The Rose Garden
Title: The Rose Garden
Characters/Parings: England/America (sort of), Prussia, Canada
Warnings: language, human names
Summary: The problem with the cigarette is that it doesn’t actually exist.
One - Two
Whatever you do - assume nothing. This is sort of a prologue. The fragments are in no particular chronological order. The date varies wildly, but it's just past WWII and into the Korean War. It's set somewhere in the United States.
"I never promised you a rose garden. I never promised you perfect justice . . . and I never promised you peace of happiness.”
Arthur is sitting on the radiator again. It’s working again - somebody in this godforsaken place actually managed to do a proper repair job, for once. One of the COs - a nose, Bonnefoy says, because the government says if you won’t take the Amy, we’ll rub your nose in it and we’re it - it seems, some stupid shit who was too dumb to go off to war like a good complacent citizen.
(Someone braver than him.)
He’s smoking, leaning one arm out the barred window. It’s probably unhealthy, he could get mobbed for such a commodity at any moment, but like he fucking cares. He’s been craving this for fucking weeks, and now that the opportunity has arisen, he’s taking it. Better him than these people, stuck in this hospital.
(The clean, white, empty hospital sheets sit mockingly in front of him.
He turns towards the window.)
It’s chilly out, and the fingers of his extended hand twitch idly in the September breeze. He absently wonders if the windows in town are like this too, to keep the crazies out.
(To keep the crazies in.)
He takes another drag from his cigarette. The radiator’s warm, anyways.
~*~
The waiting room had been adequately ordinary. Familiar. Reassuring.
(Ignoring the high-pitched screams from upstairs.)
Alfred had thumbed through the old magazines - also typically outdated, some stretching back to the mid-thirties. It wasn’t long before a doctor had called his name and led him through the long back hallways, veering right towards the men’s side. The showers, first - as if he wasn’t clean enough, as if the filth from the outside was a contamination, a disease. There had been another man there already - a patient. Alfred had stared at his (bare) toes blankly, a doctor’s hand resting lightly on his arm.
After, he was taken to B Ward, got the tour of the workshops and courtyard and dormitories. It was better than he had expected, standing awkwardly in the garden in his uniform-pajamas - but then again, he supposed that with his recent inheritence he could afford better.
(Standing all alone, he could have sworn he heard Matthew’s voice calling as he left.)
~*~
Fourth of July is Alfred’s favorite holiday. Matthew had hated them for the longest time, after a small incident with a misdirected firecracker, but Alfred had dragged him downtown every year anyways. The local riverside fireworks show was the largest in the area, and they made a habit of celebrating together. They found a different spot every year; once, they spent the entire day in the dilapidated children’s playground, hogging the swing sets and teeter-totters from the five year olds. They’d brought a picnic lunch - the vendors were always way too overpriced, anyways, and there were grills in the park for Al to make some hamburgers. That year they’d stayed together, just the two of them.
Another year, they’d gone out with some friends, barhopping and generally just getting smashed instead. There really wasn’t much to remember about that particular holiday, although Matthew had always suspected Alfred remembered more than he let on.
There was that time they’d gone hiking down the waterfront trails, among the brush along the edges and Alfred had nearly drowned - not that it was ever mentioned again. (The barhopping, if nothing else had been good for blackmail pictures.)
This year, however, Alfred doesn’t even wake up, despite the overwhelming noise and commotion.
Matthew doesn’t watch the fireworks anymore.
~*~
Alfred talks too much.
He talks to the orderlies, the doctors - his and others’ - the crazy cook. Inanimate objects if there’s no one else around. Oftentimes, when Gilbert is laying in the bed next to him, rolling over on his other side and covering his ears with a pillow, Gilbert wishes the bubbly idiot would shut up for a while.
Of course, when Alfred does one December morning and doesn’t talk for three weeks he regrets everything.
Gilbert’s throat is sore by New Year’s.
~*~
Alfred stares from his corner-window into the courtyard. A pretty blonde girl from the women’s side looks up at him in passing. She smiles, pauses. Almost expects a smile in return.
He looks away.
~*~
Sometimes they joke about how they’ve got it good.
Once, Alfred laughs that they could be somewhere in the godforsaken Pacific, on some deserted island. (Of course, if drafted, they’d go to service like good boys. None of that running away like the Noses.)
Gilbert punches him in the mouth for that.
Two days in solitary isn’t long enough to forget.
~*~
“You’ll dent the radiator.”
Alfred does not look up, slams his foot into the metal harder. “Thanks for the concern, bastard.”
“Worse, Gil could wake up. He’s such a bitch when he’s half asleep, you know, yelling about old what’s-his-face,” Arthur drawls, turning his head to glance out the window. The sunset light turns his skin pink, casting all kinds of weird colors on his dress shirt and vest. Pink isn’t so bad on him, Alfred thinks. “The guy’s good for a laugh, though. Maybe you should kick that thing a little harder. S’not like it works half the time, anyways.”
The radiator clatters as Alfred’s worn, shoelace-less sneakers connect with it once again. It hurts his ankles, his toes, but he continues in spite of - because of - this. It’s methodic, rhythmic, soothing. More than he can say for the rest of the slightly dingy half-space he’s taken to bitterly calling home. “If you can’t say anything nice, then keep your face shut. I’ll call for the perv if you don’t.”
Arthur feigns horror, smirking at the setting sun even as the radiator shudders beneath him. “Boo fuckin’ hoo. You hate that frog just as much as I do, I’d reason. Besides,” he says, rolling the half-gone cigarette between two long fingers - piano hands, Alfred thinks, what a waste - “wouldn’t that be unheroic?”
“Heroes rescue damsels in distress. Last time I checked, bushy-browed little asshats like you did not qualify. Anyways, these new meds they got me on are givin’ me one hell of a migraine.” Alfred kicks out one last time before throwing himself back on his bed. His head lolls to the side, and he lazily stares up at Arthur. “I suppose asking for a measly little drag would be too much to ask? I’m dyin’ over here.”
“You wouldn’t want cooties from an asshat like me, now would you?” Arthur finally turns from the window, smirking. The light highlights his hair nicely, filtering down through the iron bars and casting eerie shadows over the whitewashed walls.
Damn sadist, Alfred thinks as Arthur directs his next nicotine-laced exhale at Alfred’s face. “Fuck, I’d take a drag from the commie-bastard at this point. Seriously, Arthur.”
Well, that makes an impression, at least. Arthur’s face softens as he turns back to the window and sighs. “You know I can’t, you dipshit. You’ve already gone and screwed yourself over, and I refuse to be left alone with that damn frog when you get transferred out for abusing ward priveleges. Take the trip outside if you really want one.” But Arthur’s voice is softer too. “You and I both know that you’re not fucked up that bad.”
“The nurses seem to think so.”
“New batch. They’re worried every night’ll end up like this, with two, three people stuck in solitary.” Arthur sighs, glancing at his cigarette one last time before stubbing it out on the windowsill and flicking it outside. He watches it fall for a story and a half before it disappears from sight. A waste in these rationed times, but - the things he does for Alfred. “Hell, they’re afraid of Feliciano, for heaven’s sake. He couldn’t hurt anything that even looked vaguely sentient to save his life. They pump that kid so full of morphine I rather doubt that he could hurt anything if he ever wanted to, with those sorts of injuries, the poor bastard.”
That almost earns a half-smile. “Yeah, the kid passes out pretty much anytime anything happens around here. Although, I heard some rumors about what landed’im in here, and I’ll say it ain’t pretty.”
“Since when was being shut up in your friendly neighborhood hospital a pretty story?” Rhetorical question. “I had heard that his own brother’s slightly shady business ventures got them into trouble with the Mafioso and they busted him up as punishment. Which is still pretty mild, if you ask me.” Arthur hasn’t moved from his seat on the edge of the radiator and Alfred thinks it must be uncomfortable even as he glares at the ceiling.
“You know, I didn’t actually ask. But I’d heard it was the big brother’imself who broke the kid good. Most of us aren’t that obvious, at least. Feliciano’s down there with casts and gauze out the wazoo, like he’s a medical dummy or somethin’,” Alfred drawls, fingering the lining of his bomber jacked - the only thing purely of his own he’s managed to hang onto in here. “Fuck, either way, it makes you seem like the god of all big brothers in comparison, don’t it?”
Arthur finally stands, taking five short steps to lean over the bed so as to be able to glare at Alfred properly. Every exhale smells like nicotine and cheap cologne. “We haven’t been brothers in a very long time, you brat. We were never even related by blood in the first place, if you’ll kindly recall the simple fact you shove in my face every chance you get.”
Stretching like a contented cat, Alfred smirks. “Never stopped you from being a control freak, Iggy.” Score one.
“I really fucking hate you sometimes. You were cute when you were twelve, you know. Adorable. Biggest dork this side of the Atlantic, but still cute. Where did I go wrong?” Arthur pauses, thinks. “On second thought, don’t answer that. I know you’ve got an answer for that, too. More importantly, where the hell did you get Iggy from, anyways?”
Arthur is still looming above Alfred and suddenly he’s awfully uncomfortable. He rolls to his left and pushes himself up, back to Arthur. “I don’t know,” he snaps. The migraine is beginning to hammer the back of his skull. “Like it even matters.”
“You can’t remember.”
It’s not a question in the slightest.
“Treatment,” Arthur breathes, putting his hands on the comforter and letting his head hang. “Damn them, anyways, putting you on new meds right after they thought you were doing better. Are they trying to keep you in D Ward -?“
“When are they supposed to fuckin’ do it? When I’m outta here?” Alfred whirls around, his suddenly inches away from Arthur’s hair. “I’m in here for a damn reason. Just ‘cause I don’t continuously blab about imaginary friends like Gil over there or spend my time beating the orderlies with fuckin’ pipes doesn’t mean I don’t got problems too.”
Arthur looks up. The look in Alfred’s eyes makes him straighten a little too quickly and back up a step. “Sorry, sorry. I, of all people, would know. You’re going to wake Gilbert if you continue to yell -“
“Shut the fuck up. You’re not sorry in the least, you asshole,” Alfred hisses, backing Arthur up against the wall, their legs pressed into the cold metal covering of the radiator. It suddenly shudders and groans to life beneath them. “We are not changing the subject. You just can’t stand that I’m trying to go out on my own. You can’t stand the fact that I don’t need you anymore.”
“I don’t - Gilbert is -“ Arthur gasps, the hot metal of the radiator now searing through the backs of his trousers and scorching his skin. “That’s not it!”
Alfred’s head throbs. “Fucking liar. Always a fucking liar. If you really want me to stay,” he says, leering down, “you’ve gotta own up. But just ‘cause you say it won’t change me. I’m not a child anymore - acknowledge it!”
“Hey, Jones?”
They freeze.
“Jones, you blinded by my awesomeness or somethin’? Talk to me here, kid.” The sounds of someone getting out of bed can be heard around the curtain that divides the room in two.
“I told you you’d wake Gil,” Arthur hisses, glaring up. Alfred’s eyes are focused somewhere on the wallpaper behind him. “Now say something and move, you dumbass.”
Alfred’s eyes slowly refocus as the pounding in his skull dulls slightly. “Heroes are always in top condition,” he says hoarsely. “What about you, old man?”
“Old Fritz is the old one, Jones. I don’t have that many years on you. Besides, I’m doin’ great. They said I might make it down to B soon if this all goes well. ‘Course, you and I know the other wards are just full of a bunch of babies.”
“But if it means getting out of this shit hole,” Alfred breathes, staring down into Arthur’s eyes. Arthur squirms, still pinned against the radiator. The heat is seeping through him and into Alfred’s knees. “…I’d do anything.”
He can hear the clicking of metal under Gilbert’s laughter. He’s drawing the curtain back. “Wouldn’t we all? Might even get me a kinda pet - I was thinkin’ a bird. Maybe name it Fritz, just to piss that snobby doctor of mine off. Although, I kinda like Gilbird. It’s got this ring to it, y’know. Awesome-sounding. Whadda you think?”
Alfred sort of falls forward onto Arthur’s shoulder, breathing heavily. He’s drowning in his own Maybe. Damn meds. Damn argument. Damn hospital, damn it all to hell. His knees are burning warm, with Arthur so very cold underneath him.
“Hey, I told you to move, Alfred,” Arthur says, rigid and pushing feebly at Alfred’s chest. “Gilbert will see -“
“Jones, I asked you a - hey, man, you sure you’re okay? Because you definitely do not look awesome right now,” Gilbert says, gripping the edge of the now drawn-back curtain for support. It’s been too long since he’s gotten up and he’s a little unsteady on his feet. Still awesome. Just unsteady. “Jesus, you switched meds today, didn’t you? Looks like you been takin’em, for sure. They vanished your voices yet?” His laugh is hollow, warbling.
Alfred stares down at the empty space between his arms. He straightens a little, wobbling from the pressure in his head but managing to turn around to face his roommate without falling.
“Sure,” he says, “I’m all cured.”
This is what happens when you read I Never Promised You a Rose Garden and your psychology book while listening to Next to Normal. And I wish the characters (coughMattandArthurcough) would stop with the compulsive, sad plotbunnies.
I’ll say this straightaway - you can’t believe everything the characters tell you. I’ll never lie to you in the author’s notes, but I wouldn’t put any sins of omission past me. Alfred and Gil are, for the majority of this chapter, on Disturbed Ward, along with Feliciano and Ivan. Matthew knows Alfred and Ludwig is Gilbert’s brother. Francis is around somewhere.
Historical Notes: America’s mental institutions left much to be desired in the forties. Patients were abused by their caretakers, left naked in huge dormitories with no working heat, severely punished… THIS is pretty telling. The hospital Alfred’s staying at isn’t state-run, so it’s quite a bit better, but it’s still frequently horrible. COs were given three alternative to military service: noncombatant roles, prison, or service - such as in a mental hospital.
Alfred, in this story, has been diagnosed with schizophrenia. However, schizophrenia was a sort of trashcan diagnosis for patients who didn’t quite fit anything else. Due to differing standards of diagnosis, there are many more diagnosed schizophrenics in the US compared to Europe. Actually, auditory hallucinations are much more common, and visual ones are usually just visual.
Characters/Parings: England/America (sort of), Prussia, Canada
Warnings: language, human names
Summary: The problem with the cigarette is that it doesn’t actually exist.
One - Two
Whatever you do - assume nothing. This is sort of a prologue. The fragments are in no particular chronological order. The date varies wildly, but it's just past WWII and into the Korean War. It's set somewhere in the United States.
"I never promised you a rose garden. I never promised you perfect justice . . . and I never promised you peace of happiness.”
Arthur is sitting on the radiator again. It’s working again - somebody in this godforsaken place actually managed to do a proper repair job, for once. One of the COs - a nose, Bonnefoy says, because the government says if you won’t take the Amy, we’ll rub your nose in it and we’re it - it seems, some stupid shit who was too dumb to go off to war like a good complacent citizen.
(Someone braver than him.)
He’s smoking, leaning one arm out the barred window. It’s probably unhealthy, he could get mobbed for such a commodity at any moment, but like he fucking cares. He’s been craving this for fucking weeks, and now that the opportunity has arisen, he’s taking it. Better him than these people, stuck in this hospital.
(The clean, white, empty hospital sheets sit mockingly in front of him.
He turns towards the window.)
It’s chilly out, and the fingers of his extended hand twitch idly in the September breeze. He absently wonders if the windows in town are like this too, to keep the crazies out.
(To keep the crazies in.)
He takes another drag from his cigarette. The radiator’s warm, anyways.
~*~
The waiting room had been adequately ordinary. Familiar. Reassuring.
(Ignoring the high-pitched screams from upstairs.)
Alfred had thumbed through the old magazines - also typically outdated, some stretching back to the mid-thirties. It wasn’t long before a doctor had called his name and led him through the long back hallways, veering right towards the men’s side. The showers, first - as if he wasn’t clean enough, as if the filth from the outside was a contamination, a disease. There had been another man there already - a patient. Alfred had stared at his (bare) toes blankly, a doctor’s hand resting lightly on his arm.
After, he was taken to B Ward, got the tour of the workshops and courtyard and dormitories. It was better than he had expected, standing awkwardly in the garden in his uniform-pajamas - but then again, he supposed that with his recent inheritence he could afford better.
(Standing all alone, he could have sworn he heard Matthew’s voice calling as he left.)
~*~
Fourth of July is Alfred’s favorite holiday. Matthew had hated them for the longest time, after a small incident with a misdirected firecracker, but Alfred had dragged him downtown every year anyways. The local riverside fireworks show was the largest in the area, and they made a habit of celebrating together. They found a different spot every year; once, they spent the entire day in the dilapidated children’s playground, hogging the swing sets and teeter-totters from the five year olds. They’d brought a picnic lunch - the vendors were always way too overpriced, anyways, and there were grills in the park for Al to make some hamburgers. That year they’d stayed together, just the two of them.
Another year, they’d gone out with some friends, barhopping and generally just getting smashed instead. There really wasn’t much to remember about that particular holiday, although Matthew had always suspected Alfred remembered more than he let on.
There was that time they’d gone hiking down the waterfront trails, among the brush along the edges and Alfred had nearly drowned - not that it was ever mentioned again. (The barhopping, if nothing else had been good for blackmail pictures.)
This year, however, Alfred doesn’t even wake up, despite the overwhelming noise and commotion.
Matthew doesn’t watch the fireworks anymore.
~*~
Alfred talks too much.
He talks to the orderlies, the doctors - his and others’ - the crazy cook. Inanimate objects if there’s no one else around. Oftentimes, when Gilbert is laying in the bed next to him, rolling over on his other side and covering his ears with a pillow, Gilbert wishes the bubbly idiot would shut up for a while.
Of course, when Alfred does one December morning and doesn’t talk for three weeks he regrets everything.
Gilbert’s throat is sore by New Year’s.
~*~
Alfred stares from his corner-window into the courtyard. A pretty blonde girl from the women’s side looks up at him in passing. She smiles, pauses. Almost expects a smile in return.
He looks away.
~*~
Sometimes they joke about how they’ve got it good.
Once, Alfred laughs that they could be somewhere in the godforsaken Pacific, on some deserted island. (Of course, if drafted, they’d go to service like good boys. None of that running away like the Noses.)
Gilbert punches him in the mouth for that.
Two days in solitary isn’t long enough to forget.
~*~
“You’ll dent the radiator.”
Alfred does not look up, slams his foot into the metal harder. “Thanks for the concern, bastard.”
“Worse, Gil could wake up. He’s such a bitch when he’s half asleep, you know, yelling about old what’s-his-face,” Arthur drawls, turning his head to glance out the window. The sunset light turns his skin pink, casting all kinds of weird colors on his dress shirt and vest. Pink isn’t so bad on him, Alfred thinks. “The guy’s good for a laugh, though. Maybe you should kick that thing a little harder. S’not like it works half the time, anyways.”
The radiator clatters as Alfred’s worn, shoelace-less sneakers connect with it once again. It hurts his ankles, his toes, but he continues in spite of - because of - this. It’s methodic, rhythmic, soothing. More than he can say for the rest of the slightly dingy half-space he’s taken to bitterly calling home. “If you can’t say anything nice, then keep your face shut. I’ll call for the perv if you don’t.”
Arthur feigns horror, smirking at the setting sun even as the radiator shudders beneath him. “Boo fuckin’ hoo. You hate that frog just as much as I do, I’d reason. Besides,” he says, rolling the half-gone cigarette between two long fingers - piano hands, Alfred thinks, what a waste - “wouldn’t that be unheroic?”
“Heroes rescue damsels in distress. Last time I checked, bushy-browed little asshats like you did not qualify. Anyways, these new meds they got me on are givin’ me one hell of a migraine.” Alfred kicks out one last time before throwing himself back on his bed. His head lolls to the side, and he lazily stares up at Arthur. “I suppose asking for a measly little drag would be too much to ask? I’m dyin’ over here.”
“You wouldn’t want cooties from an asshat like me, now would you?” Arthur finally turns from the window, smirking. The light highlights his hair nicely, filtering down through the iron bars and casting eerie shadows over the whitewashed walls.
Damn sadist, Alfred thinks as Arthur directs his next nicotine-laced exhale at Alfred’s face. “Fuck, I’d take a drag from the commie-bastard at this point. Seriously, Arthur.”
Well, that makes an impression, at least. Arthur’s face softens as he turns back to the window and sighs. “You know I can’t, you dipshit. You’ve already gone and screwed yourself over, and I refuse to be left alone with that damn frog when you get transferred out for abusing ward priveleges. Take the trip outside if you really want one.” But Arthur’s voice is softer too. “You and I both know that you’re not fucked up that bad.”
“The nurses seem to think so.”
“New batch. They’re worried every night’ll end up like this, with two, three people stuck in solitary.” Arthur sighs, glancing at his cigarette one last time before stubbing it out on the windowsill and flicking it outside. He watches it fall for a story and a half before it disappears from sight. A waste in these rationed times, but - the things he does for Alfred. “Hell, they’re afraid of Feliciano, for heaven’s sake. He couldn’t hurt anything that even looked vaguely sentient to save his life. They pump that kid so full of morphine I rather doubt that he could hurt anything if he ever wanted to, with those sorts of injuries, the poor bastard.”
That almost earns a half-smile. “Yeah, the kid passes out pretty much anytime anything happens around here. Although, I heard some rumors about what landed’im in here, and I’ll say it ain’t pretty.”
“Since when was being shut up in your friendly neighborhood hospital a pretty story?” Rhetorical question. “I had heard that his own brother’s slightly shady business ventures got them into trouble with the Mafioso and they busted him up as punishment. Which is still pretty mild, if you ask me.” Arthur hasn’t moved from his seat on the edge of the radiator and Alfred thinks it must be uncomfortable even as he glares at the ceiling.
“You know, I didn’t actually ask. But I’d heard it was the big brother’imself who broke the kid good. Most of us aren’t that obvious, at least. Feliciano’s down there with casts and gauze out the wazoo, like he’s a medical dummy or somethin’,” Alfred drawls, fingering the lining of his bomber jacked - the only thing purely of his own he’s managed to hang onto in here. “Fuck, either way, it makes you seem like the god of all big brothers in comparison, don’t it?”
Arthur finally stands, taking five short steps to lean over the bed so as to be able to glare at Alfred properly. Every exhale smells like nicotine and cheap cologne. “We haven’t been brothers in a very long time, you brat. We were never even related by blood in the first place, if you’ll kindly recall the simple fact you shove in my face every chance you get.”
Stretching like a contented cat, Alfred smirks. “Never stopped you from being a control freak, Iggy.” Score one.
“I really fucking hate you sometimes. You were cute when you were twelve, you know. Adorable. Biggest dork this side of the Atlantic, but still cute. Where did I go wrong?” Arthur pauses, thinks. “On second thought, don’t answer that. I know you’ve got an answer for that, too. More importantly, where the hell did you get Iggy from, anyways?”
Arthur is still looming above Alfred and suddenly he’s awfully uncomfortable. He rolls to his left and pushes himself up, back to Arthur. “I don’t know,” he snaps. The migraine is beginning to hammer the back of his skull. “Like it even matters.”
“You can’t remember.”
It’s not a question in the slightest.
“Treatment,” Arthur breathes, putting his hands on the comforter and letting his head hang. “Damn them, anyways, putting you on new meds right after they thought you were doing better. Are they trying to keep you in D Ward -?“
“When are they supposed to fuckin’ do it? When I’m outta here?” Alfred whirls around, his suddenly inches away from Arthur’s hair. “I’m in here for a damn reason. Just ‘cause I don’t continuously blab about imaginary friends like Gil over there or spend my time beating the orderlies with fuckin’ pipes doesn’t mean I don’t got problems too.”
Arthur looks up. The look in Alfred’s eyes makes him straighten a little too quickly and back up a step. “Sorry, sorry. I, of all people, would know. You’re going to wake Gilbert if you continue to yell -“
“Shut the fuck up. You’re not sorry in the least, you asshole,” Alfred hisses, backing Arthur up against the wall, their legs pressed into the cold metal covering of the radiator. It suddenly shudders and groans to life beneath them. “We are not changing the subject. You just can’t stand that I’m trying to go out on my own. You can’t stand the fact that I don’t need you anymore.”
“I don’t - Gilbert is -“ Arthur gasps, the hot metal of the radiator now searing through the backs of his trousers and scorching his skin. “That’s not it!”
Alfred’s head throbs. “Fucking liar. Always a fucking liar. If you really want me to stay,” he says, leering down, “you’ve gotta own up. But just ‘cause you say it won’t change me. I’m not a child anymore - acknowledge it!”
“Hey, Jones?”
They freeze.
“Jones, you blinded by my awesomeness or somethin’? Talk to me here, kid.” The sounds of someone getting out of bed can be heard around the curtain that divides the room in two.
“I told you you’d wake Gil,” Arthur hisses, glaring up. Alfred’s eyes are focused somewhere on the wallpaper behind him. “Now say something and move, you dumbass.”
Alfred’s eyes slowly refocus as the pounding in his skull dulls slightly. “Heroes are always in top condition,” he says hoarsely. “What about you, old man?”
“Old Fritz is the old one, Jones. I don’t have that many years on you. Besides, I’m doin’ great. They said I might make it down to B soon if this all goes well. ‘Course, you and I know the other wards are just full of a bunch of babies.”
“But if it means getting out of this shit hole,” Alfred breathes, staring down into Arthur’s eyes. Arthur squirms, still pinned against the radiator. The heat is seeping through him and into Alfred’s knees. “…I’d do anything.”
He can hear the clicking of metal under Gilbert’s laughter. He’s drawing the curtain back. “Wouldn’t we all? Might even get me a kinda pet - I was thinkin’ a bird. Maybe name it Fritz, just to piss that snobby doctor of mine off. Although, I kinda like Gilbird. It’s got this ring to it, y’know. Awesome-sounding. Whadda you think?”
Alfred sort of falls forward onto Arthur’s shoulder, breathing heavily. He’s drowning in his own Maybe. Damn meds. Damn argument. Damn hospital, damn it all to hell. His knees are burning warm, with Arthur so very cold underneath him.
“Hey, I told you to move, Alfred,” Arthur says, rigid and pushing feebly at Alfred’s chest. “Gilbert will see -“
“Jones, I asked you a - hey, man, you sure you’re okay? Because you definitely do not look awesome right now,” Gilbert says, gripping the edge of the now drawn-back curtain for support. It’s been too long since he’s gotten up and he’s a little unsteady on his feet. Still awesome. Just unsteady. “Jesus, you switched meds today, didn’t you? Looks like you been takin’em, for sure. They vanished your voices yet?” His laugh is hollow, warbling.
Alfred stares down at the empty space between his arms. He straightens a little, wobbling from the pressure in his head but managing to turn around to face his roommate without falling.
“Sure,” he says, “I’m all cured.”
This is what happens when you read I Never Promised You a Rose Garden and your psychology book while listening to Next to Normal. And I wish the characters (coughMattandArthurcough) would stop with the compulsive, sad plotbunnies.
I’ll say this straightaway - you can’t believe everything the characters tell you. I’ll never lie to you in the author’s notes, but I wouldn’t put any sins of omission past me. Alfred and Gil are, for the majority of this chapter, on Disturbed Ward, along with Feliciano and Ivan. Matthew knows Alfred and Ludwig is Gilbert’s brother. Francis is around somewhere.
Historical Notes: America’s mental institutions left much to be desired in the forties. Patients were abused by their caretakers, left naked in huge dormitories with no working heat, severely punished… THIS is pretty telling. The hospital Alfred’s staying at isn’t state-run, so it’s quite a bit better, but it’s still frequently horrible. COs were given three alternative to military service: noncombatant roles, prison, or service - such as in a mental hospital.
Alfred, in this story, has been diagnosed with schizophrenia. However, schizophrenia was a sort of trashcan diagnosis for patients who didn’t quite fit anything else. Due to differing standards of diagnosis, there are many more diagnosed schizophrenics in the US compared to Europe. Actually, auditory hallucinations are much more common, and visual ones are usually just visual.