All aboard the Misery Train! Next stop: off a bridge and into the sweet dark embrace of the waiting abyss.

Thanks to: natcat5, America, OutToGarden, rocychio, CherryBlossomKisses, Kanoi-chan, thelonelylatte, Squirrelybits, zumiez2002, suzako, IggyButt, Princoxx and a Guest!

Thank you all for your (frankly surprising) support with this story. I really didn't think anybody would like it. I'm not sure that I like it, honestly – but I'm still glad that I wrote it. It's been an interesting experience. There will be no ANs at the end and I would like to take this opportunity to alleviate any concerns regarding the ending: yes, it is abrupt (no, don't scroll down to the bottom to have a look!). After a long while of deliberating, I decided that I liked the final line and left it as it was. I don't think it needs any more. But just in case you think the chapter was cut off when I uploaded it, etc, rest assured that it wasn't. It's exactly as it should be.

That's how it ends, to quote T.S. Eliot: 'not with a bang but a whimper'.

Nighthawks

IV

Arthur burned the money that night.

There was going to be a storm – he could feel it, the way the air was so thick and humid, lying low in the chest. It had been hot for days and the rain was overdue. It was too hot, really, to light a fire – but after Alfred had gone to bed, he retrieved the money in its shoebox and threw it onto the flames. The bills went up with a roar of orange smoke and the smell was completely alien.

Well, he thought, watching them shrivel, how many people know the smell of three hundred dollars burning up into nothing?

He couldn't justify it. It was one of the stupidest things he'd ever done – but he felt no regret, no sudden overwhelming desire to stick his hand in and rescue those still salvageable, only a little crisp around the edges. No, no, this was for the best. This was all he could think of to do.

He got into bed as the rain started, lying still and listening to it lash against the glass. When the lightning came it set the whole room ablaze, split-seconds, and he saw the crystal shape of every raindrop magnified on the wallpaper. The thunder came rolling in like a wave, pushing up over the shores of his bedsheets. All he could think of was cold feet and wet mouths on the backs of his thighs. Perhaps burning the money had made him delirious; a chemical reaction of some sort, like magnesium in water. He didn't suppose it was something that had had much research.

He was almost asleep when Alfred clambered in next to him, slithering up close.

"What's wrong, Alfred?" he murmured sleepily.

"Don't like the thunder." Alfred nuzzled against his back. "I'm scared."

Arthur didn't reply. After a beat he felt Alfred nudge him.

"Arthur. I'm scared."

"I heard you."

"Then why didn't you answer?"

Arthur let out a breath. "I don't know," he said at length. "Sometimes... I have to summon all my courage just to look at you."

"Oh." He felt Alfred shrink. "I..."

"It's not your fault. It's mine."

"...You're angry, aren't you? About... what I was doing with those men. I really was only doing it for the money—"

"It's alright, Alfred." Arthur couldn't bear to hear him defend the money, especially not now.

"Well, I just don't want you to hate me."

Arthur paused. The lightning came and the thunder shook the walls in the interim.

"I don't hate you," he said softly. "How could I hate you, Alfred? You're my child, my–"

"Am I, though?" Alfred interrupted. He sounded tired. "I don't feel like I am, Arthur. I mean, it's nothing to do with the way you've treated me – you've been so kind and generous to me. Even if it is only because you feel like you have to, it's nice. But I... I don't feel like I'm your son."

"You are–" Arthur began, a little desperately.

"I'm not talking about biologically. I just mean how I feel. I don't feel like you're my dad."

"Again, that's my fault," Arthur said quietly. "Of course you don't know what it's like to have a father – or a mother, for that matter."

"The more I think about it, the more I realise that I don't care," Alfred said. "It's too late. Years ago, back at the orphanage, I'd have given anything for this – what we have right now. But now I feel like it's too late for it. I'm too badly-damaged."

Arthur rolled over to face him. He could barely make him out. "Alfred," he said softly, "you're not damaged–"

"I am. This isn't going to save me anymore."

Arthur exhaled. "So... what are you saying? You want to go back to Braginsky's?"

"No!" Alfred sounded alarmed. He groped for Arthur's hand under the sheets and clung tight. "No, I don't want to go back there. I want to stay with you, Arthur."

Arthur was beginning to feel uneasy. "But I don't understand, how can–"

"Oh, god, I don't want you to be my dad," Alfred groaned. "When you first said it, I was so happy that I'd found you – but the more I think about it, the more I realise that that's not what I want from you. No matter how hard I try, I can't make myself feel like you're my father, not really."

Arthur closed his eyes. He was beginning to feel nauseous. "And how do you feel, Alfred?" He barely dared to ask it.

"I want to have a proper relationship with you," Alfred said. "I want you to kiss me and fuck me and whisper things in my ear. I want you to shove your hand down my pants and push your fingers up inside me–"

"Alfred, stop it at once!" Arthur sat up, reaching for the bedside lamp and lighting up the room. He could feel how hot his face was. "How dare you say things like that!"

"Why?" Alfred demanded. "Because you're my dad – or you say you are? I don't fucking know, do I? You can't prove it! This is how you get your rocks off, for all I know!"

"Oh, for god's sake–"

"Well, I don't know!" Alfred snapped. "I don't know you very well, Arthur, and suddenly I'm meant to act like I'm your son? I've never had a family, I don't know how I'm meant to feel!"

"Not like that!" Arthur spat.

"But I can't help it!" Alfred wailed. "I love you, Arthur. Maybe it's the wrong kind of love but I can't help how I feel about you. I don't want you to be my dad! Why can't we just forget it? What difference does it make in the end? You didn't raise me, you didn't–"

"Forget it?" Arthur almost choked. "Alfred, we have committed the most heinous act–"

"But I don't care! I forgive you, Arthur, and nobody else even has to know. You shouldn't be fucking under-age boys in the first place – what difference does it make if we're related or not?"

Arthur said nothing. He pushed back against the headboard, his chest hot and prickling. He felt like he might kill Alfred if he came any closer.

"I wish we'd never found out," Alfred said savagely. "I wish you hadn't named me, then the orphanage would have called me something else and you'd never have known it was me!"

"You look like Francine," Arthur said dully. "I think that must be what I liked about you in the first place."

"But that's all it was!" Alfred insisted. "You thought I looked like some French whore you knocked up – you didn't think I was the result!"

"Don't speak about her like that."

"Why shouldn't I? This is her fault, isn't it? She did this to us! If she'd just married you when you asked her, you would have raised me as your son and I wouldn't lie awake at night jerking myself off over you!"

"...I beg your pardon?" Arthur looked at him; although he didn't know why he was surprised, really.

Alfred simply looked defiant. "Every night. I can't help it. I've had it and now I'm deprived. I don't need to imagine, I know all the things you'll do to me, how they'll make me feel. I love your hands, your voice, your taste. I've slept with hundreds of men but you're the only one who makes me hot."

"Stop." Arthur put his hands over his ears. "Alfred, I can't bear it. Stop, please."

Alfred fell silent. He looked down at his hands.

"You can try and twist it any way you like," Arthur said, fighting to keep his voice calm. "The fact is that some of things you've said make perfect sense."

Alfred looked up, his face hopeful. The thunder boomed again at his back.

"However," Arthur went on, "I cannot trade my integrity for your teenaged lust. In time you'll get over it – but time will never erase or forgive my sins against you."

Alfred lay down. He seemed small and wretched in his defeat. "I wish I hadn't been born," he said. "Not like this. I wish I'd been born when you were, that we'd met somewhere else – in the army, maybe, during the war. Then you could have been free to love me the way I love you."

"I doubt it. There's still the matter of us both being men."

"I don't care about that." Alfred rolled over. "I just want to be happy."

"Alfred, you don't love me," Arthur said. "Not really. You just think you do. You're only fifteen."

Alfred gave a deep sigh, his body seeming to cave inwards. "Maybe so," he said softly. "...Arthur, I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful. I appreciate everything you've done for me. I just wish things were different."

"I know," Arthur said. "So do I. I wish I hadn't abandoned you. You needed me and I was weak."

"I forgive you, Arthur. I forgive you for everything."

O patron saint. Arthur pressed his hands together, brought them to his mouth. He listened to Alfred breathing over the rain; thought of cowboy boots and beaded waistcoats and cracks in the ceiling. Misery, he realised, is an inheritance.

When he woke again it was still raining; and he could still hear Alfred breathing, heavier, rattling. He could feel him, too, pressed up against him, rutting, grinding. The heat pooling his belly was already betraying him and he didn't dare move, lying rigid and still as Alfred gave a shuddering gasp and came against his thigh.

Alfred slid off him, panting into the pillow. Arthur didn't know what to do, lying on his back in the dark, frozen with horror and dismay. His own arousal have shrivelled away at the congealing wetness of Alfred's climax.

"I know you're awake," Alfred said softly. "I didn't think you'd stay asleep the whole time. What will you do now?"

Arthur pressed his hands over his face. "Why?" he whispered.

"Because I'm bad," Alfred said. He sounded heartbroken. "I'm beyond repair. There's nothing to be done with me."

"Get out," Arthur said. "I don't care where you go, just get out."

"Fine." Alfred slithered out of the bed and shuffled out of the bedroom. Arthur lay perfectly still for another few moments, the heels of his hands pressed into his eye sockets, listening to him fumbling around in the lounge. Actually, he understood perfectly: by Alfred's logic, if he continued to do things like this, fetishizing Arthur, forcing his hand, then eventually Arthur would no longer be able to see him as a son. He wanted Arthur to see him as a sexual object; perhaps he thought it would make it easier on him, that he'd be able to forgive himself then.

Arthur got up, stripped off his sopping pyjamas and pulled on his robe. He opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the lounge. Alfred was crouched in front of the dead fire, poking at the ashes. One half of a twenty dollar bill had escaped total incineration, caught under the grille.

Alfred looked towards him.

"The money," he said. "You burnt it."

"Yes," Arthur replied. He offered no justification.

Alfred straightened up. "I see," he said. "Maybe I should have known. I guess I did, deep down. That's why I hid it."

"I couldn't accept it," Arthur said. "Not knowing how you got it."

"Yes." Alfred kicked at the grate. "I suppose you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? You certainly seem to have a fascination with prostitutes – you wanted to marry one, you fathered another. Were you trying to save her, too?"

Arthur blinked at him. "...I beg your pardon?"

Alfred shrugged. "That's what it is, isn't it?" he said. "It's not really about us. Me – or Francine or whatever the hell her name was. It's about you, Arthur. Are you so full of self-loathing that we are your only consolation? We're in no position to judge you, after all, not if that's how we earn our living. You can be as terrible as you want, you'll never be as disgusting as us – and then you can buy your way out by saving us. What was Francine thinking, turning you down – you, Arthur, young and good-looking and and well-mannered and educated. I'm sure you had your pick of young, good-looking, well-mannered, educated young ladies back home. But that's not what you wanted, is it? You wanted Francine, you wanted boys like me – because we'd be grateful, we'd thank you, we'd make you feel good about yourself." Alfred smiled suddenly. "Hey, look at that. I worked you out after all, Arthur. Gee, you were a tough one. You hide the fact that you've got no self-esteem pretty well."

Arthur said nothing. He crossed to the front door and took the keys off the hook; then came to Alfred and took him by the arm, pulling him across the apartment and into the hallway, where his bedroom door was ajar.

"Go in," he said stiffly. "Go to bed. I don't want to hear another peep out of you tonight."

"I've crossed the line," Alfred said reflectively. "Haven't I?"

"Desecrated it." Arthur pushed him into his room. "We'll discuss it in the morning."

"I've spoiled everything." Alfred stood obediently on the other side of the threshold. "Haven't I? Arthur?"

"I don't know. I can't think straight." Arthur closed the door and put the key in the lock, twisting it to the right. "You're not coming out of that room until morning. Goodnight, Alfred."

Alfred didn't reply. Arthur put the keys back next to the door and went back to bed. His legs felt like they were about to collapse from under him as he crawled back under the covers, still wrapped up in his robe. Alfred had frightened him: not his actions, which were ridiculous rather than alarming, but his words. It hadn't really struck him before that Alfred was highly intelligent – but he saw it now, that alarming, terrifying brilliance, the way he'd torn him wide open. It was like he'd dissected him alive and laid out his organs in careful rows on the carpet and then labelled them neatly for good measure. He felt completely and utterly violated.

Better to keep him locked up behind closed doors where he belonged: out of sight, out of mind, so Arthur could sleep in peace.

It was still raining come morning. It had been so hot these past few weeks that Arthur wasn't entirely surprised, parched earth peeling away from the pavement with thirst.

He washed and dressed very carefully, calmly – buttoning and buckling himself in, tight, together, so that he couldn't come apart at the seams. He didn't know what to say to Alfred when he opened the door. Perhaps he should practice in front of the mirror: good-morning, how-the-devil-are-you, how-fucking-dare-you. Today that locked door was like Pandora's Box; who knew just what in hell would burst out when he opened it to the world?

When at last he summoned the courage to put the key in the lock and turn it, he let the door swing open by itself and said nothing. He stood on the threshold, shielded by silence, and waited for Alfred to come slinking out, perhaps on all fours with an elongated spine, midway through transformation into... what? A wendigo, maybe, or some other devil, a devourer of hearts and minds and sanity–

There was no movement in the room beyond. Losing his patience, Arthur stepped briskly into the room, ready to rip the covers off his huddled form.

"Alfred," he began, "get the hell up, you..."

He trailed off, his stomach plummeting to his shoes. The room was empty and and window was open.

"Shit...!" Arthur crossed the room, frantic, heart hammering beneath his ribcage. He wrenched open the wardrobe, lifted the bed, threw back the door, but all the potential hiding places were vacant. The dread of realisation rinsed over him as he went to the window and put his hands on the wet sill. The fire escape wasn't much of a drop. Alfred was gone.

He raked his hands back through his hair, calming his breathing by force. This wasn't a bad thing, he thought, chanting it over and over. Alfred was a problem and now he was gone. This wasn't a bad thing. This wasn't a bad thing.

Logic, however, couldn't reckon with the blind frantic skittering of his heart. Yes, Alfred was a problem. Yes, Arthur hadn't know just what the hell he was going to do with him. Yes, Arthur admitted that he was slightly terrified of him. But none of that seemed to matter now that he was faced with the cold black reality of Alfred's disappearance. For all his feelings, all his failings, he hadn't meant to drive him away.

He checked the room for a note but found nothing; and so pulled on his coat and scrambled downstairs to the street. It was possible that Alfred hadn't left that long ago, or at the very least hadn't gone far, not in this weather. He might be huddled in a doorway the next block over.

The streets were misty and deserted this early in the morning, his calls of Alfred's name bouncing off the wet bricks as he combed the area. The only sign of life he found was one straggly cat, which leapt out from behind a bin and darted across the street under a parked car. He stopped in the middle of the road and let out a breath, pushing his wet hair off his face. He was soaked through, empty-handed, hoarse. Alfred wasn't here or wasn't answering. He didn't know what else to do. Call the police? But Alfred hadn't been kidnapped – he'd run away. And the police, well, they'd want to know if there was a reason he would have run off, if there'd been an argument of some sort, and then Arthur would have to explain and of course he couldn't do that, not to them, oh god...

He trudged back up to the apartment and dropped his soaked coat in the hall; leaving a trail of water all the way through the place as he checked every room, every closet, every last corner, even though he knew that he'd locked Alfred in and so he couldn't be anywhere else.

He looked at the clock. If he skipped breakfast, which he didn't much feel like eating anyway, he'd make it in time for his first lecture. He supposed there wasn't much else he could do; fretting at home wasn't going to help. It was likely that Alfred would come back on his own – he couldn't stay out forever, not with the rain pounding like that.

He changed, rubbed his hair dry and grabbed his briefcase, pausing to write Alfred a note, which he put in an envelope and taped to the front door:

Alfred,

I'm sorry about last night. When I get back, we'll talk everything through properly, I promise. I want this to work for both of us.

All my love,

Arthur

P.S: The key is in the usual place

He left, hoping against hope that Alfred would cool down and see sense, realise that Arthur hadn't wanted him to leave. When he came back this evening, he prayed that he'd find Alfred curled up on the sofa, trawling through magazines for pictures to cut out, Dick Tracy blaring too-loud in the corner.

As for the note, well, it was superfluous. He didn't know if Alfred could even read.

He gave the worst lectures of his academic career, mixing up Henry V and Henry VIII and attributing the cause of the Black Death to a shipment of bad cider from Germany. Well, all the more punishment for skipping out on his lecture yesterday, he felt; the essays would be interesting, if nothing else.

The only thing on his mind was Alfred and as soon as he was done for the day he threw everything into the car and shot home. It was still raining but he didn't bother wrestling with his umbrella as he threw the car up against the curb and scrambled out, sprinting to the apartment block. He fumbled with the keys and elbowed his way into the building, taking the stairs two and three at a time, his heart in his mouth.

The note was still stuck to the door in its envelope but he didn't let that trifle him too much. As before, he wasn't even sure if Alfred knew how to read. The key was still under the begonia but, again, that meant nothing. Alfred always put it back after he'd let himself in.

"Alfred?" Arthur called to him as he opened the door and stepped in. "Alfred, are you here?!"

Nothing. His heart congealed, growing cold and black in his chest. He made his way through the apartment once more, checking every room, but there was no sign of life. Nothing had been disturbed in his absence.

Right. Fine. He wasn't beaten yet. There were still places he could look.

He got back in the car and started up the engine, peeling away from the shining curb. He headed east, away from the lush pleasant greenery of the suburbs and towards the greying heart of the Bronx, backwards, backwards, to where it had all begun.

The barge out to the Statue of Liberty wasn't running. The ferryman was huddled under his canopy in a raincoat with worn-away elbows. He wasn't going over today, he said, not in this weather, wasn't worth the fuel or the effort. He hadn't seen Alfred, although Arthur described him as vividly as possible, his image burning brightly in his brain.

Next he went to the cinema, the first one, and bought a ticket for the newest monster movie. It was cheap cinema, run-down, the sort that didn't check the theatres after a showing, that ran the movie on repeat all day. He knew Alfred sometimes sat and watched the same movie two or three times in a row, just be sure he hadn't missed anything. It was mid-evening, after the rush of schoolboys and before the rush of gropers and prostitutes, so the place was nearabouts empty. He didn't find Alfred in any of the six screens, although he stood and scoured every last row just to be sure. He crumpled his ticket in his fist as he left.

He went to the diner and sat at the back with a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt tarmac. He pressed his chilled hands around the lukewarm ceramic and watched the door, eyes darting hopefully at every jingle of the bell above it. Alfred did not appear, however, like a saint in a stained-glass window, wrapped in wet and trailing bedsheets. Arthur realised that he didn't even know what Alfred was wearing.

There was only one other place he could think of to look now – a last resort, a final act of desperation. This time he didn't care who saw him. He left the car right outside Braginsky's, pulling his jacket tighter around himself as he entered the club and pushed his way through the crowd. There was a tight cluster about the stage, blue-collar workers in their suits and hats whooping, cheering, throwing fistfuls of dollar bills. The atmosphere, not so long ago such second-nature that he'd found it boring, now filled him with a claustrophobic dread. He was a culprit, an instigator, in all this – in driving the young and helpless into those waiting, greedy hands.

It was a girl on the stage, winding herself around the pole, with long pale hair and cold silver eyes. She didn't have a top on and the shape of their hands mirrored her curves in mid-air. They knew exactly how much money could buy the sweet soft press of her flesh.

He turned his back on the animal spectacle of it and made his way out to Braginsky's office. He was half-braced for a bullet in the forehead but found himself eerily calm. Perhaps he felt himself free of consequence: he'd already lost everything.

Braginsky was behind his desk, poring over his leather folder. He looked up as Arthur entered, tilting his head before breaking into a wide smile.

"Ah, Doctor Kirkland!" he said pleasantly. "It has been a while! I thought perhaps we had offended you."

"Is Al... Jack here?" Arthur asked, coming before the desk. "Did he come back?"

Braginsky blinked. "Come back? Nyet, he is not here. I terminated his contract over three weeks ago."

Arthur blinked, derailed. "...Terminated?"

"Da. He was sick." Braginsky shook his head. "No good for business. I had complaints from customers that he was coughing up blood. That does not look very good, does it?" His violet eyes narrowed. "You had him many times. Did you not experience this problem?"

Arthur exhaled. "I... can't say that I ever noticed."

"Hm." Braginsky didn't sound very convinced. "Well, he was no longer of any use to business. I have replaced him with similar boy from Canada." He leaned forward across the desk. "Interested? Looks very like Jack. He even wears cowboy outfit."

"No, thank you," Arthur replied stiffly.

Braginsky shrugged, settling back into his seat. "Fair enough. Just an offer."

"Look, do you have any idea where Jack is?" Arthur pressed.

"None. He said he was going to find you after I dismissed him. I have not seen him since."

"...I see." Arthur clenched his fists; but then took a deep breath, releasing them again. He had no right to be angry at Braginsky for throwing Alfred out, not when he'd been the one to abandon him on that orphanage doorstep in the first place. Braginsky was looking at it from a business perspective, after all; Arthur had simply been selfish and weak.

"I take it he did not find you?" Braginsky asked.

"No, he did," Arthur replied, looking at the floor. "He's been with me these few weeks but... we had something of a disagreement and he ran away. I thought he might have come back here but..."

Braginsky shrugged. "He was always problematic," he said calmly. "Sometimes I think that he is mentally unwell. Perhaps that would not be surprising."

Arthur flinched. "Yes, I... suppose that would make sense," he said quietly. "He's had such a rotten start in life..."

"Are you quite sure I cannot tempt you with another?" Braginsky said, losing interest in the topic of Alfred. "Boy from Canada has better technique than Jack; or what about Yao? He's the Chinese boy I mentioned before, beautiful to look at, highly skilled–"

"No," Arthur interrupted. "No, thank you. I really couldn't. I only came to look for Jack."

"He is not here."

"I know." Arthur nodded to him. "I'll just be going." He turned on his heel. "Goodnight."

"Men like you are always the most interesting," Braginsky said. "You have everything – and everything to lose. I can only think that you must crave destruction in every sense."

"Yes," Arthur agreed gently. "Men like me – and women, too, utter monsters, selfish and greedy and terrible. We burn brightly like dying stars." He looked at Ivan, who seemed amused. "When we go out, we take everyone with us."

He brought the car up to the curb, his heart like a shrivelled raisin rattling off his ribcage. It was dark, still raining, and he didn't know what else to do. Start his search afresh tomorrow, perhaps, but what result would that yield him? Alfred clearly didn't want to be found.

Who knew where on earth he was? Perhaps he'd taken the train out of New York; he could be in another state by now. Perhaps he had other lovers he could go to – the man with the Rolex and the gold cufflinks who looked at Alfred like he was the sun. Men like him, they were the sort who would give Alfred what he wanted. They didn't ask him to be anything else but a whore: soft open legs and an obedient mouth with a filthy comeback for everything.

He made his way back up the stairs to his apartment, his head pounding. He'd barely eaten all day but found that he didn't have it in him to be hungry. Perhaps he'd just make himself a cup of tea, he thought, and head to bed, sleep on it, maybe Alfred would come back in the morning–

Alfred was slumped up against the front door in a bedraggled heap. He was soaked through, shivering madly, his eyes squeezed shut. He wasn't wearing his glasses. Arthur almost tripped on the last step as he scrambled towards him.

"Alfred!" He dropped to his knees next to him. "Alfred, thank god...!"

Alfred opened his eyes a little. His face was very white. "Ar...thur..." His voice caught and he began coughing.

"Come on, idiot boy." Arthur took him under the arms and lifted him up; the boy was like a dead weight in his arms. "Let's get you inside."

He unlocked the door and all but dragged Alfred over the threshold. The boy was quivering, completely drenched, his breathing heavy and rasping.

"You've had me out of my mind with worry," Arthur said, hauling him to the bedroom. He'd put Alfred in his own bed, he thought, where there was more room for extra blankets and he could keep an eye on him. The lingering pneumonia had him on edge; he knew he had to get Alfred's body heat back up as quickly as possible.

"I'm... I'm sorry..." Alfred began coughing again.

"Don't speak." Arthur sat him in the chair at the dresser and began to hurriedly strip him, dropping his wet clothes to the floor. He got a towel from the cupboard and rubbed him dry, hard and rough, trying to get his blood stimulated. Alfred coughed into his hand as Arthur scrubbed violently at his hair.

"Where are your glasses?" Arthur asked.

"Dropped them," Alfred rasped. "That's why... it took me so long... to get back... I couldn't find m-my way..."

"Stupid boy." Arthur dug thick, quilted winter pyjamas out of the bottom drawer and pulled them onto Alfred's shivering body. "...Why did you do it? I've been frantic. I looked everywhere for you."

"I-I thought... it would be best..." Again he began to cough. Arthur steered him towards the bed and put him in, then fetched three extra blankets to bundle him up properly.

"There. Just snuggle up and get warm, alright? I'll... I'll make you some soup."

Alfred gave no reply, pale and sickly against the pillows. Arthur didn't want to leave him for even a minute but tore himself away to the kitchen to fumble about with the stove and pans. He made tomato soup, a reminder of the first night, and weak tea, more hot water than milk. These he brought in to Alfred on a tray, propping him up as much as he could. He sat next to the bed and fed him; Alfred didn't seem like he really wanted it but opened his mouth out of sheer obedience, something that Arthur didn't like to think about. The colour had begun to come back into his face, though, which was something.

"You can't really think that I wanted you to go," Arthur said softly. "Alfred?"

"I know y-you didn't," Alfred rasped. "But it... s-seemed best. You didn't know... what else to do with me and I... I'd ruined ev-everything..."

"Sshh." Arthur rubbed at his cheek. "It's alright. It doesn't matter. We'll work everything out, Alfred, I promise."

Alfred grasped weakly at his hand. "I didn't... w-want you to hate me, Arthur..."

"I don't hate you," Arthur said softly. "I could never hate you."

"B-but I..."

"Our relationship can never be what you want," Arthur went on, smiling at him, "but please know that I love you. I do, Alfred, with all of my heart. I want you to stay with me, for us to have a life together... You know that, don't you?"

Alfred bit at his lip. His blue eyes filled with tears, welling over. He looked down at the bed, beginning to sob.

"Oh, god..." Arthur pushed aside the tray and wrapped his arms around him, holding him as tight as he dared. "Alfred, I'm so sorry. Please don't cry."

Alfred clutched at him, trembling in his arms. His every breath seemed to cleave through his body. Arthur rubbed at his hair, still a little damp from the downpour. He smelt of the rain, the grit in the gutters. It shouldn't be like this. He let him sob until he was too worn out to carry on, winding down in his arms, sniffling against his neck. His hands loosened.

"Look, get some rest," Arthur said, pulling back. He gently pushed Alfred back to the pillows, tucking him in. "You need a good sleep. We'll talk about everything in the morning."

Alfred gave a tired nod, letting his eyes slide closed. "I didn't... want to go," he said quietly. "I just... thought..."

"I know." Arthur stroked at his face, brushing away his sticky hair. "It was me, Alfred. I'm to blame for it all. I'm a monster and you're the one... who's had to pay for my sins."

O patron saint

"No." Alfred's eyes slitted open again. "N-not a... monster." He smiled. "...Not to me."

"But I am," Arthur said sadly. "The kind that comes out at night and preys on those less fortunate, their bones and their flesh and their souls."

(That's right, he thought. You can only see stars at night.)

In the morning Alfred was dead. Arthur woke up next to him with the grey light coiling through the curtains like smoke and he knew without touching him, without speaking, without looking. He'd slept back-to-back with him, sweltering under four blankets, to try and share his body-heat; overly-cautious, he'd thought, really. He hadn't expected Alfred to die.

He sat up and looked down at him, perfectly still on his back, his young face white and drawn, with greyish-blue circles beneath his eyes. He hadn't heard him coughing or gasping for breath, hadn't felt him writhing or thrashing or dying. It must have been peaceful, a quiet and sudden slipping away in his sleep.

He touched his cheek. He was stone-cold. Hours ago, then – and Arthur had slept through it all, his back to him, oblivious.