Balls.

NOTE: 11 April, 2011––Edit and re-upload to remove horrible grammar errors. No new content, just reads better.

Traitor. The heaviest word in any language, it carries the weight of dead bodies, minds, and the discarded trust that follow it. A single noun of seven letters (three vowels and four consonants, at least in this alphabet) that brings the worst of any addressed as such. "A person who betrays his country, a cause, or trust, especially one who commits treason." (Courtesy of the American Heritage Dictionary, p. 1285.) A cheater of trust, that sacred attribute of integrity and respect. A traitor is the one that drowns in mountains of ostracons.

Alfred stays locked within his bedroom for four solid days. The mood of the house sits awkward (two men sharing a half-bath can do that) and unbalanced. The padding of feet in circles through the foyer is gone and replaced with steady rainfall on the skylight. Traitor, though only said once, descends like a curtain of smoke waiting to ignite.

A knock on the door.

He does not answer it, just like the others. He has nourishment enough to not pass out and, when both Arthur and Ivan leave to bicker at the office, Alfred prowls out like a sedated panther.

The knock reintroduces itself. "Not interested," he says to it. The polyester-cotton blend of his pillowcases muffle the words.

Three more heavy taps. I. Don't. Care.

Alfred responds by throwing a copy of Agamemnon at the door (the spine makes a lovely sound upon collision). His hand lingers over Antigone, Dubliners, and A Farewell to Arms.Hefty stories that carry the weight of the world.

A pall. Traitor traitor traitor. Such a lying bastard.

A state of Zen is presented and Alfred's breathing shallows and mutes. (System shutting down. If nothing is done system will continue to shut down in fifty-nine seconds, fifty-eight seconds, fifty-seven seconds . . .)

"I do hope those aren't my novels you're tossing like refuse in there."

Although the pendulum of the clock on the wall still swings, the hands are not moving and the hour is incorrect.

"At least make sure you use the hardbacks; they can take the abuse."

Alfred turns to face the one-sided conversation. His knee stabs into a pair of needle-nosed tweezers and his forehead busses a container of mouthwash. A half-eaten carton of cottage cheese meets his elbow.

"And feel free to toss Jane Austin," the monologue continues. "Too many bloody Johns in those books. Damn feminist writers . . ."

Alfred thinks that maybe he should say something but the chances of his words twisting under Ivan's fingers eventually are much too great. Five minutes pass (he counts the tocks of the pendulum) and the voices seem to shut off. Hibernation is what this is for his tattered body. (Right now his cells are in overdrive, the rough endoplasmic reticulum shooting proteins and fats like mad through cytoplasm. Proteins expand to let in salts.)

"At least unlock the door––he isn't here right now. It's just me, love." But Alfred does not move. In his head plays 'Et tu, Brute?' over and over like an emptying spool of film. And while he watches the hairs and spots on the black and white reel there is a crunch and click. A jiggling at the lock as metal scrapes against metal. Four hundred and twenty seconds later the lock fails the jam and the door swings open.

Arthur shies in and pockets something. Alfred watches him like a basking lizard (slow blinking, tongue flicking out occasionally) as he weaves through the room's disarray. The bathroom and closet are gutted and spitting out shirts, sweaters, packets of floss, shoes, a case of contacts, an empty box of laxatives . . . The floor is almost indistinguishable. A broken pair of glasses sits upon the bedside table next to a shattered hand-mirror.

Dirtied socks gush out in a rivet like water flowing down paths of least resistance. Ties are in knots and crumpled into adjoining balls. A cabin built of toothpicks sits upon an overturned shoe. The air smells like water damage, moth balls, and sick.

"A tumult's been through here," mutters Arthur. He picks his way to the bed covered with household flotsam. He clears a spot and sits down, picking up Alfred's legs and setting them on his lap. (This is the scene where Arthur notices the thick calf muscles that clutch onto Alfred's legs. They look unusual and offsetting on the rods of Alfred's ankles.) He runs his fingers over the parchment-flesh and feels the blood vessels constrict. Arthur lets out a puff of air through his nose, much like the prusten of a tiger.

No noise is made from either man as they sit and observe the rush of fabrics and foods over the floor like a carpet of thick moss. Alfred has a series of mild twitches and buries his head farther into the cave of his arms. A scent resembling old urine crosses Arthur's nose, and he holds his breath.

A moment inside Arthur's mind: There is a molding jar of apple butter that's been lidded and resealed though the threads mismatch. A pair of his own metal knitting needles hang onto a drab green sweater arm. He lists and categorizes what he sees (tries to remember if he misplaced any of these things) and works his fingers to preform a deep-tissue massage. One or two times he stresses bone with his finger pads.

He is thinking about how hard it must be for Alfred's heart to move its blood from ventricle to atrium to body. How fast the skin cells under his fingers are sliding off and becoming the layer of dust on the mantelpiece beyond the door; If Alfred's breathing is the same as it was three years ago; When the body will no longer tolerate the mind and how it will cast off.

He holds onto the fabric of the comforter as his facial muscles fail him. His eyes watch (his brain does not comprehend) the body before him. Arthur is no longer in himself, but somewhere farther above. He is removed from the breaking down of his own body as mucous membranes secrete and eyelids push out dust and reality. He watches himself and floats through the air with the foul perfume of bodily expulsions.

Back into the fray now.

As Arthur has sinks into a bog of pity and remorse, Alfred's heart jolts and misses, then over-compensates and kicks in an extra beat with the next. He experiences his first premature ventricular (or was it atrial) contraction. Two waves of electric pulses bump into one another as the sinoatrial node misfires. His chest squeezes (his blood cells feel confused and trapped in the bowl of his heart) and for a moment he feels unable to swallow. He hitches his breath and closes his eyes. His heart feels like it sits in his mouth and, briefly, he joins Arthur outside of their bodies looking in.

Petechial hemorrhaging rears its ugly head and tries to pick into Alfred's eyes. Blood vessels bulge under pressure, then sink back into remission. Elastic veins hold on, exerting ATB cell by cell and rebuild. The eyes stay white but he is off-focused as if cataracts are fogging up behind the lens.

His skin is stale and his mouth is dry. Closure comes in a wave as his diaphragm clenches, then his lungs, his heart (once again), his trachea, his esophagus, his teeth. Colours turn too bright, Arthur too heavy beneath his legs, and Alfred tries to eat himself into his own chest. (There he is as a small boy, bright blond and blue-eyed with a happy cake-covered grin on his face; now he is sixteen and on his first date; here he learns about condoms and homosexual relations; he blinks as he is twenty-two and shitfaced and stumbling into his car. Memories spin into a feeble yarn and pull taut.)

He sees the toilet from the ajar door to his adjoined bathroom. The mirror is next to it, and the dried form of a human that lies before it tears his lungs asunder. Alfred chokes a sob and shudders, pulls against a pair of something that's holding his legs down. He smells, looks, and tastes like vomit and bleeding gums; the air gets thick with those heady smells and crushes down on him, suffocating the already rattling heart. Death curtsies, so he bows, and they go to grab hands––

Then, it passes. The arrhythmia leaves its mark, but does no more. Alfred's body and blood are tagged, temporarily shaken, but then stream back into routine. The cartilage in his ribs bends inward (or at least feel as though they are––dear god what a sensation) and close around his heart and lungs. Alfred tastes the faintest hints of copper and russet on his soft palate.

He coughs (hacks his lungs) and reaches for his glasses. This is the behavior that catches both of them off guard. Broken frames are helpful to no one, yet Alfred claws at them with every inch of his life left. Cold takes up his fingertips and oh, so tempting it is. (His eyes blink and look everywhere, somewhere for an outlet or a magnifying glass.)

Arthur reaches over him and grabs the blue felt case of Alfred's back-up glasses. He fumbles the case open (damn magnet catching and––ugh god damn) and pushes them onto Alfred's face. He's sitting up now and shaking, kicking Arthur's loin with his heels.

It feels like a cherry stone is lodged in his chest––halfway down his esophagus between his heart and gut. He can feel the little sprout poke into his internal system growing leaf-by-leaf and spreading. It sucks up his blood, takes in his pigments, and festers. The tree grows already rotten and black with thick serrated leaves. Sticky cherry sap clings to every inch of insides and coats every pore. The tree continues to grow, boughs and roots swallowing and tripping him up. The wood is hardy and inky-black. (Take an ax and chop it down; go go go! Cut out the rot!) The tree bears fruit inside his nerves, and for a moment Alfred feels anything and everything all at once.

"H-h-ch-ch-chk-" guttural sounds fall out. He spits up and soils himself. "Holy shit––oh––" Alfred sputters. He's gasping for breath (his body is almost back to norm by now though his mind is far from it) and grabbing everything. Eyes still looking and searching (though now much clearer) and he folds up on his knees. The muscles of his chest and shoulders contract and force him into a sphere, a human puzzle of limbs. Protect the heart. "Arthur––" and his voice cracks and is carried away. He salivates uncontrollably and stains his bedsheets.

But before Arthur can answer, a rough chill slides down his back. The air feels like streaming ice (he's hydroplaning, he can tell) and his hands shake in their grip of Alfred's shoulders. The two of them lock eyes and––

Reflecting off of Alfred's glasses is the face of the person who is killing him. Traitor.

The near-death instance is not mentioned to Ivan. Arthur cleans Alfred's room, Alfred hydrates himself for a few hours, and the two of them keep their distance. (They play a game of The Floor Is Lava and jump around the house to avoid wandering gazes.)

But Ivan is not a stupid man, no no no, far from it really. In this day and age in this field of work a stupid man is a starving man. And Ivan is not starving, not by any means. In fact he's rather built up and thick, a great totem of a man.

And so he notices when Arthur begins to skirt around the table and almost hide like a rabbit kit with ears down and legs quivering. As for Alfred, well, that man is as active as a sedated rhinoceros. He's sure that birds would end up pecking on him if left out in the urban jungle.

"Little Arthur!" he calls. Arthur turns and bats his eyelashes (blinking rather, but Ivan likes to think otherwise) above a stilled frown. "Ah yes, my small friend. Please, come speak with me, if you wouldn't mind." Ivan smiles and closes his eyes as he is wont to do but no crows feet crinkle his face.

"You see, my dear, I have been watching around the house, yes? And you are walking … strangely, I suppose." Ivan leads Arthur into the sitting room and looks out the window. "Like a crab around water," he offers. Arthur frowns at the mental image (is this some sort of awkward height joke? A strange kind of short legged walking reference?).

Ivan reads Arthur's face like a large print child's book. "Ah, yes, you see, you hide from dear Alfred within the house! Like little wolves you are, circling one another." Ivan laughs shortly with a forced sort of plastic smile. "Oh, no no no. Not wolves. More like stupid birds caught in an updrift."

Arthur is perplexed by the sheer amount of animal similies Ivan is pulling out of the folds of his long scarf. A crab, a wolf, a bird? What in the name of––

"Know that I will find what you have done, little Arthur." Ivan's tone is dry and stark as powdered snow on mountains. "And once I do, you will be the next to break."

The hospital smells like instant mashed potatoes and carnival balloons. There is hardly a sterile sniff in the hallway (despite all those descriptions he reads about), and the lights are only harsh against the blue and white alternating floor tiles. A fake stone wall bends in from the entrance of the Emergency Room (a pregnant woman is pacing on her cell phone; an old man sits with a small boy in the corner chairs not looking at anything).

"Down the hall to your left. Keep going until you see the Surgery Reception desk and just diagonally onto the left there'll be a wooden door. Blood lab is through there." The secretary gives Alfred a clean, white smile and plays with an accordion stack of sticky notes.

"Hey, thanks," and he's off with a nod of the head.

It's December and Alfred's thongs flack flack flack against the waxed floor. (He would have worn his running shoes but Arthur's hid them and Ivan won't talk to him.) He passes two elevators on his left, a male nurse escorting a gurney out.

The blood lab is crowded with teenagers and what Alfred believes is a prostitute. He grabs a clipboard, a Highlights magazine, and a ballpoint pen. He finds the slice of pie in the tree, the needle as the old woman's bun pin, and discloses weight and height on his medical form: Five feet nine inches, one-hundred and ten pounds. He smiles as he dots down the numbers, no shame, no worry.

Within the packet of Alfred's skin his blood is churning and streaming, hot and ready. His tongue runs along the back of his teeth, his eyelids rise and fall, his stomach churns and his skin goose-bumps from the chill of the lab. The muscles of his heart quiver and murmur, tissues not quite in sync. The pericardium sloshes about the heart and tries to keep order but electrical currents override it. Another misfire and another spasm. This one goes by undetected.

"Mister Jones," says an older woman in flowered scrubs. She holds up a clipboard that holds the future of Alfred's organ systems. He stands and he follows.

"Bloody hell!" Arthur screams. Papers fly across the room, a manila folder torn and in shreds smacks him deftly in the face.

Ivan growls at him with a wide-eyed glare. Pure madness encases his face and body (his mind is long gone, as far as anyone can guess). "Wretch!"he yells. "Stupid little man!" He hurls a fist forward (and throws his solid mass of a body along with it) at Arthur's form against the outward wall.

A broken window catches a piece of the black leather gloves on Ivan's hands. The D.C. winter touches skin for a shaving of a second before he retracts the limb and forces it at an adjusted target: a soft and Caucasian face. A tea kettle catches him unawares and leaves a heavy echoing crack and a spidering cut on his face.

The cordless telephone follows shortly after and dents the wall behind him with a three centimetre blemish. Ivan throws off his jacket and scarf, grabbing Arthur by the hair and catching him between the wall and his own body. Arthur is broadsided by the grapple and is stunned for a few moments. Ivan snaps and takes back his hand and bats as hard as he can on the little cheekbones before him. (Ah, how wonderful to have such height on this little man!)

After the first hit Arthur snaps back like a flapping fish and tries to grab the neck of his trapper. No avail.

Ivan grabs onto Arthur's hip with a heavy grip, squeezing to get as many bruises as possible. Arthur shouts and growls at him (that one really is a lion, or a tiger, and he is a bear himself, oh my!). He is clawed at with little white fingers turned weapon. No threat, those.

He uses his height to his advantage and leans down –no, smothers– over the smaller. "I will break you––" An umbrella stabs into his side. He looks down as the other brings up the cordless phone with his toes. "You've ruined him, ruined! You're a killer, little Arthur––"

"M-me?" Arthur coughs. "Fucking bastard––" is cut off by the crook of Ivan's thick arm. He is muffled and tries to bite but his little teeth don't even scathe the tight knit of the shirt.

The door unlocks to their left. Ivan squeezes with all of his might before letting go and making as much distance between the two of them as possible. Arthur shudders a breath and coughs, clenching his hands. The door opens; he picks up a book and pretends to read; the other collects the phone and straightens his clothes.

Ivan is glowering when Alfred wobbles into the sitting room. He is chewing on a toothpick opposite from Arthur, who's cradling his own vice: a wisping cup of Darjeeling tea. The house has expanded into a western standoff (much to Alfred's childish and oblivious enjoyment) as the two men deadlock their gazes. Ivan is looking down his prominent nose and trying to kill Arthur with simple direct thoughts.

"Good morning, Alfred," Ivan greets him without turning his head or sweeping his eyes. He spins the toothpick between rough and large fingers. The gash on his face is sutured and dressed, albeit hastily, and ironically matches his scarf.

Alfred raises his eyebrows and vaguely nods.

"Top of the morning, love." Arthur, however, makes direct contact and even smiles, smiles at Alfred with all of his pearly (and slightly crooked) teeth. His northern English accent is thicker this morning, and bears a weight of finality in each word. Purple and black covers the side of his face unabashed.

"Uhm, hey," says Alfred. Shifting uncomfortably, Alfred skirts around the duo, rubbing his elbows that jut out into his fingers. He catches the opposite side of Arthur's strategically turned face. "Jesus christ, Arthur, what happened?" Two thin steps and he's at the table. The two housemates go back to their battle of will.

"Nothing." Black and sharp like obsidian.

Alfred doesn't take the dismissal. "Hey now, if someone is beating the shit out of you–" (Ivan smiles a bit; he recognizes his handy work!) "––you should tell me.For godsake, Arthur, you're not the fucking Lone Ranger." If Alfred continues to crease his forehead like such he'll end up with horrible worry lines. "Because I would be Tonto …" he mutters.

"Bollocks." Arthur cuts Alfred off, lips drawn tight around the hard K. "I stumbled upon an … I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yes." Ivan gives an innocent smile in return to match Arthur's impressive one-sided scowl. "Alfred, sit down, please. You're being rude just circling." The tone of voice is nothing to go unnoticed. The bruise catches as Arthur tries to fold over his glare, and it forces his face to stay flat.

"Hey, no need to be so aggressive," and Alfred bows his head. He does not take a seat.

Finally, the silent (not-so-friendly-giant) counterpart steps in. "Little Arthur was preoccupied on his way from the office, do not worry." Ivan's voice is light and springing along with flicks and spots of slurred letters. He smiles crookedly away from his cut. (This is Western Europe fighting Eastern Europe for the liberation of the heartland.) "Something to eat?" but the sentiment is entirely fake.

"Oh, no. I'm good, thanks," says Alfred.

"Very well," and Ivan brightens like the borealis.

"You'll be dead by the end of the week with that attitude," Arthur growls. He bares his teeth and furrows his brow. Truly he is a large feral cat. (Witness the unfurling of the wings of Mother Hen Arthur, a most intimidating creature.) He switches targets. "For the love of god, Ivan, you're killing him." Arthur forces himself to let go of his teacup in fear of damaging it and his hand. The threat curls around the room but does not rise in volume.

"Hmm, I doubt that."

The chair Alfred leans on is hard and too big and it makes his arms hurt (though it could be because he has no fat there anymore) and – he really cannot handling yelling right now. Loud noises and Alfred never really mixed. Please, Arthur, don't raise your voice!

"Because this way," Ivan picks up again, "Alfred is no longer intolerable." Alfred looks crestfallen and turns his gaze down to his chair – but he's tried so hard! He . . . he wasn't ugly, was he? Before?

A laugh (small, afraid, very much Ivan) pokes out and flies over Arthur's threat. Eventually it settles on Alfred and stings him with a knotted barb.

"Get. Out." The words that come out of Arthur's mouth are skinned to their bare bones from the proximity of his teeth. "Now, you useless bastard." Arthur gets to his feet and slams his palm onto the face of the table. (Alfred, to the side, is hiding his face and closing his eyes, trying to bat away his fear of loud noise.)

Ivan takes no heed of this. Sophistry, that's all this is. Delicious, useless, tactless sophistry. How wonderful. Ivan bites off the top of the toothpick and spits it onto the table near Arthur's hand. He looks up at Alfred and blinks heavy indigo eyes at him.

"Son of a bitch!" Yelling cracks the atmosphere like fireworks in a July sky. (Ivan, oh, what an arsemonger he is. Contemptible bastard child of a banshee that –)

Ivan doesn't quite remember ever being punched so hard in the nose before.

An EKG, or Echocardiogram (from the German root) is one of the few machines that will ever let a man experience an ultrasound. The M-mode echo can only do so much, so the technician takes another; a two-dimensional echo is called for and slices of Alfred's heart are taken with delicate beats and waves.

The gel is cold on Alfred's chest but he quickly pushes it aside as the electrodes are placed on his bare skin. His torso is coated like that of a newborn – a newborn drastically underweight and resembling a man in Auschwitz photographs. Prenatal fluid over crags and cliffs of human flesh and (somewhat) beating heart.

Alfred turns his head away and removes his glasses. Arthur isn't there, Ivan isn't there, the doctors are just faceless parts of a greater (nonprofit) machine. But, he doesn't want to know. He has seen his flaws, he has felt his own heartbeat. No, there is nothing wrong with Alfred; Alfred is beautiful and perfect and golden. He has taut skin and firm muscles, and – and Arthur loves him! There's iron and oxygen in his blood, he drinks water, he reduces salt – by god he isn't dying. There's no way he could be. . .

The room is so goddamn cold that Alfred can feel every hair follicle on his body perk up and his nipples follow suit. Damnation he should have taken the paper gown. He hums slightly so the sound fills his ears so no blips and bleats can be heard. The green lines crest and fall but Alfred looks away. Then, the arrhythmia breaks the surface and the noise of the machine tweaks and reverberates through the room. Alfred blinks once, twice, then stares blankly at the khaki wall.

Wires and sticky film are pulled off from Alfred's front. The gel is wiped off, his clothes put back on. Alfred's breath comes in chunks and the doctor says nothing for a few solid minutes.

"Mister Jones," the technician begins, "based off of your medical history and our EKG results, you should be fine. We're looking out for a PVC, but you didn't give us one." The technician clears his throat and readjusts his scrubs. "Long story short, you have a typical A-fib arrhythmia. So, lucky for you, that's benign." A plastic smile but sincere words. "Unluckily for you, we're going to stuff you full of pills over the next few weeks."

Alfred is smiling as takes the written prescription. Benign, that's a safe word. An Arthur word, but still a safe word. He folds the paper in his hands and exits the throat of the hospital. He goes to the pharmacy, picks up the dump of pills, and zips up his jacket. The December light is cutting in the cleared sky and for a moment he looks around the hospital grounds. The first cold breath shocks his lungs. He leaves the establishment squinting like a newborn babe, waiting for the doctor to smack him into life.

Arthur's gift to Alfred on Christmas is a filled prescription for Maalox, magnesium supplements, and a bunch of green bananas. He takes all the coffee from the house (and replaces it with blue Gatorade or VitaminWater). He finds the bindings, the cold pills, the running shoes . . . Alfred watches, heels like a Scottish Deerhound (Arthur's favourite aside from Corgis) and placates Arthur with quiet obedience. His things are hidden under lock and key (he presumes) and Alfred suspects he will not be seeing them for quite sometime.

The cabinets open and close in a steady beat; a household pulse of a living foundation. Arthur goes through every crevice of the kitchen and unloads the meager food. Every nutrition box is analyzed and scrutinized, judged before the dreaded burning-copper gaze of Arthur Kirkland.

"I don't see why you have to terrorize my kitchen," Alfred says from his spot at the entrance.

"Don't think you can hide the EKG results and the prescriptions from me," Arthur warns over his shoulder. He shakes a box of crackers and turns it about. "Electrolyte imbalance, high sodium levels. You're killing yourself, you dolt."

"No need to get mean about it––"

Arthur sets the box down on the counter, bending the corner with excessive force. "Forgive me for not wanting you to suffer through a god-awful heart attack." He spits a bit with the interruption. He turns and bore those harsh eyes at Alfred's eyes (and his stubborn cowlick).

Alfred averts his gaze and stays quiet. Arthur continues: "I try to pardon your stupidity, boy, but sometimes it proves detrimental to others aside yourself." Arthur's face is flushing with indignation and just pent up feelings.

"Sorry?" Alfred is venturing to dissolve the fog of tension that overlays them. Frustrated hypnogogia, perhaps? He's slipping . . .

"Sorry? Sorry?" Arthur's become a porpentine once more. "How about a 'thank you,' you sodding excuse for a man!" The carton of crackers is compacting under a bony hand. "As much as I hate to say it, Ivan's a smart bastard for heeding my goddamned advice and getting out of here while he still can."

There is silence. Not even the icemaker within the drawer freezer kicks on; there is a hush and a flutter as Arthur blinks back his gaze. That's right, Ivan's gone . . . well he must be, since he's not been around lately. Well, if he's left then, maybe, no – nothing's wrong, is it? He didn't even say goodbye. Alfred slips farther down and he feels his fingertips fall off the ledge one by one.

"Honestly, Alfred, what else do you expect me to do in this situation?" Arthur's retired somewhat but the quills are still there. He's baring his teeth somewhat while Alfred worries his lip. Arthur sighs and chucks the cracker box across the room onto the dinning table.

"I––I don't know," Alfred says. It's more of a whimper than anything and it trembles down his body and deep into his gut. His weakened heart churns inside his chest but does not misfire (thank god for that). Alfred turns away along the doorframe and brings his hand to his mouth, chewing lightly on the meat of his thumb.

Both of them feel the familiar squeeze of muscles and lymph nodes in the backs of their throats. The starts of their tongues tingle and twitch while their jaws simultaneously clench down. Bones creak and eyelashes bat away saline spurts. A cast of light from the kitchen's bay window forms a line of symmetry that the two men unconsciously reflect.

Alfred lets out a strained sort of cry (a drowned snake comes to mind in the sense of the sound) and turns his face further away from Arthur's burning eyes. Chinking and sharp intakes of breath chew through the air of the house. Alfred tries to form words. "I'm so sorry, Arthur. I – You're not going to leave me, are you? I – I can't, I can't do this one my own, I'll . . ." He makes a sort of repressed wet cracking noise and shakes through every cell membrane in his body. Still Arthur says nothing and Alfred feels like letting go completely right then and there. "I don't feel well," and so he excuses himself.

Alfred gets up from the dusty floor (that Arthur keeps tutting him about) and fumbles away down the hall and hides in the half-bath. He gasps in four, five giant breaths and holds onto the sink. "Oh god," he whispers. Alfred hiccups and jolts with the sudden intakes, his diaphragm seemingly uncontrollable. Briefly he thinks about his heart and the alterations to its beat. "I'm killing myself," he admits. "I'm––oh god, I'm dying––"

He leans into the sink and dry-heaves with every muscle in his gut. His tongue tries to stretch out of his throat as loads of gases and snippets of voice come out. Eyes shut, hands clamp, neck gives to the strain of bearing the sickness. Over and over he tries to expel something, but each time his stomach rejects him. (No, self-slaughter will not be occurring here, god damn it.)

The cry that comes from Alfred's very being is nothing short of a wrenching sob. He sputters, tries to hold it back, but his muscle memory is stronger and soon he is heaving and erupting with wails. He can't gasp air or swallow saliva and he ends up spitting up his self-hatred into the sink before him. He's wet all over and it hurts, hurts down into his lungs that burn for him to breathe properly and into his heart that is holding on for dear life to beat at a steady tempo. Alfred tries to close his mouth but only end up adding a 'ck, ck, ck,'tail to his fluctuating warble.

His face in the worn mirror's reflection is ruddy and shockingly real. Cut out cheek bones, high-rise temples and hairline; his skin is red and grating against his muscles. Opaque teeth and bleeding gums from too much brushing and not enough nutrition. If Alfred were to get a facial peel his very identity would be sure to fall off.

Sadly, this image is not something Alfred has been blissfully unaware of. Everyday he stares this visage in the eye, poking and prodding at it, waiting for the trepidation to leave its features. Alfred is stretched over his own ambition, and he doesn't seem to fit.

There are dulled thunking footsteps that come into Alfred's scope of hearing. Arthur, he's the only one who'd actually wear wool socks when the weather demands it. "Go––go away, Arthur," he hisses. (Oh, two can play at this game, mister Kirkland.)

There (of course) is no response, only another deeper thunk as Arthur (presumably) sits upon the base of the door, his form blocking out the yellow line of light at the joint. Alfred's face is still wet and runny all over, but makes no move to wipe any of it off. He yanks open the door. "Can I help you?" he shoots.

Arthur, caught of guard, makes to his feet with a start. His brows are still furrowed but his eyes are not as cutting as before. Mercy thy name is an Englishman's decorum. Some sort of bodily fluid drops off Alfred's chin and onto the joint of the floor between them. The line of symmetry has followed them and still plays true to its nature. Arthur looks Alfred in the eye for one or two scalding moments then turns and looks down the hall. An eyelash is stuck on his cheek and Alfred (though embittered) wipes it off.

"Alfred . . ." The two look at one another (draw their swords and shoot each other? No, perhaps later) and something just cracks into place. (Traitor traitor traitor. By god you're under the skin.) "I"m not a bastard," he asserts. The look he gets from a sopping Alfred is enough to warrant a clarification. "I'm not going to leave," he tuts.

"God, I have to piss like Seabiscuit." Alfred is sitting before his somewhat dated television and ridiculously new xBox 360. A fine prism of labels of various VitaminWaters and Gatorade string the floor like the indoor Christmas lights the Alfred advocated instead of a tree.

"Eloquent," Arthur replies. He sits off to the side finishing the green sweater he found the beginnings of in Alfred's amalgamated nest of a bedroom. The metal needles click in time with Alfred's fingers on his controller.

"Y'know, I try, just for you." He squirms in his seat, a sort of twenty-something-year-old version of a child's bathroom jig. "Oh Jesus." Alfred pauses the game and bolts down the hallway cupping his crotch. Door open, head thrown back, Alfred makes quite the spectacle of relieving his bladder with no shame whatsoever.

"At least close the door. God, that's crude." Arthur frowns. His face grows into a contented smirk (Arthur refuses to ever show his sentimental emotions whenever he can) as Alfred walks back, drying his hands on his pants.

"You've gained weight," he says.

"Yeah?" Alfred's face is a mixed drink of emotions, dry and smooth but bitter going down. His throat burns accordingly.

"Indeed. And looks––erm, appropriate." Oh, mister Kirkland, you could put mister Darcy to shame.

"'Eloquent,' Arthur," Alfred counters. He wears a half-frown.

"Shove off, I'm trying to compliment you." Arthur goes back to his sweater and grumbles something under his breath (most likely along the lines of fae folk or cross-stitching, oh god). "Matters aside, smashing."

"I'm going to pretend that's British for 'stud.'" Arthur shoots him a look and attempts to swallow a laugh.

Alfred abandons his game and walks into the kitchen. The refrigerator opens, closes, and a bag and bottle are set on the counter. A near-black VitaminWater is toted in his left hand, a flock of pills in his right. He sets them down in a nest next to a pine-scented candle. "These things taste like shit, you know?"

"You aren't supposed to chew them," chides Arthur.

"Yeah, well, maybe I want culinary adventure in my life." Alfred quirks an eyebrow and downs six pills at once. He chugs a third of his drink and sticks out his tongue in repulsion. He shudders. "Anything's better than the charcoal you force feed me. I'm surprised my gullet hasn't killed itself yet."

Arthur puffs out of his nose again, making like a lion more and more everyday. He puts away his knitting needles and turns into Alfred. He sits there letting out little bursts of prusten, and snuggles (there really is no better word to substitute) into the wiry side of his companion. Slowly he rubs circles on Alfred's stomach. Arthur leans over Alfred's heart as if he is waiting to hear the next the fibrillation by some freak chance. His ear crowds a fleece pullover as he waits and listens.

Alfred fiddles with the cap of his bottle and squirms. Arthur, like a good house cat or whatnot, holds his ground, curls tighter, and sends a warning green glance up and beneath Alfred's glasses. The bruise on his face has tightened and distilled into a splotch of green and yellow (a spot of brown at the epicenter); the petechial hemorrhage has died off. White eyes, inky skin, and two ostensibly bright eyes look direct full attention to Alfred.

"Still ticking?" Alfred asks.

A small irregular bump worms past Arthur's ear. "Yes," he says, "in a sense."

"Heh. I do my best." Alfred turns feels his stomach grumble. Arthur's fingers tighten and Alfred's muscles flex. His heart misfires. Ivan, wherever he is, sends a warning glance in the direction of the house. A high-pitched creak catches the air and is almost unheard by the two men.

Thump. Crack. And the rest is silence.*

*Yet another quote from Hamlet.

I have to piss like Seabiscuit all the time. It's quite annoying.

Time jumps and sections of the story are omitted on purpose; I want you to think about this, not just read it on the screen.

End.