CAN'T BUY ME LOVE...
Who: The English Gentlemen
When: Friday Evening~
Where: That place Arthur calls 'home'.
What: Peter gets an unpleasant parcel in the post and now he wants some answers.
( TRYIN' TO GET RID OF ME, EH? )
When: Friday Evening~
Where: That place Arthur calls 'home'.
What: Peter gets an unpleasant parcel in the post and now he wants some answers.
( TRYIN' TO GET RID OF ME, EH? )
Granted, that whole affair was a strange business - especially since he thought he recognised that particular postman… But he supposed picking the post up was perhaps better than letting them leave important letters and parcels in front of the gate where anyone might filch them. And they might have continued to do that had not Arthur called in to complain about the shoddy conduct.
And from that phone call is how the present arrangement came to be.
Arthur was just coming back from another one of those trips - thankfully picking up a parcel that was worth the outing. Sometime last week, his editor mentioned that she was going to send something in the post since she felt awful that she couldn’t fly out and give it to him in person on the proper day. And thus, said package was in his hands as he made his way home.
When Arthur finally entered the misshapen cul-de-sac that held his house at the pinnacle of the dead-end, he could hear incensed shouting and the sound of pounding against wood...and he already had a fairly good notion which house they were coming from.
Well, perhaps Dewi had forgotten his keys again and thought Arthur was purposely acting as if he wasn’t home?
...Again.
At the thought, Arthur hastened his gait - not in the mood for being accused of having nefarious designs that really didn’t exist at the moment. He made it all the way to the cast iron gate that was at the front of his property before he sharply realised it wasn’t Dewi that was caterwauling by the front door.
It was Peter.
With no small amount of trepidation, Arthur opened the gate, praying that it refrained from that squealing sound it was wont to make. Though it made a little noise, it wasn’t enough to beckon the attention of the boy on the veranda. With a sigh of relief, Arthur traversed the path up to his house, half-wishing that he could just turn around and avoid this conflict until it blew over.
But he knew it had to be done. He had an inkling what all this fuss was about - though he was a bit surprised that Peter was so nowty over it.
Stopping right before the stairs that led to the veranda, Arthur watched as Peter assaulted his front door, wincing whenever the wood rattled. That poor door really received too much abused. Unable to watch as his front door be potentially wrecked again, Arthur finally called out to Peter, and thankfully stopping his motions. “Please refrain from hurling yourself against my door. It’s been fixed far too many times than I care to consider.”
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He hurled the stack of papers at Arthur. The May breeze swept up the pages and scattered them about the path. Rarely would he invade personal bubbles of someone he despised, but boundaries were going to take a backseat. Peter's fist gripped Arthur's haughty sweater vest, his free hand short of saying hello to Arthur's jaw.
Forgo the familial greetings. Let's move forward to the matter at hand.
"What's the meaning of this?" Peter said louder than needed. "What trust fund? What does it all mean?
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“It would be in your best interests to pick those up,” Arthur remarked evenly. “And if you read through them properly, then you should know exactly what it all means.” It was actually a wonder that Peter wasn't actively rubbing it in his face; cheering at the top of his lungs that he had achieved complete and utter independence and he never needed to deal with Jerk Arthur ever again.
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Peter should be happy. He should be bouncing up and down as if the ground was a trampoline. Complete emancipation from Jerk Arthur was what he had wanted since he last donned the funeral suit. He should be happy. All his body currently desired was his knuckles breaking Arthur's jaw. He was not a violent person by nature; but bloodlust beckoned his name.
He swallowed the vomit of words. It was a time when he needed to show that he was better than his heartless brother. Peter released Arthur's sweater from his grip; he kept the close distance, biting his lips as he resented the height difference. It was not fair. Why did Arthur get everything? Why was Arthur the tower of admiration and awe and he nothing but a mere shadow on the dirt?
"Is this it?" Peter said through gritted teeth. "That's all? You are..." what was the proper word? "You are selling me off your hands? I am not a property you can give away! I'm not, not, a bloody... damn merchandise."
And as much as he hated to let these words graced his tongue, Peter said, "I am your brother, you jerk!"
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The more reasonable explanation and the only one that Arthur could possibly discern was that Peter was interpreting his motives in the worst possible light. Which was certainly not out of the realms of possibility by any means. It had happened before (sometimes the accusations ringing true and sometimes ringing false like a rusty bell) and perhaps never again if Peter chose to cut all ties here and now. And if he did...Arthur was sensible eenough to admit that he had every right to do so.
...Which is why he had arranged Peter to receive the trust fund in question a few years early. But he needn’t know such an unnecessary detail.
“Property or merchandise would imply that I’m handing you over to someone. And property can’t be handed over to itself. So your analogy is flawed,” Arthur dithered, side stepping the issue for the moment.
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"You are a terrible brother," Peter said. There was much more to say but he decided against spelling it out; Arthur knew what he had and hadn't done for Peter. After all this time, Peter laughed at himself for believing that somewhere in Arthur's heart, he cared for him.
Peter stepped back and picked up the scattered papers from the ground. He studied the pages for a few seconds before he ripped the legal papers in half.
"I don't want your money."
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Thus, Arthur didn’t believe for one moment that Peter had suddenly gained a new personality quirk that disliked untidiness or, God forbid, actually developed a reasonable bone in his body that took Arthur’s words into consideration instead of immediately writing it off as some sort of selfish action on his part. So, Arthur wasn’t exactly surprised that once Peter gathered all the papers up, they were almost as quickly on the ground again - suddenly doubled in number, but smaller in size and each page containing a jagged edge.
It was a good thing that Arthur had learned to work a photocopier, or he might be tempted to throttle the boy.
“You didn’t read the papers then,” Arthur remarked, tone a bit sharper and patience a bit strained. “Because if you did, you would have realised it’s not my money.”
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When the makeshift balls were out and did nothing to affect his elder brother, Peter huffed and wondered why he still lingered. He wished he could punch some sense into Arthur but their past history reminded him that he had never won against Arthur once. Ever. And there was no chance of him winning the round here.
"How could you do this to me?" he muttered under his breath, not exactly sure if his words were heard. "How could you give me away...?"
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“Peter...” Arthur started once the ineffective barrage had ceased. He may have commenced a lecture for such petulant behaviour or explained what exactly the papers were concerning, but hesitated in the face of Peter bowing his head and clenching his fists at his side - all the while muttering something too low for Arthur to make out clearly.
A part of Arthur wanted to ask him to speak up - wanted to clear up this miscommunication. And not just the one at present, but the one that always seemed to exist between them - admittedly, the one that Arthur had initiated. But the task always seemed too insurmountable, so Arthur never asked and Peter never took it upon himself to answer this unvoiced question.
But Arthur could guess.
“Whatever nonsensical notion you have in that head of yours...” Arthur began, not exactly sure how to finish that thought. “This...trust fund was yours from the start. Set aside for you by...well, by mum.” It was an unnecessary detail that a hefty portion was from Arthur’s own bank account. “She would have wanted you to have access to it sooner rather than later, so I only pulled a few strings. Nothing more, nothing less.”
It was a bit underhanded of him to use their mother, but that didn’t mean the sentiment was false. To Arthur’s limited knowledge, she had set the trust fund aside for when Peter needed it. And if the silly, naïve, barmy boy was truly serious about entering into holy matrimony, then this money would practically be a necessity.
Arthur still strongly disapproved of this whole business, but that didn’t mean he wished to see his brother wallow in poverty and debt.
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Speaking of Mum, the younger Kirkland's chest constricted at the muttered word. 'Mother' had never been a discussion between them since the accident. He could hardly recall the last time he heard the three-lettered-word out of Arthur's snotty lips. His countenance was combined of two-part nostalgia, one-part grief, and one-part anger.
"Mum?" came out soft as the breeze that tip-toed by. "Mum... did it... for me?" Well, he shouldn't sound as surprised as his intonation turned out to be. Unlike their father, Mum loved them all equally. Sometimes, Peter had the inkling that Mum loved him just a tad bit more than Arthur. No more than a passing fancy as it was proven time and time again that it was simply not true.
And if Arthur was telling the truth, then Peter supposed he had no grudge against the English for selling him off his hands. Oh, hold on a minute. He did. It had never mattered to him (much) whose money it was; the issue had always been his... sentiment toward the idea of Arthur severing the last tie between them. Multicolored band-aid would not heal the wound.
Nonetheless, Peter was still at a loss for word. Teeth clenched, clattered as he tried to make coherent sound. A question. An insult. Anything.
But nothing, save for a hushed gasp, passed his throat.
"Right then," he managed to utter. "Right."
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Just silence.
He never knew what to do in moments such as these, as rare as they were. To say something would probably just set off the vicious cycle of insults and admonishing again. To say nothing was to do nothing and they’ve been doing that for how many months now. Obviously, it neither fanned the flames nor extinguished them, but left their pear-shaped relationship on the back burner until it roared back to life once they clashed again.
It was tiresome.
Arthur wearily ran a hand through his fringed mussed up by the breeze, and mindlessly adjusted his hold on the parcel in his hands that was all but forgotten. What to do, what to do. Always wondering what to do in regards to the younger brother he never knew how to talk to. Or rather, never honestly made the effort to talk to. Arthur rubbed his temples, feeling a migraine fast approaching. He really didn’t like pondering such things too much - he was more of a fan of studiously ignoring his failings as an older brother, and telling himself that Peter was better off. Which he honestly believed, more or less.
Head pounding now, Arthur abruptly decided that all he needed to make everything alright in the world was a warm cuppa. Taking little time to no time to think about it, Arthur made his way towards the house - passing by Peter’s form without sparing him a glance. He didn’t hesitate in his gait for a moment until he reached the door and started patting himself down for his wayward keys.
“I have another copy of those papers in my bureau, you know,” Arthur spoke up, as he finally found his keys wedged into a pocket he didn’t remember his trousers having. “I can send them in the post...or well, I suppose...you can come in and get them while I put on a kettle...” The last bit stumbled out of Arthur’s mouth a tad bit clumsily - the man, himself not exactly expecting those words to escape.
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He bent down and gathered the stray pieces of paper he had so brutally torn apart. A bit here on the path, a bit there lodged beneath an innocent-looking shrub. He held separate pieces together and halfheartedly tried to paste them into one coherent document again. But like his relationship with his brother, what was torn could never be fixed.
He stood up straight; ears burned at the jingling of wayward keys and the invitation of a cuppa. He turned around and gazed upon the house that Arthur resided. If it weren't for the outdated architecture and the pestering spirits, it could almost pass for decent. His eyesight lowered, fixated on the back of his brother. The imagine had cemented in his mind; Arthur had always been and would forever remain a person he would chase behind.
Perhaps letting go was the only solution.
"Tell Dewi I said hello," Peter called out. The next string of words were difficult to muster; even his throat protested against them. But Mum had taught him to be a proper gentleman and a proper gentleman knew to give proper farewell. He stole a breath of air to steel his heart.
"Take care then. And... best wishes."
And with that, Peter turned on his heels, shattered familial ties in his hands, and made for the gate.
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Considering the nonexistent success rate of that happening, he really should know better than keep trying, no matter how spare as his admittedly increasingly halfhearted attempts had become. Peter would never hear of it, and it only made him look like a fool in the end.
Not caring to watch Peter leave, Arthur struggled to open his door - thankfully only dropping the keys once. Once he wrangled the door open, Arthur simply heaved a tired sigh and carelessly pushed the door close behind him - not bothering to lock up.
Later, he would just chalk it up to forgetfulness and not another foolish whim of his acting up again.
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