[FIC] Anatomy of an Anomalous Relationship, 4/6

[fireblazie]

Arthur slows down from a fast run to a jog, fiddling with the touch screen of his iPod. He takes deep breaths, waiting for his rapid pulse to settle into a steady resting rate, dabbing away at the sweat on his neck with the back of his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a car approaching, and he instinctively moves further into the sidewalk, scrolling through his playlist.

The car honks, an abrupt and shrieking noise. He jumps in surprise, none too gracefully, and turns to level a glare at the driver, only a little surprised by his identity.

“Need a ride?” Francis asks, grinning.

“No,” he says, curtly, more out of habit than anything. He shoves his earphones in his ears, selecting a song at random and hitting ‘play’.

“But you’ve only just recovered from your cold,” Francis presses, “and it looks like rain.”

Arthur glances up at the sky. Francis is actually right; the clear blue sky that had greeted him this morning has disappeared, clothed entirely by ominous dark gray clouds. Still, his house really isn’t that far.

“No, I can-” Arthur begins to say, but stops short of finishing, gaping in muted horror at the electronic device in his hand.

Ella Fitzgerald croons sweetly in his ear, Think of what you’re doing by constantly refusing to dance with me…

“Arthur? What’s wrong?” Francis furrows his brow, concerned.

You’d be the idol of France with me…

Arthur continues to gawk at his iPod, convinced that if he stares at it long enough, it will shut off.

It doesn’t.

And yet you stand there and shake your foolish head dramatically while I wait so ecstatically…

He’s only vaguely aware of Francis putting the car in park, unbuckling his seatbelt, and leaning across the passenger seat.

“Arthur?”

Arthur finally tugs out his earphones, harshly and sharply. Ella and Louis’ voices disappear, and his other hand clenches his iPod tightly. “I’m fine,” he says. It sounds pathetic even to him, so he repeats, louder, “I’m fine. Just-” He laughs, weakly. “An old song I don’t like much. Took me by surprise.”

Francis doesn’t look like he believes him, and frankly, Arthur doesn’t blame him one bit. Francis starts talking, something about insisting on taking him home, he really doesn’t want him to get sick again, and what about Alfred, but Arthur’s not listening to any of that at all.

Instead, he’s fascinated by the curve of Francis’ jaw, sharp and angular against the soft waves of his hair. He’s captivated by the lines of his hands, the way his slender fingers grip the sleek leather of the steering wheel.

He doesn’t wonder what it would feel like to have that jaw pressed so tightly against his that he gets whisker burn, doesn’t wonder what it would be like to entwine his fingers with his, doesn’t wonder if it would be a perfect fit.

It is in the midst of all these not-wonderings that Arthur realizes that he is completely and thoroughly fucked.

“…so will you let me give you a ride home already?”

Arthur shakes his head, mutters that he needs to go buy orange juice or something equally nonsensical, and turns around and walks away. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t see the look of confusion and hurt on Francis’ face, just keeps walking and walking and walking, trying to get rid of the heat in the pit of his stomach, in his face, in everything, and utterly, utterly failing.

“Mattie’s papa,” Alfred starts, pensive, “can I give you something?”

Francis looks up from a book he’s reading, taking in the thoughtful expression on Alfred’s face.

“Well, of course,” he says, setting his book aside. “But don’t you think you should give it to your own father?”

“Hm, I usually do. And I was gonna give it to him later, but.” Alfred sits down on the carpeted floors, slowly unzipping his backpack. “I dunno. I thought maybe you’d like it. I worked really hard on it!”

His gaze is so earnest that Francis doesn’t have the heart to refuse. “Okay, then,” he agrees, “what is it?”

Alfred’s grin spreads across the entirety of his face. With uncharacteristic meticulousness, he pulls out a large folded piece of red construction paper. Francis peers over, but Alfred quickly hides it behind his back.

“Not yet!” he scolds. “I gotta make sure everything’s just right.”

Stifling the amused grin that threatens to appear, Francis nods, properly chastised. “Of course. My apologies.”

Alfred frowns and scrutinizes what he has in his hands, a crease appearing in his forehead. He looks so much like his father in that moment, Francis thinks with a fond smile.

“Okay.” Alfred nods decisively. “Close your eyes.”

Francis obediently does as he’s told. Three, two, one-and then the barely perceptible weight of a piece of paper on his lap.

“May I open my eyes now?” he asks, a grin twitching at the corners of his lips.

“Yeah,” Alfred says, sounding impatient. “Open them, open them!”

Francis does so.

Oh.

The card is simple, a piece of red construction paper folded painstakingly in half-there is evidence of several attempts in doing so, more than a few creases left behind in the process-but Francis pays that no mind, and smiles ever so gently at the sight of purple flowers, drawn shakily with crayon.

He opens the card, and his breath leaves him entirely.

Happy Mother’s Day.

It’s written, again, in crayon, emblazoned brightly and proudly across the top of the inner page. Below it, in smaller text, reads:

Your You’re awsom awesome.

Love, Alfred.

“Do you like it?” Alfred asks, anxiously. “The teacher always makes us make these, even though I don’t have a mom. And I kept making lotsa mistakes, see?”

“I-Alfred-” Francis finally finds his voice. “My dear, I’m not your-not your mother…”

“I know,” Alfred says, flippant. “But I thought I should give it to you anyways. You smell good, like lotsa mommies. And you pick us up from school, sometimes. Oh, and your food is really yummy, too.”

Francis simply stares down at the card, suddenly feeling regretful. “I-I can’t be your mother, Alfred. You have to understand.”

Alfred shrugs. “I think you’d be better than any mom.”

Francis can suddenly hear everything in the room-the hum of the refrigerator, the pigeons fluttering outside the window, his shaky, shallow breathing. He opens his mouth to say something-to convey his gratitude, to convey this indescribable love he feels for this little boy who’s not even his son, but Matthew saves him the trouble.

“Oh!” he says, entering the room with a similar card in hand, albeit pink rather than red.  He furrows his brow. “Should I give this to Alfred’s dad, then?”

“Ooh, like a trade?” Alfred lights up, bounding across the room. “Yeah, I bet Daddy would like that.”

Francis is at a loss for words, and can only bring himself to sit limply in his armchair as Matthew and Alfred chatter on about everything and nothing. And when the doorbell rings, fifteen minutes later, Arthur is on the other side, that perpetual scowl on his face. Francis moves aside to let him in, silent the entire time.

Arthur eyes him, wary. “What’s with you?”

Francis shakes his head once, very subtly, and Matthew slowly makes his way towards Arthur. Francis watches the proceedings very, very carefully: Arthur immediately crouches down to Matthew’s level, and Matthew shyly hands him the card.

“For you,” he says, and although his voice is still quiet, still that same timid tone, there’s a bit of a backbone to it, a strength and confidence Francis has never heard Matthew use with anyone other than him.

Francis hears Arthur’s sharp intake of breath as he opens the card. Glancing down, he sees a similar Mother’s Day greeting, scrawled in Matthew’s slightly neater hand, with the addition of three fateful words: I love you.

Arthur looks up and their eyes meet.

What now? he seems to ask.

Francis has no answer.

Arthur’s rummaging through his closet in search of a clean pair of socks when a small scrap of fabric on the floor catches his eye.

He kneels down and picks it up, rubbing it between his fingers. The pale pink cotton is soft against his calloused thumbs and the memory of its owner brings the sensation of rocks in his stomach, painful and jagged and sharp. He stands abruptly and pads into the kitchen, barefoot.

For no reason at all, he washes the handkerchief with cold water in the kitchen sink, scrubbing furiously at the fabric. He knows he should probably use laundry soap at the very least, but deliberately pumps dish soap instead. The cloth is buried beneath bubbles and foam.

He rinses it off, remembering how hot it’d been that day, sitting in cramped bleachers next to him. He wrings out as much water as he can and holds it at eye level, inspecting for any stains.

He deems it immaculate, and holds it in the palms of both hands, careful not to let any water drip on the floor. He walks past the refrigerator, which is decorated with a multitude of Alfred’s drawings-superheroes, cowboys, and aliens galore. The newest addition, a pink card with the words Happy Mother’s Day scrawled in crayon, carefully cropped to fit in, sits squarely at the center.

Arthur drapes the handkerchief on a hanger and leaves it in the bathroom. He’ll give it back to Francis in the morning.

“What are you looking at?”

Francis’ heartbeat thuds loudly in his ears, the boom of military drum rolls. “Just looking over some old texts,” he replies, smoothly. Antonio doesn’t look like he buys it, and Gilbert snorts at the exchange.

“Come on, don’t be so shy,” he leers, getting up from the couch and stalking over to Francis, holding out a hand expectantly. “Give it.”

“Seriously, there’s nothing,” Francis protests.

Gilbert starts to say something, but falls abruptly silent and shrugs. “Eh. I can believe that. Your sex life’s been awfully quiet lately.”

“I think it’s admirable,” says Antonio, nodding in support of his friend. “Shows you’re being a good father, this newfound celibacy of yours.”

“I guess,” Gilbert concedes with a tilt of his head. “Well, whatever. Okay, back to me. So you know that chick with the frying pan-”

Francis visibly relaxes, loosening his grip on his phone.

Three things happen at that moment: One, Gilbert leaps across the room with blinding speed and pins Francis to the couch. Two, the phone slips out of his grasp and clatters to the floor. Three, Antonio picks it up with a sunny smile.

“Bastards,” Francis grits out.

“You know it,” Gilbert sneers. “ ‘kay, what’ve we got, Toni?”

“Hmm,” Antonio says, noncommittally. “Oh. Oh.”

There is so much judgment in that single syllable that Francis whips his head up against Gilbert’s chin. Antonio holds the phone to their faces. Francis swears in his head, a mixture of French and English, at the sight. Why, why hadn’t he closed that window?

Gilbert gazes at the phone, and then turns to face Francis with a mixture of pity and incredulity. “Dude,” he says, shaking his head.

Francis glares futilely at the blurry picture on the screen, the one of Arthur he’d taken months ago, unconscious on his couch, cheeks rosy with heat. “There’s nothing so wrong with that,” he defends himself. “I have pictures of us in there.”

“Let me break that argument down for you.” Gilbert disentangles their limbs and stands, crossing his arms over his chest. “One: the pictures you have of us are embarrassing, stupid pictures on guys’ nights out that can be used for blackmail on future occasions. Two: this picture is intimate. Intimate, and the pictures you’ve got of us are anything but. This, I don’t know what this is, but he’s not drunk and you’re not drunk and I can only conclude that you wanted this for your own damn personal collection.

“Three,” he barrels on as Francis opens his mouth, “you were starin’ at this thing so fuckin’ googly-eyed that I half-expected you to start spewing hearts and sparkles. If you look at pictures of me and Toni like that then I think it’s time we have a serious talk.” He concludes with a smug, “Lawyered.”

“You know, you’re not allowed to use that until you’ve actually passed the bar,” Francis snipes. Gilbert calmly flips him off.

Antonio taps a finger to his chin thoughtfully and says, “I think he kind of looks familiar.”

Francis sighs. “You’re probably imagining it. Where could you have met him?” Gilbert, after all, is (was) Matthew’s main babysitter; Antonio’s work keeps him far too busy to even stop by most days.

“No, I really think I know him from somewhere,” Antonio insists, but Gilbert talks over him.

“Don’t go changing the subject,” Gilbert wags his finger annoyingly in Francis’ face. “Are you in love with Eyebrows? And why didn’t you tell us? I thought we were friends, damn it.”

“I’m not in love,” Francis says hastily, “I just. I like-I like looking at him. Is that a crime?”

“Looking’s not a crime,” Gilbert agrees. “But looking at him the way you were-uh, yeah. And doesn’t he have a kid, too? I-” He cuts himself off in horror. “Are you two playing house?”

Francis actually doesn’t have a ready retort for that. Is that what they’re doing? It’s not as though he meant for anything to go that far; he always assumed this arrangement would be strictly temporary. In his mind, this story has but one ending: Alfred and Matthew eventually go their separate ways and things go back to normal; Francis and Arthur are reduced to mere acquaintances whose sons just happen to be in the same year.

His chest tightens at the very thought.

And besides, even-even if Francis did feel a strange sort of regard for him, it’s not as though Arthur feels the same way. Francis doesn’t even know if he likes men.

“Ah!” Antonio beams in triumph, brandishing Francis’ cell phone wildly. “I remember now! Arthur Kirkland! That’s his name, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” says Francis, looking at him curiously. “How’d you know?”

“He was captain of the rowing team that beat us in that match…” Antonio starts, only to trail off as Francis and Gilbert give him identical blank looks.

“Don’t you remember?” Antonio gazes at them imploringly. “Last year of university. I was captain of our rowing team, right? You said you were late, but you definitely caught the match.” His smile turns steely. “You did watch my big match, didn’t you?”

Francis meets Gilbert’s gaze.

“Of course we did!” they chime in unanimously, lying through their teeth, undoubtedly remembering the “distraction” that had deterred them, namely, the stash provided by the exchange student from the Netherlands that had put them out of commission for the better part of the afternoon.

“A valiant match, my friend,” Francis consoles Antonio. “I remember how angry you were that weekend.” He pauses to think. “Didn’t you get into a fight during the party we had? While I was-uh, with someone else?”

Gilbert snorts at the euphemism, but Antonio only smiles, bright and cheery. “Oh, yes,” he begins to explain, “you see, my cousin-”

Gilbert’s eyes widen with comprehension and he cuts Antonio off. “Wait. Wait one fuckin’ second. You mean-you mean that was him?”

Antonio nods. “The very same.” He holds Francis’ phone up to eye-level, frowning in thought. “I should’ve known when you kept calling him Eyebrows.”

Francis is absolutely bewildered. “What are you both talking about?”

Gilbert turns to him, a look of utter amusement pasted on his face. “He was-he was that guy! The one who slept with Toni’s cousin, you know, the one visiting from Portugal! Toni caught them in his own bed!” He throws his head back at the sheer hilarity. “Oh, god, how could I have forgotten those eyebrows?”

“Well, you were pretty drunk,” says Antonio. “Among other things.”

But at this point, Francis simply freezes-he only remembers one cousin from Portugal, and this cousin most certainly did not have breasts.

“Oh,” he says out loud.

It’s the night of the boys’ school play, a silly yet adorable little affair involving a simplified version of the American Revolution. While the lead roles have been handed out to the older children, the ones on the upper end of elementary, Alfred and Matthew both have minor roles on stage. In fact, Alfred’s cast as one of the disgruntled colonists who dump out crates of tea in Boston Harbor, and Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever screamed as much as the morning he woke up to find Alfred chucking all of his Earl Grey down the kitchen sink, hollering “No taxation without representation!” at the top of his lungs.

He has a seat saved to his right, for no one in particular. As parents and siblings slowly trickle into the auditorium, he coolly skims through the program, finding Alfred’s name under the list of revolutionaries and Matthew’s under the redcoats.

“Is this seat taken?” Arthur glances up into a smirking face, and he resists the urge to punch him in the mouth.

“Would it stop you even if it were?” he retorts, and Francis takes a seat next to him, thighs touching. Arthur runs his gaze over his neatly pressed slacks, wonders what lies beneath the immaculate clothing.

“Matthew’s been a nervous wreck,” Francis confides, “marching up and down and up and down making sure his posture’s perfect. He’s terrified he’ll trip.”

Arthur can’t help the smile that comes to his face. “He’ll do wonderfully, I’m sure.”

“Yes, even if he does have to wear that hideous red uniform,” Francis teases. Arthur scowls. “And Alfred? Excited as ever, I assume?”

“Ridiculously so.” Arthur rolls his eyes affectionately. “He could barely sleep-”

“Francis?”

Arthur turns and gets an eyeful of breasts. Normally, he would take the time to appreciate said view, but as it is, he’s only annoyed. Francis slaps on a charming grin, smooth and suave and seductive, and leans in to press a lingering kiss on her cheek.

Arthur-Arthur does not sulk. He musters up a distantly polite smile, goes through the necessary civilities and trivialities of introductions, and studiously ignores Francis’ pointed gazes, sharp knees and sharper elbows.  He vaguely hears whispered phrases in low, feminine tones of you never called back and I’ve missed you and he feels sick, sick to his stomach.

He keeps his eyes firmly trained on the stage, relieved when the curtain finally rises. The cheery songs and childish dance routines manage to hold his attention until it comes to Alfred’s big scene.

He doesn’t disappoint.

“RARGH-” Alfred roars, looking like a miniature Godzilla on stage, lifting a large paper box that’s been painted to look like a crate over his head, stomping all over the set. The other students simply pale in comparison; even the fourth-grader who’s got actual lines is but a shadow in the face of Alfred’s performance. Arthur barely stifles his laughter, trembling violently with suppressed mirth as he watches his son toss box after box every which way.

“Great job you did raising that one,” Francis whispers.

Arthur actually forgets to be mad at him. “Damn straight,” he affirms, “and if anything he learned all that drama from you-”

Francis is closer than he’d previously thought, and he can smell his cologne, the mint on his breath. He clears his throat, awkward and impossibly flustered, and focuses his attention back to the stage as Alfred makes his grand exit.

Matthew doesn’t appear until the tail end of the play, an impressive figure in his red military uniform, back ramrod straight, a rifle clutched tightly in his hands. He stumbles, once, and Arthur hears Francis’ breath catch in his throat, sees his fingers fist in his pants, and then Matthew rights himself, a solemn look on his face as the Brits surrender at Yorktown. This time, Arthur and Francis let out a relieved exhale in tandem.

“Let’s go backstage,” Francis suggests once the play is over, standing over him. Arthur’s eyes flicker to the woman on his other side, but Francis’ eyes never leave his, and he repeats, “Let’s go.”

“I’ll meet you there.” He says quietly, and misses the look Francis gives him. Francis shrugs, and strides off with his hands in his pockets. Arthur stands and stretches his legs, makes sure he’s got everything he needs, and turns to leave.

“Too bad his son’s nothing like him,” the woman who’d flirted with Francis says to someone behind her. “He was-god, he was amazing in bed, just. Perfect. His kid’s a drag, though- just quiet and stares all the time. Barely says a word. And did you see him in the play? Poor thing almost fell on his face.” She shakes her head condescendingly, and Arthur still remembers Matthew’s tiny, forlorn voice, confiding in Alfred and confessing that he was never good enough, too boring, too dull.

Arthur storms directly into her path in the crowded auditorium, knocking shoulders and legs and relishing the irritated expression on her face.

“Watch it,” she snaps.

“So sorry,” he replies, ever so sweetly, and makes his way backstage.

There are kids everywhere; it’s only Alfred’s loud chatter that pulls him in the right direction. “Daddy!” he squeals, and Arthur kneels down to ruffle his hair and straighten his collar, “did you see me? I was great, wasn’t I?”

“Oh, yes,” Arthur says dryly, “the scariest revolutionary there ever was.” He stands up and Alfred immediately takes his hand.

“You wanna see Mattie?” he asks, leading his father to a slightly less crowded corner of the room without waiting for an answer. “He’s kinda bummed that he almost fell.”

“He shouldn’t be,” Arthur says automatically.

“Yeah, that’s what I said, too,” Alfred agrees as they come to a halt in front of Francis and Matthew. “See, Daddy says you did great.”

Matthew turns his crestfallen gaze to Arthur as Francis sighs in exasperation. Arthur kneels down and tells him, severely, “You were absolutely brilliant, and anybody that says otherwise doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

A slow smile spreads over Matthew’s face. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

Francis throws his hands up in the air. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past five minutes.”

Arthur stands up and sends him a look that drips with complete and utter disdain. He takes a step towards him, hissing into his ear, quiet enough that the boys can’t hear, but loud enough that every word is perfectly audible to Francis. “At least he has the sense not to listen to you. You’re-you’re an idiot, you don’t think before you act. I just-damn it, try to act like you have at least one functioning brain cell. For God’s sake, you’re not a bachelor anymore. You have a son.”

This time, the words are poison, not the casual banter that characterizes their daily conversations. Francis’ expression is awash with hurt and bewilderment, but Arthur can’t bring himself to apologize, not with the words of that woman ringing in his ears, not with the still vivid memory of Matthew’s dejected, miserable face.

They go their separate ways at the parking lot without so much as a goodbye, and as he drives home, Arthur can’t help but feel as though they’ve somehow taken two giant leaps back.

He feels oddly brokenhearted about it.



|| Five ||