never ballpoints [73/?]
anonymous
August 24 2010, 00:00:37 UTC
Alfred's stomach does an abrupt back-flip, and settles somewhere in his ears. The obviousness of the situation hits him: why else would Francis be here, asking for help? The boy with more eyes and fingers than Alfred ever liked. The boy who looked too hard for things he didn't know were there, and actually were, once you scratched the gilt away.
Francis.
"What about Arthur?" asks Alfred, playing it easy by habit. The concerned panic is even easier to dredge up. "Has something happened to him?"
Francis frowns. "No. It's-it's not like that. Nothing's happened. At all."
He stares at his knees, running his palms over them. "It is more that-" he breaks off, here, expression choked, "-more, he is acting strange. Unusual."
Alfred nods, and Francis watches him like he expected more of an answer. He continues on, regardless, at Alfred's silence.
"And I was just wondering, whether you had any idea as to what's wrong?"
Alfred opens his mouth to answer, only to have Francis interrupt.
"It's just-I ask him, and he avoids me. And," says Francis, pausing to pull a face he quickly hides, "and, he always seemed to... like you. Did he mention anything?"
For the first three seconds upon hearing this, Alfred doesn't listen. All he hears is the undercurrent of jealousy, the scorned tension at the corners of Francis' mouth. Francis is jealous of him.
(If only he knew, Alfred thinks.)
Only when Francis prompts him does Alfred find the mind to reply.
"Oh. Well. Um." Alfred rubs his jaw, at the soft spot where he bit a mark into Arthur. He did it just so-a little bruise, in the shadows, so you wouldn't see it unless you were looking. "Not that I know of? He's been a little spacey, but I thought that was because he was still... sick. Or something."
Francis fingers tap. Then, in a spidery jerk, they start tugging at his hair.
"It's frustrating," he admits, scratching at the base of his scalp. "I thought-" Francis touches his side, frowning, "-well, I saw a bruise and. I. I don't know."
They fall into shared silence; Francis, one hand on his chin and the other on his forehead; Alfred, smothering guilt with naivete.
"When did you see it?" Alfred asks, because this could be his biggest give away. He took special care so that no-marks would be visible. Not easily.
Francis throws him a half-glance, then shrugs. "When he was getting changed. I just happened to-"
"Are you sure it was a bruise?" says Alfred, following a burn mark along the tabletop. A little coiling circle. He nearly lost his fingertips on that bowl. "I mean, it's not like you got a proper look at it, right?"
Francis stares anxiously, at only something he can see. When he blinks, it's gone.
"Ah. Maybe," he says, and scratches his jaw. "Maybe I was mistaken."
Alfred shrugs, one hand raised to shoulder level. He considers-patting his shoulder, or ruffling his hair, or. Or it's too hard, and he gives a dismissive wave, instead.
"Probably." Alfred laughs, arms coming to cross over his chest. "Arthur isn't the type to suffer in silence, huh? Or not fight back."
Alfred thinks himself a genius. He's covered all bases, all tracks leading to him. Of course, if Francis was coming to him to discuss Arthur, he obviously wasn't a suspect.
And it's odd-odd in the same way lightning is during summer-but in a flash, Francis goes from thoughtful to alert. The hand on his chin hits the table with a dead thunk, and Francis hisses.
Rubbing his wrist-and ignoring Alfred's sympathy wince-he says, "Yes. He really isn't, is he."
He blinks at his sore arm, pressing his thumb into the dimple of his veins, and shakes his head.
"Well. Thank you, Mr. Jones." He pushes off from the couch and lets Alfred follow. "You've... put me at ease, certainly."
(Somehow, Alfred doesn't believe that.)
"Super!" is what he says, instead, and opens the front door. New sunlight beats into the toe of his shoes, as he guides Francis out. "If you have any more concerns-preferably more math related-I'm always here for a talk!"
Francis only nods vaguely, and halfway through the doorway, he whispers to himself:
Francis.
"What about Arthur?" asks Alfred, playing it easy by habit. The concerned panic is even easier to dredge up. "Has something happened to him?"
Francis frowns. "No. It's-it's not like that. Nothing's happened. At all."
He stares at his knees, running his palms over them. "It is more that-" he breaks off, here, expression choked, "-more, he is acting strange. Unusual."
Alfred nods, and Francis watches him like he expected more of an answer. He continues on, regardless, at Alfred's silence.
"And I was just wondering, whether you had any idea as to what's wrong?"
Alfred opens his mouth to answer, only to have Francis interrupt.
"It's just-I ask him, and he avoids me. And," says Francis, pausing to pull a face he quickly hides, "and, he always seemed to... like you. Did he mention anything?"
For the first three seconds upon hearing this, Alfred doesn't listen. All he hears is the undercurrent of jealousy, the scorned tension at the corners of Francis' mouth. Francis is jealous of him.
(If only he knew, Alfred thinks.)
Only when Francis prompts him does Alfred find the mind to reply.
"Oh. Well. Um." Alfred rubs his jaw, at the soft spot where he bit a mark into Arthur. He did it just so-a little bruise, in the shadows, so you wouldn't see it unless you were looking. "Not that I know of? He's been a little spacey, but I thought that was because he was still... sick. Or something."
Francis fingers tap. Then, in a spidery jerk, they start tugging at his hair.
"It's frustrating," he admits, scratching at the base of his scalp. "I thought-" Francis touches his side, frowning, "-well, I saw a bruise and. I. I don't know."
They fall into shared silence; Francis, one hand on his chin and the other on his forehead; Alfred, smothering guilt with naivete.
"When did you see it?" Alfred asks, because this could be his biggest give away. He took special care so that no-marks would be visible. Not easily.
Francis throws him a half-glance, then shrugs. "When he was getting changed. I just happened to-"
"Are you sure it was a bruise?" says Alfred, following a burn mark along the tabletop. A little coiling circle. He nearly lost his fingertips on that bowl. "I mean, it's not like you got a proper look at it, right?"
Francis stares anxiously, at only something he can see. When he blinks, it's gone.
"Ah. Maybe," he says, and scratches his jaw. "Maybe I was mistaken."
Alfred shrugs, one hand raised to shoulder level. He considers-patting his shoulder, or ruffling his hair, or. Or it's too hard, and he gives a dismissive wave, instead.
"Probably." Alfred laughs, arms coming to cross over his chest. "Arthur isn't the type to suffer in silence, huh? Or not fight back."
Alfred thinks himself a genius. He's covered all bases, all tracks leading to him. Of course, if Francis was coming to him to discuss Arthur, he obviously wasn't a suspect.
And it's odd-odd in the same way lightning is during summer-but in a flash, Francis goes from thoughtful to alert. The hand on his chin hits the table with a dead thunk, and Francis hisses.
Rubbing his wrist-and ignoring Alfred's sympathy wince-he says, "Yes. He really isn't, is he."
He blinks at his sore arm, pressing his thumb into the dimple of his veins, and shakes his head.
"Well. Thank you, Mr. Jones." He pushes off from the couch and lets Alfred follow. "You've... put me at ease, certainly."
(Somehow, Alfred doesn't believe that.)
"Super!" is what he says, instead, and opens the front door. New sunlight beats into the toe of his shoes, as he guides Francis out. "If you have any more concerns-preferably more math related-I'm always here for a talk!"
Francis only nods vaguely, and halfway through the doorway, he whispers to himself:
"He was limping."
and walks off, hands in his pockets.
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