, boring cousin to his sole lifeline in the face of what had to be the most disturbing aliens ever. As the show progressed, Alfred scooted closer and closer to Arthur until he was close enough to grab him during a particularly hair-raising scene.
“Don’t-don’t pretend to be brave,” Alfred stammered, sinking his nails into Arthur’s arm. Arthur yowled at the pain. “I-I know you’re scared, but-but I’m definitely not, and-and-”
“You’re the one who’s shaking,” Arthur retorted, but allowed Alfred the use of his arm for the rest of the episode.
But this is a distant memory from over ten years ago, the furthest thing on Alfred’s mind as he accompanies Arthur into the small bakery tucked away in the corner of a street downtown at seven in the evening (they’re selling everything for half-price, now). He pauses to inhale the sweet smell of freshly-baked bread, and they fill up two trays in no time with an assortment of croissants and Danishes, madeleines and brownies and apple-raisin bread.
“Oh, look,” Alfred says, nudging Arthur with his elbow. “Macarons, see?”
Arthur casts a carefully disinterested look over the display near the cashier. “Oh?”
“You want some?” Alfred plucks the prettiest-looking package and holds it out.
Arthur’s facial expression never changes. “Not particularly.”
Alfred’s pretty fluent at Arthur-speak now, so he quietly sets the package on the counter when it looks like Arthur’s not paying attention. If Arthur notices, he doesn’t say a word.
xliv.
That night, their dinner consists of bread and beer, old reruns of Friends keeping them company whenever their conversations lapse. Matthew’s nestled into Alfred’s side, and Alfred absentmindedly plays with their interlocked fingers. Matthew’s hands are slightly larger than his, calloused and rough from years of playing hockey. Alfred loves them.
“You two are sickening,” Arthur declares, rolling his eyes.
“Don’t be jealous,” Alfred retorts. Matthew immediately elbows him in the stomach as Arthur grows quiet.
Ah, damn, Alfred thinks, watching Arthur warily as he throws his head back to gulp down his beer. Arthur sets his beer down on the floor and rummages through the paper bags of bread, frowning as he pulls out the package of macarons. They’re a set of six, all pastel pink with a white cream filling, delicate and pretty, and Alfred hopes and hopes that Arthur won’t smash them to pieces or something equally melodramatic.
But Arthur simply unties the plastic tie, selects a macaron, and bites into it without a word. He slides the bag across the table, chewing thoughtfully. Matthew and Alfred snatch the bag, taking two each, and handing Arthur the last one.
He declines. “They’re not as good as before,” he murmurs, words slurring together slightly from the alcohol.
Matthew smiles, a bit sadly. “No,” he agrees, “they’re not.”
And for reasons beyond his comprehension, Alfred suddenly remembers that summer he’d spent in London all those years ago-not so much the rain and the dreariness, but the bright-eyed boy who’d kept him company, who’d waved a plastic toy Harry Potter wand and said Expecto patronum! to keep the scary angel statues away in the night.
“What’s your Patronus look like, anyway?” Alfred had whispered to him, hands fisted in the sleeve of his pajama top.
“It’s a unicorn, so you’ll be all right,” Arthur had replied in all seriousness, and Alfred had believed him with all of his eight-year-old heart.
The memory brings a smile to his face and warmth all the way down to his toes. Watching Arthur’s tired, pale face, he decides it’s time to repay the favor.
xlv.
Alfred and Francis hold the following conversation (privately) on Facebook over the next day and a half:
xlvi.
Today is a completely ordinary Tuesday.
It is, also, ridiculously humid outside, and the three of them are at home for various reasons-Alfred’s decided to skip class, Arthur’s was cancelled, and Matthew’s never had class on Tuesday afternoons anyway. They’re all in the living room, air-conditioning cranked up, reruns of I Love Lucy playing on the television and textbooks propped open on their laps, brains meandering clumsily from the show to the weary world of academia.
Arthur’s got his iPod playing, too, an earphone dangling from his left ear. Sometimes, he sings a line or two, his voice sudden and harsh against the relatively quiet background noise. Alfred and Matthew like to join in, if they know the song (they usually do), a chorus of off-key voices in their quiet, sunny apartment.
Arthur’s murmuring an absentminded “Lights will guide you home…” as he taps a rhythm against his knee with a neon green highlighter and Matthew’s humming along quietly, but Alfred’s distracted by the sound of the front door opening (the hinges always creak) and footsteps gradually growing louder. He’s about to turn and tell Matt to grab his hockey stick when a voice hesitantly says, “Hello?”
That voice, Alfred thinks, realization dawning.
Alfred feels rather than sees Arthur stiffen next to him, body rigid and taut, feels his shoulders rise with a sudden, harsh intake of breath. He’s looking at Arthur’s face when Francis finally comes into view, and it changes, in some funny, indescribable way. He turns back to give Francis a small smile, but he needn’t have bothered; he only has eyes for Arthur.
“You,” Arthur hisses, face twisting into a scowl that only Francis seems to be able to draw out.
“Yes,” Francis murmurs, “me.”
xlvii.
“Alfred and I were just leaving,” Matthew instantly says, hopping up from his spot on the couch, pausing only to grab his notebook. “Nice seeing you, Francis.”
“You, too,” Francis says, stopping to give him a quick hug. Matthew grabs Alfred by the elbow and manhandles him out the front door. Alfred is too surprised to put up a fight.
“Why are we leaving?” he asks, confused.
“You can’t be that dense,” is all Matthew says as he makes himself comfortable on the hallway floor, leaving the door a crack open and cocking his head to the side to hear better.
“Well, ‘course I’m not,” Alfred defends himself, “but it was just a bit sudden, was all. Just dragging me out here. All in control and dominant. Totally hot, by the way.”
Matthew flushes. Alfred loves it when he does that, and scoots ever closer, tucking an arm around his waist. Suddenly, Matthew presses a finger to Alfred’s lips, shaking his head hurriedly.
Arthur’s voice floats out the door, and it’s frightened and angry and defensive all at the same time. “You don’t just-no. You don’t just get to come back in here and ask to start over, you bastard. You left. And I was just here, just. Just.”
“Waiting?” Francis asks, a hint of teasing in his voice.
“Fuck you,” Arthur spits.
“I waited, too,” Francis confesses, perhaps realizing that if anything’s to happen, he’s got to be the one to give in first. Arthur can be stupidly stubborn-his default state of mind, Alfred thinks. “The first time you left. When you said we were over. I thought you would come back. You’d always come back, before. I waited. Waited. And then you didn’t, and…”
“And then Alfred and Matthew moved in,” Arthur continues, considerably calmer, speaking slowly, as though he’s considering every word.
“They did,” Francis agrees. Then, “if they hadn’t, I don’t think we’d have ever spoken again.”
Arthur sighs. “You’re probably right.”
Francis sighs, too, heavy and exhausted and a bit hopeless. “What do you want from me, then? Do you want me to stay? Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” Arthur blurts out immediately. “I-no.”
Silence for a while, and Alfred rests his elbows on his thighs, waiting impatiently for them to speak. “You’ve done all the walking out, you know,” Francis says next.
“I didn’t see you coming after me,” Arthur retorts.
“Why, Arthur.” Alfred can hear the smile in his voice. “Did you want me to run after you? Chase you down like they do in the movies? I’m afraid I didn’t know. I thought you would rather I pine away, moping and lonely, desperate for your company.”
“Shut up,” Arthur grumbles halfheartedly.
And then, “You didn’t really pine, did you?”
A sigh. Alfred can imagine Francis’ half-smile, a wry, half-quirk of the lips. “More than you deserve.”
Arthur doesn’t speak for a while. When he does, it’s the last thing Alfred would have ever expected to hear from him, but Alfred quite likes surprises. “I waited,” he admits, quietly. “For you, too. More than you deserve, you prick.”
“Arthur Kirkland, the boy who waited,” Francis says then, and, oh, there is so much affection in his voice. Had they always been like that? How could Alfred have ever missed it?
“Francis Bonnefoy, the boy who was exceedingly stupid, and-” The rest of Arthur’s words are swallowed without warning, and nothing else is said for a long, long time.
Matthew stands up first, pulling the door shut quietly. He holds a hand out to Alfred, who takes it without hesitation.
“You think they’ll be okay?” Matthew asks as they enter the other apartment across the hall.
Alfred thinks of Arthur Before and Arthur After-thinks of the unmistakable hope that had dawned in Arthur’s eyes the moment he’d seen Francis (small, but still undeniably there), thinks of the two of them waiting and waiting and waiting and says:
“Yeah. I think they’ll be fine.”
xlviii.
But apart from a scowl and a halfhearted shove when Arthur gets home, there’s no real evidence of Arthur’s supposed anger. In fact, after dinner, Alfred catches them necking on the couch. He takes a moment to smile before becoming really grossed out; then he runs across the hall to hide out with Matthew.
xlix.
In the fall, Francis permanently returns to the apartment, having been accepted into the master’s program at the university. Just like before, Arthur and Alfred are still roommates, as are Francis and Matthew. As a matter of fact, apart from the changes in sleeping arrangements, everything’s pretty much the same, and the four of them quickly fall back into an easy, clockwork routine.
These are the good days: Alfred stumbles out of bed only ten minutes after his alarm goes off, takes a quick shower, gets dressed. In the kitchen, Arthur brews tea and makes toast, which, most days, doesn't burn. Alfred always steals two while slathering it with butter and jam ("You fuckin' tosser, that was my breakfast!" is screeched only halfheartedly; Arthur always makes extra, but still makes a fuss for appearance's sake), then darts across the hall to steal a cup of coffee from Francis and Matt, who are so used to it they always leave an extra mug out, next to the coffee maker ("Wash your mug!" Matthew reminds him, and sometimes, Al actually listens).
These are the bad days: Arthur and Francis get into a fight-and when they fight, they fight-where words are thrown carelessly, drawing blood, and they leave before the wounds can be bandaged. Sometimes, Alfred and Matthew fight, too, and while they’re not as harsh (they’ve not had as much practice as Arthur and Francis), Alfred still spends most of the day sullen and morose, a frown marring his usually cheerful expression.
And these are the other good days: Matthew shows Alfred how to make proper poutine and Alfred doesn’t listen to a word he says, distracted by the speck of gravy in the corner of his lip (he’s such a messy eater, honestly), and leans in to lick it away because he can, and pulls away to see Matthew gorgeous and smiling. Francis and Arthur remember to lock the doors this time, those damn hypocrites, and Alfred chuckles quietly about the fact that they actually need to lock the doors now, and how this means more than anything else.
But these, these are the best days: Days when Matthew’s English class lets out early and he runs down to McDonald’s to join Alfred on his lunch break, where they spend the thirty minutes sitting in a corner booth across from each other, Alfred’s ankles nestled between Matthew’s, impossibly warm and cozy and right. Days when they walk to class together and Alfred tucks his hand into Matthew’s back pocket just because. Days when Arthur’s yelling about something, flustered and furious, and Francis leans in and sweetly steals his anger away.
(And, yes: days when Francis makes macarons and Arthur hoards them like precious, precious things, and Matt and Alfred make a game of sneaking them away without getting caught.)
And in the end, they’re still just four boys, stupid and silly and only occasionally smart, but they’re together, and happy, and in love. This time, Alfred thinks, snuggling into Matthew’s side, in Matthew’s bed, it feels right, just the way things should be.
Then again, he’s always been a sucker for happy endings.
He smiles into Matthew’s shoulder and falls asleep.
And we tore our dresses and stained our shirts
But it’s nice today
Oh, the wait was worth it
|| end ||
Notes:
It begins with an innocuous post on Facebook, something Alfred hadn’t even been tagged in, something he probably would’ve never seen had he not been mindlessly scrolling through his news feed.
Alfred snickers and logs out.
xx.
Life without Francis is odd at first, but they grow used to it soon enough. Still, there are times when Matthew will sigh at the sight of Francis’ empty room (he’d never found a roommate, hadn’t tried searching for one very hard, really), and there are other times when Alfred will get a craving for crêpes on Sunday afternoons, glancing wistfully at the corner where Francis’ piano used to be. (It’s been replaced by a medium-sized bookshelf, now.) Arthur doesn’t, though, doesn’t sigh or look lonely or show any sign of acknowledging Francis’ absence at all.
But what Alfred forgets is that Arthur’s always been like that, foolish and stubborn and perpetually in denial; he forgets that Arthur is, surprisingly, a damn good actor when he has to be, and disturbingly proficient at hiding behind thick novels and books of poetry.
Eventually, however, his mask does crack.
“Have you seen Arthur?” Alfred asks Matthew, stifling a yawn. “I’ve just finished this killer essay and I wanted him to look it over for me.”
Matthew glances up from a thick sociology textbook. “Er, I saw him with his sewing kit earlier. He’s probably in his room.”
Alfred wrinkles his nose. “What’s he sewing now?”
Matthew shrugs, but is spared from answering by Arthur himself, who walks briskly into the living room with towels draped over his arm. Alfred’s gaze quickly lands on the newly stitched cursive letters and points at him accusingly.
“Did you seriously just-like, what’s the word, embroider our towels?” he demands, staring in horror at the A.J. permanently stitched on his previously immaculate yellow towel.
“Monogram,” Matthew supplies helpfully, but is largely ignored.
“Be quiet,” Arthur snaps, throwing Alfred’s towel squarely in his face. Alfred pulls it off his head and runs his fingers idly across the stitching, still frowning. Well, it’s not the worst thing in the world, he supposes.
Arthur hands Matthew his towel, too, a crisp M.W. stitched neatly across the bottom, and then holds up the next one-it’s light blue, and Alfred knows it’s not Arthur’s, and the letters F.B. are seared across the fabric like a brand ironed across skin. He exchanges surreptitious looks with Matthew, and sees the exact moment Arthur realizes what he’s done.
“I-” he begins, and falls silent, glaring angrily at the towel as though it’s entirely at fault.
Matthew hurries to explain. “Francis-he left it, in the bathroom, and I meant to throw it away, but I kept forgetting, so I just kept it in the closet. I can take it-”
Arthur whirls around and flees to his room. The door slams, and both Alfred and Matthew wince at the sound.
“That went well,” Alfred quips, and Matthew sends him a halfhearted glare before returning to his reading.
Later that night, Alfred takes out the trash. The plastic bag is considerably bulkier than normal, so he peers inside and shakes the contents curiously. Stray patches of light blue fibers peek out from beneath discarded napkins and Capri-Suns, and Alfred rolls his eyes at the sight. Arthur can be such a drama queen sometimes.
xxi.
xxii.
Alfred has never actually been to any of Matthew’s hockey matches. It’s just never worked out, schedule-wise, and Matthew’s not really the type to broadcast these sorts of things anyway. But Alfred’s heard, through the grapevine, that their university team is actually pretty good, and that Matthew, apparently, is a beast on the ice.
“Too damn cold,” Alfred mutters, teeth chattering as he shuffles over to his seat. Arthur rolls his eyes at him.
“You didn’t have to come,” he points out.
Alfred bites his lip and huddles into his coat. Wraps a scarf Arthur’s knitted for him last Christmas around his neck as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I just…thought I should. To show my support, right?”
“You’ve never bothered before.” Alfred stares at a fixed point on the ice, acutely aware of Arthur’s probing gaze. “Last year, you never came. Not to a single match. I should know; Francis dragged me to each one.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to be a third-wheel on your dates,” Alfred sneers, and then flinches ever so slightly as Arthur glares at him. “…or maybe I just want to watch a hockey match. Is that a crime?”
Arthur watches him for a long time, trying to figure something out, something Alfred himself hasn’t really figured out yet. “No,” he says at last, turning away to face the rink as the match begins.
And Matthew is-he is glorious. Alfred forgets everything, forgets the chill in the air, forgets the uncomfortable conversation he’d had just minutes before. Alfred knows how to ice-skate, enough to make his way around the rink without falling, but Matthew zips across the surface without pause or hesitation, body tense with concentration, and it is breathtaking.
Then Matthew slams a player from the opposing team into the boards directly in front of Alfred, his eyes glinting with menace. Alfred suddenly feels uncomfortably hot.
Matthew lifts his gaze briefly to meet Alfred’s.
Alfred holds his breath.
And then it ends, all too abruptly: Matthew skates away, drawing Alfred’s eyes to his shoulders, his back, and yeah, his ass. He sags heavily against the seat, makes a strangled noise in the back of his mouth.
Arthur snorts. “Pull yourself together.”
“Shut up,” Alfred moans.
xxiii.
After that, Alfred and Arthur come to a mutual and tacit understanding: Arthur doesn’t say anything about Matthew while Matthew’s in the room, and Alfred keeps quiet about Francis in general. It’s a pretty good system, actually, and they stick to the rules pretty faithfully, neither one daring to cross that invisible line.
Instead, their conversations happen in terms of looks-significant, raised-eyebrows Looks. Alfred uses his sparingly, saves them for days when Arthur comes home with a bag of croissants from the bakery (“They were at half-price since they were about to close!” he always insists, tips of his ears reddish-pink as he sets the paper bag down on the kitchen counter), while Arthur seems to use them on a daily basis, whenever Alfred starts babbling a little too much around Matthew, when Alfred comes home with a fresh bottle of maple syrup from the grocery store every other Friday.
“You could just tell him,” Arthur says one day, twirling a blue pen in his hand.
“So could you,” counters Alfred.
Arthur says nothing.
xxiv.
xxv.
Alfred’s never really been a big romantic. He’s had his fair share of crushes, had his fair share of dates back in high school, but it’s not like he went around trying to be a regular old Casanova. There was one girl, but. Well. It had never worked out, and he’d gotten over it quickly enough, and that was the end of that.
So this weird whatever-it-is with Matthew? Is clearly just a crush. Like the celebrity crush he’s fostered on Johnny Depp ever since the first Pirates movie came out. And while he could totally choose to act on the squishy feelings he gets whenever he’s around him (Matthew, not Johnny), he decides against it, because he and Matthew are buddies, they’re best buds, they’re bros.
Until-
They’re walking to class, something they’ve done dozens and hundreds and hundreds of dozens of times before. It’s cold, today, a February chill, but at least it’s not snowing. Alfred tightens his scarf around his neck, narrowing his eyes at the sight of Matt who’s perfectly comfortable in a thin long-sleeved tee.
And then his thoughts shift from a stupid complaint to something far more frightening: the realization that he wants nothing more than to press his side against Matt’s and slip his hand into his back pocket and share body heat to show the entire world, the entire fucking world that Matt is his and he is Matt’s-
Alfred curls his hands into fists, curls his fingers so tightly that his nails carve marks onto his palm.
He’s in trouble, now.
xxvi.
“-so I think it’s really possible that I might be in love but that’s totally cool, isn’t it, because aren’t the best relationships, like, the ones where they’re best friends and stuff?”
“Mm,” Arthur grunts, nose-deep in a book of Shakespearean sonnets.
Alfred shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “He smells really good, too.”
Arthur makes a sound of disgust. “Ugh. Alfred.”
“What? It’s true!”
“If you’re going to be in love, that’s fine, just don’t do it in front of me,” Arthur states plainly, returning to his book. “And stop acting like a blushing schoolgirl with her first crush. Matthew’s hardly inexperienced.”
“Well, yeah,” Alfred admits, “but he hasn’t-you know, been with anyone in college. Right? I haven’t seen him with anyone.”
“Sure, he has,” Arthur turns a page calmly, “he and Gilbert had a-” here he makes a vague motion with his hands, “-a thing.”
Alfred's mood comes abruptly crashing down. “What?”
“I said,” Arthur repeats, “that Matthew and Gilbert had a-”
“I heard you the first time!” Alfred crosses over to sit next to Arthur, inadvertently wrinkling sheets of loose-leaf paper in the process. “But-wait, what? When was this? Who else has he been with?”
“Sometime last year after a lot of beer, and a few more times after that, also involving a lot of beer,” Arthur recites dully. “And-I don’t know, I hardly keep track of the boy, but there was something with Ivan, too, wasn’t there? And then there’s that other boy who used to bring him tulips. And marijuana.”
“I thought the tulips were Francis’,” mutters Alfred sullenly. “And-what, Ivan, too?”
“Hockey thing, I assume,” Arthur says.
Alfred curls up, drawing his knees to his chest and glaring at the coffee table. This calls for a moment of Serious Thinking. Because, okay, obviously Matthew’s a totally good-looking dude, a bit quiet and invisible sometimes, a bit on the passive-aggressive side, but he plays damn good hockey and has fantastic hair. Besides, Alfred has awesome taste in everything, so if he likes Matthew, then it only stands to reason that lots of people would have liked him too. Right? Right.
He scratches at his collarbone, feeling odd. Nauseous, almost.
“Oh, do shut up,” Arthur grouses, hitting him with Shakespeare. “Your brain’s not accustomed to doing that much work. It’s crying out for help.”
“Do I have to, I dunno, stake my claim or something?” Alfred wonders, utterly serious.
At this, Arthur actually deigns to put Shakespeare aside-just for the moment, of course. “Alfred Jones, do not do anything stupid. Do you understand me?”
“What do you-” Alfred begins, but doesn’t get any further than that as the object of their discussion arrives home, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“I’m home!”
“Matt!” Alfred leaps off the couch and bounds over to him. “Have I told you how awesome you are lately?”
Matthew gives him an amused look. “Does that have anything to do with the fact that I’m making mac and cheese for dinner tonight?” he calls over his shoulder as he strides into the kitchen.
Alfred shoots Arthur a triumphant smirk. “See? He’s making me mac and cheese.”
Arthur waves him off impatiently with a flick of his hand. Alfred laughs it off, and moves to follow Matthew into the kitchen. But then he pauses for a second, just a second, intending to remind Arthur it’s his turn to do the dishes tonight. The words die on his tongue, halted momentarily by the picture Arthur makes, alone on the couch, surrounded by his books. They’re obliterated completely by distant memories of lazy afternoons in the past year, where two boys, not one, sat on the couch, sipping tea and coffee, anything but lonely.
xxvii.
Alfred downloads a copy of The Proposal from the Internet and watches it one dreary afternoon when he’s home alone. It’s good as far as romantic comedies go, the cast is nice to look at, and the romantic leads are American and Canadian (which may or may not have had to do with his choice to watch said movie in the first place), so all in all Alfred thinks it was an afternoon well spent.
But when the movie ends, he figures it’s time to at least attempt to do some schoolwork, so he curls up on the sofa with his physics textbook on his lap, eyes darting across the pages as he commits formulas and theorems to memory.
Thirty minutes later, he blinks awake to the realization that he’s somehow sprawled out across the entirety of the couch, physics textbook carelessly laid out on his stomach, pages wrinkled against his shirt. Matthew’s come home since then, sitting on the floor in front of him.
The Colbert Report is playing on TV, volume practically muted. He turns back to find Matthew chuckling quietly at whatever he hears.
His heart feels-full.
“Matt,” he murmurs, voice clogged with sleep. “Matt. Mattie.”
Matthew smiles at him, and it’s so warm. “Yeah?”
“If you-” he yawns abruptly, not bothering to cover his mouth. “-if you were ever in danger of getting deported from the U.S., I’d totally marry you. You know?”
Matthew lets out a quiet laugh. “You do know I’ve got dual citizenship, don’t you?”
“Thought that counts,” Alfred mumbles as his eyes slide shut, glasses pressing awkwardly against his nose and cheeks.
Gentle hands pry his glasses off his face and ruffle his hair tenderly. Matthew’s soft smile is the last thing Alfred sees before he finally drifts off to sleep.
xxviii.
“Arthur, did you know that France and England are really close to each other? Like, crazy close.”
Arthur glances up from his mug of tea, giving him that look of his that speaks volumes of his opinion on the American public school system. His annoyance is intensified by the fact that it is seven-fifteen in the morning, clearly far too early for any sort of geographical discussion.
Naturally, Alfred ignores this. “I mean it!” he insists, and points to his laptop screen, which displays a map of Europe he found on Google. “Look at how close they are. They’re practically touching!”
Arthur scowls.
“And-what’s this, the body of water that separates them? The Channel? That’s nothing. Don’t people swim across that all the time and stuff?” Alfred hums with excitement. “There’s no reason for you not to visit him, especially when you go back to London all the time.”
Arthur’s face changes, goes tight and strained, closed-off. “Too bad, then,” he bites out, “since I can’t fucking swim.”
Irritation blooms in Alfred’s chest, and he finds himself suddenly tired of their stupidity. Arthur’s already walking away, retreating, as he always does these days. “Then take a fucking boat!” he yells at his back.
xxix.
Alfred decides to go about this the straightforward way. After all, he’s never been the sort to beat around the bush, so on a quiet Thursday evening, he plops down on the couch next to Matthew and says, “Dude, I like you.”
Matthew throws him a bemused look before returning to his math problems. “Thanks, Al.”
This isn’t exactly how Alfred had envisioned the aftermath of his confession, and he begins to panic. A bit. “No, I mean-I really like you. Really.”
“Okay,” Matthew says distractedly, “hey, can you hand me that pencil? Right there? Thanks.”
“Matt, I’m trying to tell you something,” Alfred starts again.
Matthew scowls at the numbers on his paper. “What am I doing wrong?” he demands, shoving the worksheet in Al’s face. Al goes cross-eyed trying to read it.
“You dropped a negative sign back here,” he explains. “Screwed up the rest of your calculations.”
Matthew’s eyes widen. “Damn,” he exhales, beginning to erase his work. He looks up briefly, offering Alfred a small smile. “Thanks.”
Matthew really does have the prettiest eyes, Alfred thinks. “Oh, yeah, sure, man. No problem.”
“Weren’t you going to tell me something?” Matthew asks suddenly, brow furrowed in concentration, attempting to solve the math problem a second time.
And for some reason, all of Alfred’s confidence is gone, vacuumed away. “Uh, oh, yeah, but. I forgot,” he stammers, quickly standing and backing into the kitchen. Matthew doesn’t notice, too engrossed in his work. Alfred fills his glass with water from the tap just so his hands have something to do.
Arthur, munching on a leftover scone nearby, coughs into his hand. It sounds suspiciously like, “Pathetic.”
Alfred narrows his eyes. “At least he’s still in the country.”
Arthur elbows him. Painfully. “Shut it.”
Predictably, Alfred does no such thing. “If you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring on it,” he sniggers, waving his hand at Arthur’s nose.
Arthur hurls a scone at his face. It actually leaves a bruise.
xxx.
Alfred is taking an introductory drawing class with Professor Vargas this year in order to fulfill his fine arts requirements. Alfred likes the guy-he’s fairly lenient, totally chill for an old dude, and an all-around decent prof, even if he does have a weird complex with his grandchildren.
Today he’s wandering around the art building, attempting to find Vargas’ office to get some advice on his latest project, sketchbook tucked loosely against his side. It’s an old building, replicas of famous paintings adorning the walls, dusty and creaking with old, untold stories.
When he finally finds Vargas’ office (Room 429), the room is empty. Alfred scowls as he comes in and plops gracelessly down on a sturdy office chair. Always curious, he allows himself to examine the interior. It’s messy, a typical professor’s office, stacks of papers carelessly piled on his desk, thick art history textbooks on his shelves, paints and brushes and rough sketches everywhere. This is not what catches Alfred’s interest; this is boring, unimportant.
What does catch his interest is the single canvas painting sitting on the floor in the back corner of the room, not quite hidden, but not quite for show, either. Without sparing a second thought, Alfred heads straight for it, kneeling down to get a better view.
Oh.
Oh, wow.
Eyes wide, Alfred does the first thing that comes to mind: he flees the room.
xxxi.
“Why are you dragging me into the art building?” hisses Matthew, wrenching his elbow away from Alfred’s grasp. Tries to do so is more like it; Alfred’s grip is unrelenting. “Al, I can walk on my own. Al. Let. Go.”
“No, dude, seriously,” Alfred tightens his grip, coming to an abrupt halt outside Vargas’ office. “This is really important. Italics and Capitals and Underlines important.”
Matthew looks unimpressed. “Let me guess. You created a life-sized sculpture of Superman. Made entirely out of burgers.”
Alfred blinks. “No, but that is a totally awesome idea.”
Matthew sighs. “Al, what are we doing here?” he asks, and Alfred suddenly notices the bags under his eyes and the tired expression on his face. (That’s right, he remembers, he pulled an all-nighter finishing a term paper for his sociology class.) A vague feeling, something almost like guilt, rises in his chest, making him squirm. He drops Matthew’s arm.
He begins to ramble. “You know how in video games, sometimes you’re just kinda going along, killing zombies and aliens and it’s awesome but then out of nowhere you find a super amazing special item that gives you, like, a million life points and gets you to the next level and stuff?”
Matthew’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “Yes?”
“Well, it’s like that, but way better,” Alfred reassures him, and steps into the room. It’s still empty (does Vargas even use his office?), and the canvas is still in the corner, unmoved, untouched. Matthew follows him with significantly more hesitation, eyes darting nervously to the hallway.
“Look,” Alfred urges him, and Matthew does.
“Oh,” he says, dropping down to his knees and tracing fingers over the faint watercolors. “Oh, Francis.”
Because here it is-Francis’ final project, finished, hidden away in a dark office of the art building. It is, in all honesty, a strange piece of work, subtle watercolors spilling out all over, blending and bleeding into each other. But there’s no denying the sheer intimacy of the piece. Not in a sexual way, not really, but in almost every other possible way. There is a bed, yes, wrinkled sheets gathered over the arch of a foot, the shape of a calf and up over knobby knees; a book held in the grip of spindly fingers, thin shoulders resting against the headboard, dark, horn-rimmed glasses framing vividly sharp, green eyes. This is a man who lives in this bed, who knows this bed, and Alfred’s only seen rose-colored sheets like that once and they weren’t Arthur’s.
“What are you doing here?” Alfred spins around guiltily to find Professor Vargas looming in the doorway, frowning curiously at the two of them. Sneaking his hands behind his back, he slips his phone out of his back pocket and hands it to Matthew as he meets Professor Vargas at the door.
“Was looking for you, hoping to get some critique for my project,” he quickly says, flipping open his sketchbook to a random page and shoving it directly into Vargas’ face. Matthew appears next to him, sliding the cell phone back into Alfred’s back pocket. Alfred shivers.
“Shadowing’s a bit off,” Vargas comments, walking into the office, ushering Alfred in. Matthew takes the opportunity to slip off undetected, and Alfred only half-listens to the art professor’s critique, wondering exactly what it is he’s discovered in this messy office.
xxxii.
It is raining and Frank Sinatra is singing.
He is singing “Fly Me to the Moon”, to be precise, when Matthew comes home, dripping wet and thoroughly disgruntled. Alfred glances up at the sound, feeling warm at the sight of him.
“Hey, what’s up?” he asks, taking a break from his entirely unproductive study session. Matthew groans something tiredly beneath his breath before collapsing onto the couch, stretching his legs out so his feet rest on Alfred’s lap. Alfred shoves them off laughingly before turning to face him fully. “Matt?”
“I want to die,” he moans pitifully.
“Aw, don’t say that.” Al leans over and straightens Matthew’s glasses so they’re not lying askew on his nose. Matthew’s eyes blink open.
“Today sucked,” he declares. “I absolutely failed my calculus exam, I know it, and then I got caught in this fucking rain and I-” He turns wide, dejected eyes to Alfred. “I just want some poutine.”
“Poor baby,” Alfred teases. “But, you know what? When I get sad, I put on Hakuna Matata and start singing and dancing in my bedroom. Always makes me feel better.”
“I know. We can hear you.” Matthew rolls his eyes.
“Come on. You know you want to.” Alfred grins mischievously at him, hitting a button on his laptop.
Matthew groans. “Al, no.”
“Hakuna Matata,” Alfred begins, completely in sync with the music, taking Matthew by the elbow and tugging him to his feet. “What a wonderful phrase.”
“Al,” Matthew starts, but allows himself to be twirled around the room anyway. Al gives him that puppy-dog face, that pouting bottom lip, until Matt finally gives in, smiling slightly as he dutifully recites, “It means no worries for the rest of your days…”
“It’s our problem free philosophy,” they both sing as they spin clumsily around the room. Matthew’s face is flushed by the time the song ends, eyes impossibly bright, hair in disarray, an errant curl falling into his eyes. Alfred wants to tuck it behind his ear, grab his face in both hands, and kiss him.
So he does.
xxxiii.
Alfred remembers the first day Matthew ever made them pancakes: a rainy Monday morning during the second week of the semester, all dreary and muggy, utterly unpleasant.
He can still recall the smell of pancakes in the air, warm and inviting, Francis’ long limbs sprawled gracefully across the chair while they were waiting for Matthew to finish, and Arthur trudging into the room like a zombie, staring blearily at the growing stack of pancakes at Matthew’s side.
He remembers taking that first bite of pancake, warm and fluffy, maple syrup sliding down the back of his throat. Remembers turning to Matthew and moaning, “Where have you been all my life?”
And then, Matthew, flashing him a quick and disarming grin. “In a cupboard, under some stairs,” he replies cheekily, eliciting an honest, genuine laugh from Alfred’s lips.
Looking back, maybe that’s how it all started. (He’s always had a weakness for good food and pop culture references.)
xxxiv.
“This doesn’t explain why you’re in my room, under the bed,” Arthur says dryly, giving Alfred a thoroughly unimpressed look. “Get out.”
“You can’t make me no Artie don’t you fucking dare-” Alfred hisses as Arthur kneels down and attempts to drag Alfred out of his temporary (perhaps permanent, if Alfred has anything to do with it) hiding place. Alfred doesn’t budge at all, and Arthur soon gives up, red-faced from exertion.
“I could just call him in here.” Arthur huffs as he sits down on the edge of the bed. Alfred gives his ankle a sharp prod.
“He won’t come in,” Alfred murmurs. “He’s probably sitting in his room thinking. Thinking about-thinking about how he hates me and oh god Arthur what if he never speaks to me again what if I’ve ruined our friendship forever and ever and-”
Arthur’s leg swings backwards and kicks him. In the face. Alfred squawks indignantly, hand coming up to clutch at his nose.
“Sorry,” says Arthur unrepentantly.
Alfred checks to make sure blood isn’t seeping out of his nostrils, then glares up at him. “I was going to share a super top-secret discovery with you, too.”
Arthur falls heavily on top of his bed. “What, pray tell, could it possibly be?” His voice drips with sarcasm as his feet tap out a steady rhythm against the floor.
“Not telling now,” Alfred mutters, sliding open his phone and browsing through the pictures in his albums until he finds the one Matthew’d taken just a few days ago. It’s slightly blurry, and the lighting isn’t so great, but it’s enough to see what’s important-namely, Arthur.
“I don’t care,” Arthur retorts, entirely unconvincingly. Alfred taps his phone screen thoughtfully.
“Not even if it has to do with Francis?” Alfred watches as Arthur’s feet twitch, halting momentarily in the air before resuming their staccato drumming against the carpet.
“No,” he snaps.
Arthur’s leg begins to shake restlessly. The rapid up-and-down motion of his foot begins to make Alfred dizzy, and he slaps at his calf.
“Here,” he says, shimmying halfway out from beneath the bed and handing Arthur the phone. The other boy takes it immediately.
The change is minute, but staggering. Arthur stiffens, goes completely still, and his face simply closes off into a mask of utter indifference. Alfred draws back into the darkness under the bed out of pure instinct, and watches wordlessly as Arthur stalks out of the room, tossing Alfred’s phone on the bed behind him.
“Art-” he starts belatedly, but the rest of the word is swallowed by the slam of the door.
xxv.
Alfred does a spectacular job of hiding from Matthew for the next day and a half, though he knows he’s only been able to succeed so far because Matthew’s hiding from him, too. He hasn’t quite figured out how he feels about that.
He arrives home at four-thirty, a bit ahead of his usual schedule because class has been let out early. As soon as he opens the door, Arthur’s furious, furious voice assaults his ears.
He freezes at the doorway, unsure of what to do next. Arthur’s voice echoes from his room, permeated with anger, “You fucking coward,” he hisses, “how dare you, how dare you make that without telling me-and then run off to the other side of the world, you fucking coward-”
Arthur falls silent for a while, and when he next speaks, his voice is less angry and more resigned, more bitter. “I know I left first. I know. But you-you didn’t have to let me go so easily.”
Alfred leaves as quietly as he can.
xxxvi.
Alfred recognizes the poem, but doesn’t bother to leave a comment. Later that night, though, in the dimly lit living room, his eyes alight on a book of poetry sitting innocently on the coffee table, clearly a belonging of Arthur’s: a well-worn, dog-eared collection of e.e. cummings.
xxxvii.
The next morning, Alfred sees this in response to Francis’ post:
xxxviii.
Alfred inspects his creation: a bowl of fries slathered with instant gravy and cheese. It’s edible, at the very least. Never actually having had poutine, he can’t be too sure about the taste, but he hadn’t burnt anything, so it ought to be all right, right?
He walks to Matthew’s front door and knocks.
Which is weird all in itself. He’s never knocked, never. The doors between them have always been unlocked, and they’ve always barged in on each other, stealing mugs of coffee and platefuls of crêpes without any trace of awkwardness. Prickles of anxiety crawl beneath his skin, and he hates it. Things with Matt should always, always, be comfortable.
Matthew opens the door, confused. “Why’d you knock?”
Alfred coughs. “Um. Here.” He thrusts the bowl of poutine into Matthew’s chest, who accepts it with no little surprise.
“You made me poutine,” he says with startled eyes.
“Yeah, you-uh, you’d said, earlier, you know, that you’d wanted them. I don’t know if they came out all right, I’ve never had ‘em before, and I was just sort of-I dunno, making it up as I went along and-oh, okay,” Alfred trails off as Matthew walks inside the apartment. He hesitates for all of two seconds before following him inside.
“They’re not so bad,” Matthew comments as he bites into a fry. There’s a spot of gravy just at the corner of his lip, and Alfred wants to lick it away-no, no, that’s what got you into this mess in the first place, jackass.
“Good,” Alfred says, awkwardly.
God, and that’s exactly what this is: awkward. Painfully so. And it-it sucks, because being with Matt has never been like this. Confusing, yes, but awkward and strange and uncomfortable are words he never wants to associate with Matt, never.
“So, are you going to bring it up, or am I?” Matthew finally says, glancing briefly up at him before returning to his food.
Alfred decides to fling his pride out the window, banging his head soundly against the kitchen counter. “You.”
“Fine.” Matthew pauses. “Why did you kiss me?”
“Wow. No build-up at all or anything,” mutters Alfred, lifting his head to glare balefully at him. Matthew reddens and eats another fry.
“Look,” Matthew begins, avoiding his eyes, and Alfred realizes he’s just as uncomfortable as he is. He doesn’t know what that means. “If you want, we can just-I don’t know, just forget about it. That’s fine. I wasn’t. You know. Expecting anything, really.”
All his life, people have told Alfred that he can’t read the atmosphere. That he’s clueless when it comes to people’s feelings, that he’s as dense as a rock. And Alfred’s always laughed it off because, yeah, okay, maybe he is a bit slow when it comes to this sort of thing. But-but-
Not now. Not when Matthew-Matt, Mattie-is standing there, waiting.
“I don’t want to forget it. I-I-” He searches for the words, the right and proper words, but comes up with nothing. He can only think of the movies he’s seen (those damn romantic-comedies), of how he’s not Darcy, never could be Darcy, can only think that he wants so much more than five hundred days of summer, that he wants all of Matthew’s days, spring and summer and autumn and winter, and maybe that makes him a selfish bastard, and maybe he doesn’t care.
So he takes the plunge.
“I want to grow old and dance to Disney songs with you,” he blurts out.
xxxix.
Matthew starts, first.
Then, he stares. Just-stares at Alfred, appraisingly, silent. And Alfred lets him, lets Matthew study him like an x-ray, fractures and imperfections laid bare for him to see.
And then, and then, Matthew smiles, and Alfred thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, better than a game of baseball on a sultry summer afternoon, better than fireworks coloring the sky on the Fourth of July.
He moves closer, falls against him, sagging in relief.
(It’s okay that he’s not Darcy. Matthew’s not Elizabeth, either.)
xl.
“I’m back, you wouldn’t believe the absolutely horrid day I’ve had and-oh my god.”
Alfred and Matthew instantly spring apart, shirts discarded, pants unbuttoned.
“Hi, Arthur,” they chorus guiltily.
xli.
xlii.
“So. You and Matthew.”
Alfred lets out a sigh, perhaps a tad dreamier and giddier than normal. “Yeah.”
Arthur snorts. “Was only a matter of time, I suppose, with the eyes you were making at him.”
“Was it that obvious?” Alfred asks, a bit sheepish.
Arthur raises a thick, thick eyebrow. “You bought him a bottle of maple syrup every week. Every damn week.”
Alfred grins, unrepentant, drumming his fingers against his knee as he watches Arthur work. He writes so many words, he thinks, so why can’t he find the right ones? “You know… I think Francis knew, too.”
Arthur pauses in his typing, stiffens for a moment, and then continues with a soft, tired sigh. “Francis always knows,” he says.
Alfred takes in the half-eaten croissant on the paper plate sitting on the armrest by Arthur’s side, crumbs spilling everywhere, the book of e.e. cummings’ poetry that’s still sitting on the table, and wonders if Francis knows about this, too.
xliii.
The summer Alfred turned eight, his parents took him to England. He, naturally, hated it. England was cold and wet and rainy, even in the summer, and while the fish and chips weren't terrible, he missed the fireworks on the Fourth of July, the feeling of freshly-mowed grass between his toes, sizzling barbecue on the grill in the backyard.
His cousin Arthur made things worse.
Alfred couldn't understand him through his thick accent, he had these weird creepy eyebrows-Alfred was half-convinced that they’d jump off his face and attack him, and he talked to himself. All the time. Now, Alfred was a good kid, smart and bright and always cheerful, always ready to make friends, but there were some people who were just better off alone.
And then came a Saturday evening, two days before their flight back to America. After a warm and hearty meal of roast beef and potatoes, Arthur scurried off to the living room, flipped on the television (the telly, Alfred snickered to himself), and plopped down on the carpet, utterly entranced.
Bored with the adults' conversation, Alfred meandered into the living room as well, sitting down a fair distance away from the other boy. He watched with faint interest as the theme song played, as a blue police box zipped through time and space, as a girl wandered into an abandoned house filled with old, creepy-looking statues.
“What’s this?” Alfred asked, wide-eyed.
“What do you mean, ‘what’s this’?” Arthur ripped his gaze away from the screen to fix Alfred with a disbelieving stare. “It’s Doctor Who. Don’t you get this in America?”
“I don’t think so,” Alfred replied, horribly fascinated by the show.
“Yanks,” Arthur muttered disgustedly beneath his breath.
“Hey, I heard that,” Alfred protested halfheartedly, eyes still glued to the screen, “and America is awesome, okay, it’s sunny and pretty and why did that statue just move?”
“I don’t know!” Arthur snapped. “If we keep watching, we’ll find out!”
It’s funny, the way two people grow closer together. In the course of forty-five minutes, Arthur went from being Alfred’s stodgy, boring cousin to his sole lifeline in the face of what had to be the most disturbing aliens ever. As the show progressed, Alfred scooted closer and closer to Arthur until he was close enough to grab him during a particularly hair-raising scene.
“Don’t-don’t pretend to be brave,” Alfred stammered, sinking his nails into Arthur’s arm. Arthur yowled at the pain. “I-I know you’re scared, but-but I’m definitely not, and-and-”
“You’re the one who’s shaking,” Arthur retorted, but allowed Alfred the use of his arm for the rest of the episode.
But this is a distant memory from over ten years ago, the furthest thing on Alfred’s mind as he accompanies Arthur into the small bakery tucked away in the corner of a street downtown at seven in the evening (they’re selling everything for half-price, now). He pauses to inhale the sweet smell of freshly-baked bread, and they fill up two trays in no time with an assortment of croissants and Danishes, madeleines and brownies and apple-raisin bread.
“Oh, look,” Alfred says, nudging Arthur with his elbow. “Macarons, see?”
Arthur casts a carefully disinterested look over the display near the cashier. “Oh?”
“You want some?” Alfred plucks the prettiest-looking package and holds it out.
Arthur’s facial expression never changes. “Not particularly.”
Alfred’s pretty fluent at Arthur-speak now, so he quietly sets the package on the counter when it looks like Arthur’s not paying attention. If Arthur notices, he doesn’t say a word.
xliv.
That night, their dinner consists of bread and beer, old reruns of Friends keeping them company whenever their conversations lapse. Matthew’s nestled into Alfred’s side, and Alfred absentmindedly plays with their interlocked fingers. Matthew’s hands are slightly larger than his, calloused and rough from years of playing hockey. Alfred loves them.
“You two are sickening,” Arthur declares, rolling his eyes.
“Don’t be jealous,” Alfred retorts. Matthew immediately elbows him in the stomach as Arthur grows quiet.
Ah, damn, Alfred thinks, watching Arthur warily as he throws his head back to gulp down his beer. Arthur sets his beer down on the floor and rummages through the paper bags of bread, frowning as he pulls out the package of macarons. They’re a set of six, all pastel pink with a white cream filling, delicate and pretty, and Alfred hopes and hopes that Arthur won’t smash them to pieces or something equally melodramatic.
But Arthur simply unties the plastic tie, selects a macaron, and bites into it without a word. He slides the bag across the table, chewing thoughtfully. Matthew and Alfred snatch the bag, taking two each, and handing Arthur the last one.
He declines. “They’re not as good as before,” he murmurs, words slurring together slightly from the alcohol.
Matthew smiles, a bit sadly. “No,” he agrees, “they’re not.”
And for reasons beyond his comprehension, Alfred suddenly remembers that summer he’d spent in London all those years ago-not so much the rain and the dreariness, but the bright-eyed boy who’d kept him company, who’d waved a plastic toy Harry Potter wand and said Expecto patronum! to keep the scary angel statues away in the night.
“What’s your Patronus look like, anyway?” Alfred had whispered to him, hands fisted in the sleeve of his pajama top.
“It’s a unicorn, so you’ll be all right,” Arthur had replied in all seriousness, and Alfred had believed him with all of his eight-year-old heart.
The memory brings a smile to his face and warmth all the way down to his toes. Watching Arthur’s tired, pale face, he decides it’s time to repay the favor.
xlv.
Alfred and Francis hold the following conversation (privately) on Facebook over the next day and a half:
xlvi.
Today is a completely ordinary Tuesday.
It is, also, ridiculously humid outside, and the three of them are at home for various reasons-Alfred’s decided to skip class, Arthur’s was cancelled, and Matthew’s never had class on Tuesday afternoons anyway. They’re all in the living room, air-conditioning cranked up, reruns of I Love Lucy playing on the television and textbooks propped open on their laps, brains meandering clumsily from the show to the weary world of academia.
Arthur’s got his iPod playing, too, an earphone dangling from his left ear. Sometimes, he sings a line or two, his voice sudden and harsh against the relatively quiet background noise. Alfred and Matthew like to join in, if they know the song (they usually do), a chorus of off-key voices in their quiet, sunny apartment.
Arthur’s murmuring an absentminded “Lights will guide you home…” as he taps a rhythm against his knee with a neon green highlighter and Matthew’s humming along quietly, but Alfred’s distracted by the sound of the front door opening (the hinges always creak) and footsteps gradually growing louder. He’s about to turn and tell Matt to grab his hockey stick when a voice hesitantly says, “Hello?”
That voice, Alfred thinks, realization dawning.
Alfred feels rather than sees Arthur stiffen next to him, body rigid and taut, feels his shoulders rise with a sudden, harsh intake of breath. He’s looking at Arthur’s face when Francis finally comes into view, and it changes, in some funny, indescribable way. He turns back to give Francis a small smile, but he needn’t have bothered; he only has eyes for Arthur.
“You,” Arthur hisses, face twisting into a scowl that only Francis seems to be able to draw out.
“Yes,” Francis murmurs, “me.”
xlvii.
“Alfred and I were just leaving,” Matthew instantly says, hopping up from his spot on the couch, pausing only to grab his notebook. “Nice seeing you, Francis.”
“You, too,” Francis says, stopping to give him a quick hug. Matthew grabs Alfred by the elbow and manhandles him out the front door. Alfred is too surprised to put up a fight.
“Why are we leaving?” he asks, confused.
“You can’t be that dense,” is all Matthew says as he makes himself comfortable on the hallway floor, leaving the door a crack open and cocking his head to the side to hear better.
“Well, ‘course I’m not,” Alfred defends himself, “but it was just a bit sudden, was all. Just dragging me out here. All in control and dominant. Totally hot, by the way.”
Matthew flushes. Alfred loves it when he does that, and scoots ever closer, tucking an arm around his waist. Suddenly, Matthew presses a finger to Alfred’s lips, shaking his head hurriedly.
Arthur’s voice floats out the door, and it’s frightened and angry and defensive all at the same time. “You don’t just-no. You don’t just get to come back in here and ask to start over, you bastard. You left. And I was just here, just. Just.”
“Waiting?” Francis asks, a hint of teasing in his voice.
“Fuck you,” Arthur spits.
“I waited, too,” Francis confesses, perhaps realizing that if anything’s to happen, he’s got to be the one to give in first. Arthur can be stupidly stubborn-his default state of mind, Alfred thinks. “The first time you left. When you said we were over. I thought you would come back. You’d always come back, before. I waited. Waited. And then you didn’t, and…”
“And then Alfred and Matthew moved in,” Arthur continues, considerably calmer, speaking slowly, as though he’s considering every word.
“They did,” Francis agrees. Then, “if they hadn’t, I don’t think we’d have ever spoken again.”
Arthur sighs. “You’re probably right.”
Francis sighs, too, heavy and exhausted and a bit hopeless. “What do you want from me, then? Do you want me to stay? Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” Arthur blurts out immediately. “I-no.”
Silence for a while, and Alfred rests his elbows on his thighs, waiting impatiently for them to speak. “You’ve done all the walking out, you know,” Francis says next.
“I didn’t see you coming after me,” Arthur retorts.
“Why, Arthur.” Alfred can hear the smile in his voice. “Did you want me to run after you? Chase you down like they do in the movies? I’m afraid I didn’t know. I thought you would rather I pine away, moping and lonely, desperate for your company.”
“Shut up,” Arthur grumbles halfheartedly.
And then, “You didn’t really pine, did you?”
A sigh. Alfred can imagine Francis’ half-smile, a wry, half-quirk of the lips. “More than you deserve.”
Arthur doesn’t speak for a while. When he does, it’s the last thing Alfred would have ever expected to hear from him, but Alfred quite likes surprises. “I waited,” he admits, quietly. “For you, too. More than you deserve, you prick.”
“Arthur Kirkland, the boy who waited,” Francis says then, and, oh, there is so much affection in his voice. Had they always been like that? How could Alfred have ever missed it?
“Francis Bonnefoy, the boy who was exceedingly stupid, and-” The rest of Arthur’s words are swallowed without warning, and nothing else is said for a long, long time.
Matthew stands up first, pulling the door shut quietly. He holds a hand out to Alfred, who takes it without hesitation.
“You think they’ll be okay?” Matthew asks as they enter the other apartment across the hall.
Alfred thinks of Arthur Before and Arthur After-thinks of the unmistakable hope that had dawned in Arthur’s eyes the moment he’d seen Francis (small, but still undeniably there), thinks of the two of them waiting and waiting and waiting and says:
“Yeah. I think they’ll be fine.”
xlviii.
But apart from a scowl and a halfhearted shove when Arthur gets home, there’s no real evidence of Arthur’s supposed anger. In fact, after dinner, Alfred catches them necking on the couch. He takes a moment to smile before becoming really grossed out; then he runs across the hall to hide out with Matthew.
xlix.
In the fall, Francis permanently returns to the apartment, having been accepted into the master’s program at the university. Just like before, Arthur and Alfred are still roommates, as are Francis and Matthew. As a matter of fact, apart from the changes in sleeping arrangements, everything’s pretty much the same, and the four of them quickly fall back into an easy, clockwork routine.
These are the good days: Alfred stumbles out of bed only ten minutes after his alarm goes off, takes a quick shower, gets dressed. In the kitchen, Arthur brews tea and makes toast, which, most days, doesn't burn. Alfred always steals two while slathering it with butter and jam ("You fuckin' tosser, that was my breakfast!" is screeched only halfheartedly; Arthur always makes extra, but still makes a fuss for appearance's sake), then darts across the hall to steal a cup of coffee from Francis and Matt, who are so used to it they always leave an extra mug out, next to the coffee maker ("Wash your mug!" Matthew reminds him, and sometimes, Al actually listens).
These are the bad days: Arthur and Francis get into a fight-and when they fight, they fight-where words are thrown carelessly, drawing blood, and they leave before the wounds can be bandaged. Sometimes, Alfred and Matthew fight, too, and while they’re not as harsh (they’ve not had as much practice as Arthur and Francis), Alfred still spends most of the day sullen and morose, a frown marring his usually cheerful expression.
And these are the other good days: Matthew shows Alfred how to make proper poutine and Alfred doesn’t listen to a word he says, distracted by the speck of gravy in the corner of his lip (he’s such a messy eater, honestly), and leans in to lick it away because he can, and pulls away to see Matthew gorgeous and smiling. Francis and Arthur remember to lock the doors this time, those damn hypocrites, and Alfred chuckles quietly about the fact that they actually need to lock the doors now, and how this means more than anything else.
But these, these are the best days: Days when Matthew’s English class lets out early and he runs down to McDonald’s to join Alfred on his lunch break, where they spend the thirty minutes sitting in a corner booth across from each other, Alfred’s ankles nestled between Matthew’s, impossibly warm and cozy and right. Days when they walk to class together and Alfred tucks his hand into Matthew’s back pocket just because. Days when Arthur’s yelling about something, flustered and furious, and Francis leans in and sweetly steals his anger away.
(And, yes: days when Francis makes macarons and Arthur hoards them like precious, precious things, and Matt and Alfred make a game of sneaking them away without getting caught.)
And in the end, they’re still just four boys, stupid and silly and only occasionally smart, but they’re together, and happy, and in love. This time, Alfred thinks, snuggling into Matthew’s side, in Matthew’s bed, it feels right, just the way things should be.
Then again, he’s always been a sucker for happy endings.
He smiles into Matthew’s shoulder and falls asleep.
And we tore our dresses and stained our shirts
But it’s nice today
Oh, the wait was worth it
|| end ||
Notes:
- Title and ending lyrics from Jason Mraz's "A Beautiful Mess"
- References to the following: Doctor Who's "Blink", "The Girl Who Waited" (though here's the boy who did the same), fish fingers and custard; Harry Potter - The Patronus Charm, A Very Potter Musical; 500 Days of Summer; e.e. cummings' "i carry your heart with me"; The Proposal; Nat King Cole's "L-O-V-E"; Beyonce's "Single Ladies"; The Lion King - "Hakuna Matata"; Coldplay's "Fix You".
- Thanks to falling_voices, for being the best beta ever. ♥
- ETA: This fic was graciously translated into Russian by chuchelo_evreya. The link to her translation can be found here