:i:

{| TWO |}

:i:

"Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear

and the blind can see."

– Mark Twain

:i:

London, 4 years ago.

That day, it was raining.

After three and a half hours on his feet, Arthur paused in the kitchen and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. Even with the closed door, he could still hear the chatter and bustle of the teahouse as the rain pounded the roof in an endless, thunderous roar. Sighing, he uncapped his water bottle and took a long gulp. Checking his watch, he noted that he had another half hour to go before his shift finished. Capping the bottle, he stuffed it back in his school bag before pushing open the 'staff only' door and emerging behind the counter. As soon as he appeared, Lucy, one of the other girls working this shift, spotted him.

"Arthur!" she called, stuffing a tray into his hands. "Can you run this to table fifteen for me? I've got to take the scones out."

"Of course," said Arthur, trying to balance the tray and re-tie the laces of his apron, which had somehow managed to get undone. Pushing past the swinging wooden door that separated the counter and the rest of the shop, he quickly spotted the wooden '15' on one of the tables near the window and hurried over.

"Earl grey and strawberry tartlet for you, ma'am?" he asked, the words rolling off his tongue from months of repetition. The old lady at the table gave him a delighted smile. She was wearing a voluptuous hat – Arthur couldn't figure out whether there were any live birds in between all the floral decorations.

"Well aren't you just a charming lad?" she said, voice warbling as she fumbled with her purse. Arthur set the cup, saucer and plate down, along with the spoons. The lady slipped a five-pound note onto the tray as Arthur straightened up.

"Go buy yourself something nice, to ward off this horrible weather, poppet," she said, smiling. Arthur smiled back, tucking the money into his pocket.

"It is rather wet," he said, "Don't hesitate to call if you need anything else, ma'am."

The lady tittered, and waved him away. Following the scent of freshly made tea, Arthur made his way back to the counter. He wiped the tray down with a smooth, practiced motion and stacked it with the rest. Rolling his sleeves up more securely, he got to work, sighing a little at the influx of patrons who had obviously ducked into the shop to avoid the pounding rain outside. Lovely. It didn't look like the crowd was going to thin out any time soon, thanks to the weather. That meant Arthur was probably going to be running off his feet until the very end of the shift. Awesome.

It wasn't that Arthur hated his job. He held two, in addition to class – tutoring English and History around the schedule of his part time job at the Royal Tea House. And the pay wasn't bad, as far as jobs went, especially since he got to surround himself with the scent of tea and freshly made scones most of the time. Washing duty was a little less pleasant.

Despite being called the Royal Tea House, they also served coffee for those who were stupid enough to drink it. Arthur glared at the cup in his hands as he poured out a careful measure of cappuccino. Setting the silver jug back on the table, he grabbed a clear bottle and sprinkled soft chocolate dusting over the top of the foam. There. Perfect as something that was not tea could be.

Arthur never drank coffee. Though the scent of it was alright, he supposed. Readying the napkin and spoon, he passed the tray to the runner and returned to making the next order.

It was still raining half an hour later when Arthur hung his apron from the hook in the cramped staff room and shrugged his school blazer back on. Digging around the bottom of his bag, he pulled out his trusty collapsible umbrella.

"See you tomorrow," he said. Lucy pouted at him from where she was cutting a cake into thin, even slices.

"You're off?"

"Yeah," said Arthur, "My brother's picking me up."

"Jealous," said Lucy, "Your brother's hot."

"He's nearly a decade older than you, Luce," said Arthur, rolling his eyes.

"Whatever," said Lucy, waving a hand, "Have a good birthday!"

"Thanks," said Arthur, grinning despite himself, "Ta."

Closing the staff door, he made his way out of the back of the tea house. Unfurling his umbrella, Arthur jumped over a particularly large puddle only to accidently step in another.

"Bloody hell," he cursed.

The rain was torrential, dripping in a steady stream off the edge of his umbrella. At this rate, his bag was going to get wet. He quickly made his way around the side alley and onto the main sidewalk. Ducking under the awning, which stretched in front of the tea house, Arthur scanned the roads for a sign of his brother's car. A glance at his watch told him that his brother was five minutes late. Arthur frowned. Cars zoomed past, throwing up water where it had flooded the shallow gutters.

Ten minutes later, he spotted his brother's beat up car. It honked at him, double parking right outside the tea house. A taxi driver made a rude gesture as he swerved past, and Arthur smirked as his brother made an even ruder gesture in return. Snapping his umbrella closed, he wrenched open the car door and flung himself inside.

"Hey Iuan," he said, stuffing the bag in front of his seat. Iuan leant over, ruffling Arthur's hair with one hand while pulling quickly back into traffic with the other.

"Hey shortie," said Iuan, "Happy birthday 17th! How was school?"

"The same," said Arthur, pulling his seat belt on. He glanced at his brother. "Iuan! How many times do I have to tell you to put your damn seat belt on?"

His brother only laughed and rolled his eyes.

"Yooo-wannn," he said, in a poor imitation of Arthur (in Arthur's opinion), "You're turning seventeen, not seventy. Seriously, you need to stop acting like such an old man, Artie."

"I don't act like an old man!" Arthur protested, crossing his arms, "You're just terribly immature."

"Aww. But I'm still taller than you."

"You're older!"

"Yes. I often wonder when your legs are going to be able to reach the pedals. Maybe this year, aye?"

Arthur scowled the rain that was obscuring the windscreen.

"If you weren't driving, I would punch you in the face. Put your stupid seatbelt on."

"Aye, mother."

His brother made no move towards his seatbelt.

"Iuan!"

Iuan laughed uproariously. It quickly petered off though, as they turned right into another grey street painted dark with rain. Arthur fiddled with the old radio, but after a few minutes of static, gave up and sank back into his seat. The green digital clock beside the dash read 19:40.

"I hope we won't be late for the film," said Arthur, drawing the outline of the union jack on the window. The condensation dripped until the flag was almost unrecognisable. "Are we dropping by home first? I really want to change out of these clothes. And my hair is wet."

There was a long pause, broken only by the sound of the windscreen wipers struggling to clear the rain. His brother's silence made Arthur look around.

"Iuan?"

Iuan had a strange expression on his face. It looked almost guilty.

"Could we see it another day, maybe?" his brother asked at long last.

Arthur felt a stone drop to the bottom of his stomach.

"What? Why?" he demanded, sitting up, "You don't have work tonight! I booked the tickets weeks ago!"

Iuan didn't look at him, instead drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

"I've got to pick up an extra shift at the garage, they only told me yesterday – I tried to get around it but they're laying off some guys at the end of the month and it's really important that I keep the job what with the bills as it is. We can celebrate your birthday tomorrow instead – we'll even go out for dinner at that sushi place you like so much. Yeah?"

Arthur looked at his hands.

There was an inexplicable lump in his throat.

"Fine," he managed to say, the word lodging itself painfully in his mouth, refusing to be spoken clearly.

He caught Iuan giving him a concerned look.

"Fine?" his brother repeated.

Arthur shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. He probably failed miserably.

"Yes, fine."

"I've…um, I've got your present at home. You can still open that tonight."

"If there's a chance that you'll lose your job then you shouldn't have wasted money on a present," said Arthur. It came out sharper than it was meant to, and he bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything else. But the damage was done.

A flash of hurt crossed Iuan's face, to be replaced to irritation. His eyebrows – as thick as Arthur's own – knotted together.

"Look I'm sorry we can't go to the movies, but you know how important the money from the garage is, I can't afford - we can't afford to - "

"I said it was fine!" snapped Arthur, turning his face away.

"Well you don't sound it," said Iuan, glaring at his little brother across the seat.

Arthur could see Iuan's face in the left wing mirror, red hair a blur of colour due to the rain blotting the window. His own face was pale and translucent in the glass, staring back at himself. He turned his gaze away.

"Well, maybe I'm not!" Arthur retorted, disappointment welling up inside him like a wave, clogging his lungs so he could hardly breathe. He had been looking forward to this for weeks – months, even. And now… "We hardly spend anytime together anymore. I see you when you get home and that's it. Maybe I just thought it wouldn't be a big ask to watch one goddamn film with my brother on my birthday - !"

"It's not my fault that they changed my shift," Iuan replied hotly. The car made a worrying sound as they accelerated, but neither Kirkland paid it any mind, "I tried, Arthur, alright?"

Arthur didn't answer. He watched the buildings race by, their outlines distorted by the water on the window-pane.

"Maybe Francis can go with you instead," Iuan suggested after a long, strained silence.

Arthur didn't answer.

"Artie?"

"I don't want to watch the film anymore," he said quietly. The blue-white shop front of Francis' favourite patisserie ran like watercolour down a canvas as they drove past. A swipe of the paintbrush and it was gone, giving way to road and grey concrete. Even the people were grey beneath that black umbrellas.

"But haven't you already bought the tickets?"

Arthur glared at his own reflection. It was an ugly, pointed thing, which he disliked with a passion.

"Well I suppose they'll just have to go to waste, won't they?" he said, unable to keep the twist out of his voice. He understood the situation – of course he did, he was the one sorting through the bills every month, scraping together the rent – but the disappointment was too bitter, too heavy in his chest for him to ignore right now. He felt childish…but also terribly, terribly let down.

"Can you stop making this so difficult?" said Iuan, sounding thoroughly pissed off now, "I said I was sorry!"

The traffic lights were blurred halos, the red shining brightly, like dropped candy in a puddle. They drove past the traffic light. The car didn't stop.

"Iuan - "

"I know we didn't get to celebrate your birthday last year either but it's not – "

"IUAN!"

There was a terrible, screeching sound of tyres and metal scraping. A jerking sensation as Arthur was thrown against his seat belt, all the air leaving his lungs in a rushing gasp.

There was a blinding flash of pain at the back of his head. The sound of someone screaming –

– then nothing.

:i:

London

6 weeks later.

:i:

Arthur woke to the sound of rain pounding against the window. It rattled like the breath in his lungs, almost drowning out the steady beep, beep, beep of an electronic heart. It was a long moment before Arthur realised the sound mirrored the pulse on his wrist.

The room was pitch black. He couldn't see anything at all, not even a sliver of light between curtains or beneath a door. He blinked, deliberately – and the sensation assured him that his eyes were not closed.

Arthur tried to move, but everything was sluggish and slow. His left leg was immobile. He could feel the rough cotton of hospital sheets beneath the palm of his hands, the scent of starch when he turned his face towards his pillow.

He heard a crashing sound from somewhere beyond a door – a woman's muffled exclamation. And suddenly, his memory flooded back to him in a rush and he tried to sit up.

The beeping sound grew frantic, but there was something blocking his mouth, he couldn't speak.

Then warm hands at his shoulders, a familiar voice saying shhh, shhh mon lapin, Arthur it's me, shhh now.

"Francis?" he managed to croak out. The word slipped reluctantly past his throat. It was dry and tasted like sandpaper. "Francis?"

"Yes, it's me," he said, sounding very close. The hand at his elbow disappeared for a moment, only to return, grasping Arthur's left hand. Arthur tightened his grip, anchoring himself.

"I think he can breathe unaided – give me a moment," someone said, a stranger – the doctor? Why was it so dark? "Mister Bonnefoy, I must ask that you step back for a moment…"

"Of course," said Francis, letting go and disappearing into the blackness. Arthur's hand suddenly felt very empty and very cold. He curled his fingers towards his palm, blinking hard.

A moment later, whatever was obstructing his nose and mouth was lifted away, and he took a gasping breath, coughing a little. He felt someone steady his head, felt the edge of a plastic cup at his lips. He took a gulp, the cold water slithering all the way down to his empty stomach to slosh loudly. There were a million questions on his mind.

"Why is it so dark?" he asked, voice still a little hoarse. A shiver of fear rose, unbidden, inside him and he reached out to the left, hands uncertain in the pitch blackness. "…Francis? Where - "

The sound of footsteps and suddenly there was a pair of hands clutching his own.

"I'm right here, I'm right here."

"I can't see," said Arthur, plaintively, "Why is so dark?"

There was a long moment of silence, punctuated only by the steady sound of machines in the background.

"What do you remember, Arthur?" Francis asked at last. His thumb was drawing a soothing circle on the back of Arthur's hand, over and over. It was a hypnotic sensation.

"Car crash," said Arthur promptly, turning his face to where he thought Francis' voice was coming from, "Car…where's Iuan?"

"The damage to the optic nerves by blunt trauma is quite severe," said the doctor, his disembodied voice forming from somewhere near Arthur's right foot, "I'm afraid we couldn't do much in surgery."

Dread felt like ice, cold and heavy in Arthur's stomach.

"Where's Iuan?"

"Mr. Kirkland – "

Arthur gripped Francis' hand.

"Francis. Francis, turn on the lights please."

"Arthur, mon cher, listen to the good doctor – "

"I want Iuan," he said, shaking his head, "And lights. Someone turn on the bloody lights!"

"Mr. Kirkland!" interrupted the doctor, sounding tired, "the lights are on. I'm afraid you have suffered extensive damage to your optical nerves. We…couldn't do anything more for your eyes."

Arthur could hear himself breathing. The sound was loud in a sightless world, filling his ears with a buzzing rush of static. He touched his own face with one shaking hand, to assure himself that his eyes were indeed open and this was not some…some joke. He took a deep breath, trying to keep the panic at bay. He swallowed, wetting his lips before speaking.

"…is it permanent?" he asked.

Francis was still stroking his left hand.

"At this point…there is very little we can do," said the doctor. The click of a pen and rustle of clothing. Arthur closed his eyes and pretended that it was night-time. It made the darkness a little more bearable, at least for now.

Blind.

He took another breath, then let it out slowly. Did anesthetic always smell this strongly? Perhaps it was just this particular hospital room.

"Arthur?" said Francis, gently.

"Don't," said Arthur, warningly. Then, "I want Iuan."

"Mr. Kirkland – " the doctor began, but then stopped abruptly.

There was a pause, the silence heavy with things Arthur couldn't see. Blind. He wondered why he wasn't feeling more shocked. He wondered why he was so calm. He wondered why it was Francis sitting beside his bed rather than his brother.

"I think it best if I tell him," said Francis at long last.

"Tell me what?" Arthur demanded, something cold gripping once more. He felt sick, "Francis?"

Dimly, he heard the door opening and closing, the messy sound of footsteps. He tightened his grip on Francis' hand, just in case the latter tried to walk away. Unbidden, he opened his eyes.

Everything was still pitch black.

"I. Want. Iuan," Arthur repeated.

A sigh.

"Arthur. Arthur you've been unconscious for almost a month."

His eyes widened.

It was a strange sensation, having eyes but no colour. No light. No sense that time had flown by, leaving Arthur a little lost and a little breathless.

"I don't - "

"You didn't wake up," said Francis, voice breaking at on the last syllable, "They had to go ahead with the surgery. And even after that, you were – we – I had started to think that maybe – "

"Francis," said Arthur, unable to ignore the dread any longer, "Where's Iuan?"

And although Arthur couldn't see Francis' face, he felt the fingers grow still against his own. There was so much silence he thought he was going to drown in it. Then, quietly:

"Your brother's not here anymore."

:i:

:i:

Francis took Arthur home from the hospital three days later. Back to Arthur's flat, not Francis' own because the doctor had said Arthur needed familiar things to help him through this transitional period. To help him acclimatize to being blind. The thought pierced his heart as sharply as it did a month ago, when the doctor had first told them the bad news.

"Do you want anything in particular for dinner?" asked Francis, in an attempt clear the silence which was suffocating the car. Arthur had not said a single word since yesterday – not even to protest at being made to sit in a wheelchair.

Francis glanced in his rear-view mirror. Arthur had his face turned to the window, forehead resting on the glass. His eyes were closed, but Francis didn't know if he was sleeping or not. There was a little patch of fogged glass from puffs of breath, and Francis listened to him breathe.

"Perhaps something to wash out that 'orrible hospital food from the last few days, mm?"

No answer.

"Arthur?"

Out of the corner of his eyes, Francis saw Arthur frown, a little furrow appearing between his eyebrows. He looked a little too pale in the late afternoon sun, and Francis thought back to that small, white hospital room, and the boy he has come to regard as his own little brother. He suppressed a sigh and turned the corner.

A little while later, they pulled into a small parking lot wedged between tall apartment buildings made of old red brick. It was almost dark – and many of the windows were lit yellow in the early evening shadows. Francis pulled into the space marked '19' – where Iuan's car usually sat. He cut the engine, and the abrupt silence was deafening. Undoing his seat belt, Francis turned around. Arthur still had not moved from where he was resting against the window, arms wrapped around himself.

"Mon lapin," said Francis, gently, "We're here."

No response.

He reached forward to shake Arthur's shoulder – but his hand had barely made contact before Arthur flinched violently, jerking himself back and knocking his head hard against the window. His eyes were wide with alarm, pupils darting sightlessly. Francis did not move.

After a long moment, Arthur seemed to relax a little, exhaling slowly.

"Give me some bloody warning next time," he said, voice hoarse.

"I'm sorry," said Francis.

Arthur fumbled for the door handle of the car, and before Francis could say anything else, pushing himself out of the car. He stumbled a little, one hand on the car door to steady his bad leg. He had broken it badly in the accident, and although it had healed over the past month, being comatose in a hospital bed meant that Arthur had long weeks of physical therapy ahead of him.

And hence really should not be walking around right now.

"Oh really – Arthur, wait until I unpack the chair!" said Francis, hurrying around the car.

"I don't need it," said Arthur, stubbornness peeking through as he let go of the car and made his way hesitantly towards the side entrance. He had his hand held out in front of him, testing the air, a look of concentration and vulnerability on his face. Francis had never seen it there before; the younger Kirkland usually wrapped himself up in a fierce scowl, a shield against everything in the world.

Then he stumbled over an uneven crack in the concrete and nearly went sprawling. Francis grabbed his arm just in time.

"Yes, yes you certainly do."

Arthur shook Francis' hand off his arm angrily.

"Piss off," he said, gritting his teeth, "What are you still doing here? Just give me my bags and I'll be fine."

Popping the boot, Francis hauled the collapsible wheelchair out, unfolding it with a snap and setting it on the ground. Then he took advantage of Arthur's disorientation to take him firmly by the shoulders and shove him into the chair. Arthur hissed like a cat doused with water, one arm swinging up and nearly clocking Francis in the face.

"Bugger off!" he shouted, trying to rise from his seat. Francis buckled him in. "Leave me alone!"

"Arthur, please," said Francis, dodging another flailing fist, "If nothing else…indulge me."

Arthur stilled, sitting straight backed and stiff in the canvas seat. Then he scrunched up his nose.

A moment later, Francis found out why when a fat drop of rain landed on his face.

"Merde," he cursed, pulling both their bags out of the boot and swinging them over his shoulder.

"Indeed," said Arthur, deadpan.

The rain started to beat a steady rhythm on the roof of the car, and Francis quickly took hold of the wheel chair handles, wheeling them both towards the door. A moment searching for the appropriate keys later, they were inside the dimly lit lobby with its grimy windows and half dead plot plant sitting near the elevator doors.

Carding his damp hair back with his fingers, Francis jabbed the 'up' button for the lift and wheeled Arthur in when it arrived with a rattle and a cough.

"This lift is going to break down one day with us inside it," Francis grumbled, watching the numbers light up above the doors. 3, 4, 5…

"How many times have you said that?" said Arthur, rolling his eyes.

"Well, it's true. You wait and see."

"No I won't," said Arthur.

A pause.

"Arthur – you know if you need – "

"I don't need anything from you," Arthur interrupted sharply. The lift chimed to a stop on the seventh floor and Francis pushed the chair out. There was a tiny space separating doors 18 and 19. There was a wooden shoe-rack there, as well as a battered umbrella stand. Unlocking the door, Francis wheeled Arthur into his flat without another word, past the kitchen and into the living area. Arthur undid the buckle and pushed himself out of the chair.

"Look," Francis started, but Arthur ignored him, taking a few steps until his knee hit the sofa.

Francis watched as Arthur laid both hands on it, head turning slowly as he tried to work out where he was in the room. He trailed his hands down the chair, feeling for the table next to it. Slowly, slowly, he made his way to the wall and Francis saw the way his shoulders relaxed a little when his hands found the wallpaper. He made his way forwards this time, one hand on the wall – and Francis wasn't quite quick enough to intervene when Arthur's hand caught on the edge of a framed photograph and it came crashing to the floor in a resounding shatter of splintering glass.

"Mon Deiu!" Francis exclaimed, as Arthur cringed, dismay washing over his face to be quickly replaced by an embarrassed blush. He dropped to his knees, hands patting the ground before him, scrabbling for the edges of the frame.

Francis had had enough.

"Arthur, stop it. Arthur you'll just hurt yourself," he said, pulling at Arthur's arm and dragging him upright, "Why don't you take a nap while I make some dinner for the both of us, mm? Then we can both get some sleep."

"Where do you think you'll be sleeping?"

"Well," Francis hesitated, "I can use Iu- the other room, perhaps. Come on; tell big brother Francis what you would like for dinner."

But something in Arthur seemed to crack, like the glass on the carpet. He pushed Francis away, hard, face contorting with anger.

"Stop – I don't need – why won't you just leave me alone?" his voice rose to a shout on the last word, hands clenched at his sides.

"Mon cher, I'm only trying to help," Francis pleaded, exasperation clawing up his throat along with the exhaustion of the last few days. Weeks. Months. It felt like it had only been yesterday.

"No. No," Arthur shouted, "I don't need your help! I don't want it! I'm not a fucking invalid, I – I don't – "

His breathing was becoming erratic, shallow like a bird caught in a trap. His eyes darted around the room, blindly, chest heaving. Francis dared not move, heart clenching painfully in his own chest.

"Stop staring at me!" Arthur screamed, his hands coming up in an aborted gesture, "I'm not…

Who the fuck said you could sleep in Iuan's room? Where's he going to sleep? Where's he going to sleep if you're – I don't – "

Tears were welling up at the corner of Arthur's eyes and he rubbed them away furiously, face twisted with grief.

"Arthur…" said Francis.

"Get out," said Arthur, voice breaking with hysteria, "Get out get out get out get out - !"

Francis pulled the younger Kirkland into his arms, holding him in a tight embrace. Arthur snarled and kicked at his shins, but Francis didn't let go, running one hand up and down Arthur's back as the latter punched him in the stomach.

"Shhh," said Francis, "I'll sleep on the couch. Whatever you like. Hush now."

"LEAVE ME ALONE," Arthur screamed, hands fisted in Francis' jacket. Then, instead of pushing him away, Arthur was clinging to Francis like a child in a thunderstorm, his sobs wracking his entire frame, his voice growing hoarse as he cried.

Eventually, the sobs faded until they were barely audible, muffled by Francis' now damp clothes. Arthur's breathing evening out; exhausted.

They stood there; Arthur slumped in Francis' arms. His hair was tousled and damp from the rain. It probably needed to be washed soon.

He didn't know how long they stood there, but later, Francis managed to carry Arthur to his room. He pulled off Arthur's jacket and shoes, before tucking him into bed. He closed the door to the bedroom quietly, so as not to wake him. In the aftermath, Francis surveyed the living room, now quiet as the night outside. He carefully picked up the broken picture frame, shaking free any loose shards of glass. The photograph was still intact, and thankfully not scratched.

It was a black and white photograph of the two Kirkland brothers. Francis actually remembered taking it two years ago, on a summer visit to the beach. Iuan had one arm slung around his younger brother's shoulder, grinning manically at the camera while Arthur looked thoroughly unimpressed. There were a few freckles on his nose from the sun. In the background, a dog was running after a tennis ball – a frozen blur on the film.

Gently, Francis set the frame on the coffee table sinking into the empty armchair next to it. The clock on the wall ticked incessantly, unrelentingly, counting the minutes to something, somewhere. He wondered why it hadn't stopped.

Francis buried his face in his hands.

:i:

It's strange how your home becomes a stranger's house; familiar things stripped away like Arthur's sight.

To be honest, it wasn't even really a house.

Iuan had bought it when they first moved out of their cousin's place with most of their savings and everything that was in their pockets. It was a small, two bedroomed flat; cramped but cozy. It had a collection of mismatched furniture they had picked out over the years – a squashy armchair that only smelt a little like fur-balls, two tall bookshelves lining the living room wall and a tea table (neither brother drank coffee.) There was a heavy black music stand in the corner, and Arthur could still remember finding it in an old antique store and buying it for his brother's 20th birthday. There was a tiny kitchen with a rumbling fridge taking up most of the space. Their parent's set of china was proudly displayed in the glass cabinet above the sink. A union-jack welcome mat sat in front of the door, the colours faded with use. Arthur had wanted to get a new one…but now, he supposed it didn't matter since he couldn't see it anymore.

There was a second hand IKEA dining table with matching chairs for the two of them.

Now he only needed one.

:i:

Dallas, Texas, 9 years ago.

Alfred woke his brother up by jumping on his bed – which, if he did say so himself, was a no mean feat since Mattie slept on the top bunk. Alfred stilled, for a moment, to mull over just how unfair it was that Mathew always got the top bunk, before resuming his bouncing.

"WAKE UP," he said, pulling the duvet off his brother in a flourish. "Come on, come on it's morrrrnnningggg."

"Ughh," said Matthew, burying his face back into his pillow.

"Don't you want to open the presents?" said Alfred, pushing at his brother's shoulder insistently. "Grandma said she was making pancakes. COME ON MATTIE, gosh you're so slow, jeez come on or I'll eat them without you!"

"Wha'time is it?" his brother mumbled.

"SIX AYE-EM," Alfred announced, pulling at Kuma's legs to try to dislodge him from Mathew's grip. Matthew held on tighter. Alfred pulled harder. Matthew gripped Kuma with both arms, pulling in the opposite direction.

Alfred let go and Matthew, caught by surprise, shot backwards until his head hit the edge of the bunk bed with a rattling clang.

"OWW," cried Matthew, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. His giant t-shirt, which he always wore to bed, displayed an enormous Canadian maple leaf in the middle. Alfred himself was wearing a Captain America t-shirt (much more badass than any leaf). "That hurt!"

"At least you're awake now," said Alfred unapologetically, "and we can go open our presents!"

"Al, grandma's probably not even awake yet…" said Matthew, still rubbing at the back of his head with a pout on his face.

"She totally isssss," said Alfred, pulling at his twin. "Come on I want to find out what my present is. And grandpa said we can go shoot pheasants now that we're TEN!"

Matthew winced at Alfred's loud voice. He was sure every single pheasant within a five mile radius had probably heard that and was now running for cover. And the thought of his twin with any sort of firearm was just…horrifying. Matthew shivered.

"Fine. I'm up anyway now, thanks to you."

"Yay!" exclaimed Alfred, giving the poor mattress one last bounce, then sliding to the edge of the bed and jumping straight to the ground with a loud thump.

"Oh my god Al!" cried Matthew, scooting to the edge of his bed and peering over. Alfred was on the ground, where he had not quite managed to land on his feet. "Are you okay? Why don't you ever use the ladder?"

Alfred jumped to his feet.

"I'm fine! Only scaredy-cats use ladders Mattie! Heroes never use ladders!"

And with that, Al ran out of the room, his footsteps thundering through the house. A moment later, Matthew heard a distant exclamation of 'GRANDMAAAAA!' and an answering laugh. Sighing, he pulled on a hoodie, changed into jeans and made his way to the kitchen.

True to Al's word, there was indeed a stack of pancakes sitting on the breakfast counter.

"Matthew, honey!" exclaimed his grandmother. "You're up – happy birthday, sweetheart!"

And the next moment, Matthew had been swept up into a huge, floury hug. Grandma smelt like maple syrup, batter, and sugar, and Matthew hugged back tightly.

"Thanks Grandma," he said, smiling so hard his face soon began to ache.

" 'ese'r'soooo'ood," said Alfred. He was perched on one of the tall stools, a plate of pancakes in front of him. Both the pancakes and his mouth were covered in maple syrup.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, dear," said Grandma, wiping at Alfred's mouth with the corner of a tissue. Matthew climbed onto the stool next to his twin and was rewarded with his own plate of towering pancakes. His grandmother placed a bottle of home-made maple syrup beside him.

"Here you go. Don't drown them now!"

Matthew blushed.

They ate their breakfast in relative silence (the pancakes were delicious as usual), while the cicadas chirped up a storm outside. Sunlight was streaming into the house in earnest now, washing the wooden paneling in gold and amber. Everything smelt of summer and sticky sweet syrup. Grandma was drinking coffee (which Matthew found too bitter) across the table, a glossy magazine open at her elbow. Matthew poured another careful dollop of maple syrup across his breakfast. He loved staying with his grandparents – he was allowed maple syrup with every meal.

Predictably, Alfred finished first.

"Where's Grandpa?" he asked, downing the glass of orange juice his grandma handed him. Matthew gave his twin a disapproving look when he finished the entire thing in one go.

"Out with the horses," said Grandma, taking Alfred's empty plate to the sink. "You two should go find him when you're finished. Actually, I'll come with you and take this out." She set a large, glass jug of iced lemonade on the countertop, along with a stack of cups.

Alfred immediately turned to his brother.

"Hurry up!" he said, eyes darting to Matthew's half full plate and back again. Matthew tensed in apprehension and as soon as his brother's hand moved, he shifted his plate further down the table, out of reach. Alfred pouted.

"You've had your own," said Matthew, eating a little faster.

Alfred pouted some more.

By the time Matthew had finished his breakfast, Alfred had also polished off two glasses of lemonade and a banana. Grandma dropped the last few ice-cubes into the newly topped-off jug and handed it to Matthew. Alfred was bouncing on the balls of his feet, a stack of plastic cups in his hands.

"Come on then," said Grandma, dropping hats onto their heads and donning on a sunhat herself.

"Yessss," said Alfred and ran out the door.

Alfred was a firm believer in running. And jumping. And baseball and swimming in the pool in summer. Even though Mattie was three days older (three whole days!) than he was, it didn't mean Alfred was going to be smaller twin. No sir. Even now he was a little bit taller than his brother – if you counted the highest point of Alfred's hair.

The ranch was a wide, sprawling thing, overlooking a large piece of farmland yellow with the hot Texas sunshine. His grandparents owned a stable full of horses, which were in the paddock around the back of the house, past the row of tall apple trees, which dropped small, but sweet apples after a thunderstorm.

Alfred liked climbing trees.

"GRAAAAAAAAAAANDPAAAA," called Alfred, spotting a figure emerging from the wooden stables, a hat in one hand and a red bucket in the other. Putting on an extra spurt of speed, Alfred sprinted across the paddock. Grandpa made an ooof noise as Alfred gave him a running-leap hug.

"Hey, buddy!" said Grandpa, giving Alfred a giant bear hug. Alfred grinned into grandpa's flannel shirt. He smelt like dry hay, horses, and old leather. It was a nice smell.

"Al, you dropped the cups!" came Matthew's disapproving voice once he had caught up. Alfred turned around, shrugging.

"It's only grass," he said, picking up the dropped plastic cups and stacking them back together.

"Hello grandpa," said Matthew – squeaking when he got his own bear hug.

"Grandma made lemonade!" Alfred announced, as his grandmother came within hearing distance – bearing the jug. Alfred thrust out the cups and grandpa chuckled, ruffling Alfred's hair.

"Do you boys want your birthday present first…or lemonade first?" asked grandpa, a twinkle in his eyes.

Alfred dropped the cups again in his excitement.

"PRESENTS?" he exclaimed.

Matthew winced, picking the cups off the grass.

"But Grandpa has been out all morning…" he protested. Grandpa laughed, kissing Matthew on the cheek.

"It won't take long. Don't think your brother will be able to wait."

"Where is it is it big what is it is it a – " Alfred latched onto his grandmother, "Grandma Grandma do you know tell me telllllllll - "

"Come on, it's over here," said Grandpa, hoisting Matthew up on his hips (even though they were ten – Alfred thought his twin was such a baby sometimes) and holding out his hand. Alfred latched onto him, and they made their way into the dusty stables. Anticipation bubbled up inside Alfred like Coke in a bottle. Alfred paused – Coke: yum.

Most of the horses were out grazing in the lower paddock – they were all very tall and very large and Grandma didn't let Alfred or Matthew near them. Alfred couldn't wait until he was big enough to ride a horse – which was yet another reason to grow up faster. Matthew liked reading about horses…but always remained on the back veranda whenever Grandpa led Delaware over for them to pat.

"Why's Dela inside, Grandpa?" asked Alfred, peering over the top of a stall where the black horse was standing, pawing at the ground. At the sound of Alfred's voice the horse lowered its head over the stall door. Alfred rubbed the white star on Delaware's nose and giggled when the horse blew hay fluff into Alfred's hair. Matthew surveyed them warily.

"'ere she is – Alfie!"

Giving Delaware one last pat, Alfred followed his grandpa to the end of the stables, where there was a wider stall. The door was open, and Matthew and Alfred simply stood there.

Inside the stall, there were two small horses. They both had had dark brown coats with white socks – though one had a long stripe of light brown down its nose, while the other had a splotch on its forehead.

The horses stared at the twins.

The twins stared back.

"Happy birthday, boys!" said grandpa, grinning from ear to ear.

"HORSIE," Alfred gave a whoop of joy. One of the horses looked distinctly taken aback, whinnying a little, flicking its ears back. Alfred tugged on his grandpa's sleeve.

"What are their names?"

"We thought we'd let you name them – they're yours, after all!" said Grandpa, giving Matthew a little push into the stall. Alfred needed no such encouragement, walking straight up to the horse on the right and throwing his arms around its neck.

"Are they girls or boys?" asked Matthew, taking a tentative step forwards.

"That one's a girl," said Grandpa, pointing at Alfred and the horse he was hugging, "and your one's a boy."

"I'm gonna call mine Liberty," said Alfred decisively. "Lady Liberty because she has a crown on her head, see?"

And he could tell that Liberty liked her name because she drooled all over the back of his t-shirt.

"They're twins, too," said grandma, leaning against the neighbouring stall, jug still in hand. She was smiling as well. "You boys were in school, but Dela down there gave birth to twins in spring. Now you boys match! Isn't that sweet?"

"Um," said Matthew, who was engaged in what seemed to be a staring contest with his horse.

"Whatcha gonna name him?" asked Grandpa, crouching down so he was the same height as Matthew. The staring contest continued. Then:

"Kumajirou," said Matt.

Alfred, who was giving Liberty a tummy rub, paused.

"Kuma-what?" he said. "That's a stupid name!"

"No it's not!" protested Matthew.

"What does it even mean? It's so weird."

"It's not!" said Matthew again, sounding upset.

"Now, Mattie can give his horse whatever name he likes, eh?" said Grandpa, "a nice exotic name, that. Kuma…?"

"jiku," Matthew supplied.

Then he gave Kumajirou a pat on the nose. Kuma licked his hand.

"Oh!" said Matthew, withdrawing with an alarmed look on his face, "It wants to eat me!"

"Don't be a baby," Alfred said disdainfully. "He likes you!"

"Don't be mean now. Here, give him a carrot," said Grandma, drawing out two pieces and handing one to Matthew and one to Alfred. "Hold your palm out flat, or he'll get your fingers by accident."

Kumajirou and Liberty ate their carrots. Grandpa, Grandma, Matthew, and Alfred each had a glass of lemonade, the ice-cubes reduced to small slivers of bobbing glitter. They went back to the house because Grandma said it was far too hot and dusty to be riding horses and all you boys – yes Alfred Jones Senior that means you as well – should come back inside and help decorate the cake before Mom and Dad arrive.

Alfred put dibs on being in charge of the icing, and an hour later the kitchen was a lot more sugary than it had been that morning. They finished the cake and put it away in the fridge. Grandpa saddled Liberty and led Alfred around the back paddock while Matthew sat in the shade of the apple trees with Kumajirou (who was getting spoiled rotten with an entire bag of carrots). Then they went back inside to wash up.

Six o'clock came and went.

"Maybe we should cut the cake, dear," said Grandma, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was half past eight.

Alfred scowled.

"No! We have to wait for Mom and Dad. They promised they'd be here."

"Well, I'm sure they won't mind if you boys have a slice first…"

"No, no, no," said Alfred. He was sitting at the foot of the stairs so he could watch the door. He had even turned on the porch light, just in case – but so far nothing had happened. "You can't cut the cake first, it would make the birthday wish not count," he explained.

Grandma sighed.

"How about I show you how to clean my hunting rifle," Grandpa suggested.

"Really?" exclaimed Alfred, momentarily distracted.

"ALFRED," scolded Grandma – and both Alfred and his grandpa turned, looking guilty. "No playing around with guns. They're only ten!"

"I want to go hunting," said Alfred, mind made up.

"What did the animals ever do to you?" muttered Matthew, sounding sulky. He was sitting at the dining table with a book propped up against a heavy bowl of pears and apples.

"They taste nice," said Alfred, "Duh. Especially cows."

Matthew looks a little horrified.

"What?" asked Alfred, "You eat cow too!"

"I eat beef!" corrected Matthew.

"Same thing."

"You wouldn't eat Maisie!"

Alfred thought for a moment.

"Nah, she's too young."

"You're mean."

"Where's Mommmmm?" Alfred whined, flopping back onto the stairs and staring up at the wooden ceiling. He hated when his parents were late to things, he hated waiting and most of all he hated being disappointed. No one should be disappointed on their birthday.

Then he heard the sound of a car pulling up to the house, tyres crunching on gravel. Alfred leaped up from where he was lying on the stairs and was at the door so fast he nearly knocked over the hat stand in the hallway. Footsteps.

"Here, honey," said grandma, coming to unlatch the door when Alfred couldn't reach.

"Who is it?" Matthew's voice floated down the hallway as he padded over, book tucked under one hand. The door opened.

Alfred's heart flipped over.

"DAD!" he shouted, tackling him before he could even get a foot into the door, "Dad you're laaaate! But that's okay! Daaaaad!"

His father patted Alfred on the head, dropping his suitcase and a large duffel bag onto the floor.

"Happy birthday, Alfred," he said. His smile was tired around the edges, but it didn't dampen the fluttering in Alfred's chest.

Matthew edged up beside him and dad gave him a brief hug.

"You too, Mattie. Did you guys have a fun day?"

"Yeah!" said Alfred. "We got ponies!"

"Baby horses," Matthew corrected.

"Same thing," said Alfred dismissively, more engrossed in hugging his father around the waist. "Dad, dad what did you get me?"

"Let your father in the house first, sweetie," said Grandma, ushering them into the hall and closing the door. Grandpa emerged from the kitchen.

"Here at last, I see," he said, sounding unimpressed.

"My flight was delayed," said dad, rubbing his jaw with one hand.

They all made their way into the kitchen and Dad sat his big duffel on the dining table before unzipping it and taking out two brightly wrapped boxes. One was tall and rectangular while the other was square and squat. He handed Alfred the squat box…and Alfred was a little jealous of Matthew and his huge tall present until he unwrapped his own and found a genuine cowboy hat sitting in a heavy cardboard box.

"Awesome!" he exclaimed, jamming the hat onto his own head. He somehow managed to knock all the wrapping paper to the ground in the process but no one seemed to mind.

"Thanks Dad!"

"You look like a real cowboy," said Grandpa, giving Alfred the thumbs up when Alfred jumped onto his chair and pretended to throw a lasso.

"Al – careful!" said Dad, reaching out to steady the back of the chair as it wobbled dangerously on its hind legs when Alfred got a little too enthusiastic with his lassoing.

Meanwhile, Matthew had just peeled back the wrapping at the top of his box and was pulling out something long and –

"Are these…?"

"Skates," said Dad, pulling the shoes out of the huge box. "Thought since you always liked to watch hockey on the TV you might like to give it a go."

Matthews eyes were very, very round.

"Oh wow can I?" he said, sounding more animated than he had all day, "Really? Will you teach me?"

His father sat Matthew in his lap and helped him pull on the new skates.

"I used to play ice hockey during high-school," he said, tying the laces. "Your mother thinks it's a bit – Al!"

Grandpa had managed to find a long coil of rope from somewhere and was showing Alfred how to throw the lasso. The loop had caught on the lighting fixture and Alfred overbalanced on the chair. Both chair and Alfred came crashing to the ground.

"ALFRED!" exclaimed grandma.

They ended up eating the birthday cake at half past eleven, with the lights off so that the candles threw flickering shadows on their faces. At any other time, Alfred would have found it scary – but with his grandparents, Mattie and dad all there, he knew nothing was bad was going to happen.

"I get this half," he said, pointing to his side of the cake, "and you get those candles. Don't blow mine okay Mattie?"

Matthew rolled his eyes.

"I won't," he said.

"Don't forget to make a wish!" sang Grandpa as Matthew got ready to blow out his candles. It was a ritual – he went first because he was the oldest twin, and Alfred went second. Alfred didn't mind, so long as Mattie didn't accidentally steal his birthday candle wishes.

Matthew blew out his candles, looking very solemn.

"What did you wish for buddy?" asked Dad.

"Matt can't tell!" said Alfred indignantly. "Or it won't come true! Now shh, it's my turn."

Alfred closed his eyes. He was going to wish for a new video game, but instead he wished that his mother would arrive early tomorrow so at least they had another day to celebrate. He would forgive his mom for being late, thought Alfred, if she came tomorrow. With another cake.

Then Alfred realise that was probably a second wish. Worried that it would cancel out the first one, he quickly re-wished it and blew out the candles.

They cut the cake. It tasted delicious (strawberries, chocolate and cream) and Alfred ate one slice too many so that his stomach felt a little bit funny afterwards. They watched a late night cartoon on the television, with Alfred, Dad and Mattie sitting on the big couch. Alfred wore his new cowboy hat to bed.

But when he woke next morning, his mom still wasn't there.

:i:

London, 4 years ago.

There were days when Arthur thought he would never get used to the darkness.

But most days, he didn't care anymore.

"Arthur?"

He lay in his bed, as if still asleep.

After a long moment, Francis sighed and set something heavy down on the bedside table. It clinked and smelled savoury. Soup, maybe.

"I'll leave it here just in case you're hungry," said Francis.

Arthur waited. But Francis only stood there, unmoving for a few minutes his gaze prickling the back of Arthur's neck. Each breath was too loud in the quiet room, like the unwanted ticking the second hand, ushering in another hour – another day.

He could imagine Francis in every detail, the long shadow he would have thrown across the bed from the door left ajar (if only Arthur could see it). He could imagine the clothes Francis' was wearing right now – comfortable slacks and a loose shirt. But the collar would still be pressed and clean, as white as the roses on the balcony. Francis was immaculate like that, careful with things one could see, feel and touch. Francis…

Footsteps. The squeak of the door opening wider, then the soft thud of it being closed. Lather, rinse and repeat; one week, two weeks, four.

Arthur exhaled.

There was a physical ache inside him, where the world had become a blank, black page where things that were once clear…got lost.

He turned over beneath his blanket, stretching his arm out until it hit something soft. Fingers curling around one plush limb, he drew the stuffed rabbit close to himself. He ran his index finger carefully along the arm of the rabbit; it's head, little button nose and thread-sewn eyes. It had a line of stitches around its left leg, where it had started to come off and Iuan and mended it back together. It's ears were floppy, the fur on them worn with age and love. There were two plush wings on the bunny's back and Arthur stroked them.

He knew Mint Bunny was green. He knew. But even now, as he clutched to his face, Arthur couldn't quite recall the particular shade of green in his minds eye. Was it more like the grass in the park, or his favourite faded sweater? Was it green like Iuan's mug, still sitting in the dishwasher? Or was it paler than that?

An unbidden sob rose in his throat, tired and soundless. He should have looked more carefully, when there had been more time. He should have looked.

Eventually, Arthur fell asleep. (He dreamed of Mint Bunny, drinking from the bowl of soup on his bedside table. But when Arthur woke again, the soup was gone, and Mint Bunny was damp with tears.)

Sometimes, Arthur had nightmares about forgetting Iuan's face. Sometimes, it's his own, his parents'…his little brother Peter's, who died in that house fire. He would find himself flicking through a photo album full of places and blank faces – as if the people themselves were out of focus, their features evading the tips of his fingers. How long had it been? Arthur could not remember. But not long, not long at all.

It often woke him up in cold sweat, the blank faces – and he wondered how long it would be before he forgot what his own face looked like.

Shivering in the cool night air, Arthur raised a hand to trace the shape of his own face. Straight nose, dry lips, a scar near the edge of his jaw. He ran the pad of his finger over his own closed eyelids, the arch of his eyebrows. Like living caterpillars, Francis had said when they first met and Iuan had laughed uproariously, throwing his head back and ruffling Arthur's hair.

The thought of his brother made his chest and throat constrict painfully, and he quickly pushed it away. Feeling around the bed, Arthur sought out Flying Mint Bunny, grasping it gratefully when he finally found it, half buried under his blanket.

Arthur wondered if he looked any different; or whether he was just as ugly as before. In his minds eye, his reflection scowled and turned away. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Arthur let himself fall back onto his pillow with a sigh. It was probably morning. He couldn't really tell.

A knock at the door.

"Mon cher?" Francis' voice filtered through the wood.

Arthur kept his eyes closed. He did that a lot, nowadays. He didn't bother answering, knowing that Francis would come in regardless. He heard the door handle twisting, the telltale squeak of the hinges. Footsteps (one, two, three, four, five – pause). A sigh. Something being set down on the table (again), the clink of silverware (his mother's). Arthur felt the bed dip as Francis sat down – and tensed instinctively when a hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"I made lunch. Are you hungry? You missed breakfast this morning."

And the morning before. And the morning before that. Arthur had no appetite. Iuan always made him breakfast before school. Breakfast was Iuan's. The kitchen was Iuan's – seriously the only thing you can do is boil water and make tea and even that's a bit dangerous, aye? – the flat was his, the chair opposite Arthur's was his, and Francis had no business being here.

Arthur said nothing.

"For god's sake, you have to eat!" said Francis, sounding exasperated and tired, "You've been in here for weeks, you won't talk to me and – I don't know what to do with you!"

Then leave, thought Arthur. But he couldn't bring himself to say the words out loud – because what if Francis left? The very thought made fear well up in his throat, cold and unrelenting as the knowledge of being alone in this bottomless blank world. Francis was his last link to before, the only familiar person with a face to their voice. And Arthur didn't know what he would do if that was taken away from him too.

His silence seemed to irritate Francis, who stood up abruptly.

"I know that you are upset. I know it's hard – I can't imagine how hard. But Iuan wouldn't have wanted to see you like this."

Then he swept away, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound made Arthur flinch, fingers tightening around Mint Bunny. He breathed in, slowly, trying to smooth down beginning of tears. He hardly ever cried, before.

His own pillow smelled stale, the feel of cotton sheets as familiar as the sound of his own breathing and the shape of Mint Bunny in his hands. They kept him company, but did nothing to lessen the hollow echo beneath his skin. There was the sound of a car horn blaring outside, and someone swore. For a brief moment, Arthur couldn't recall what the scene might have looked like from his own bedroom window.

….Then he realised he could pretend.

:i:

Dallas, Texas, 9 years ago.

Alfred overheard his grandmother on the phone.

"…you promised them you'd be here this year…"

She was speaking quietly, so he creep to the bottom of the stairs to hear what she was saying. But even from where he crouched, Alfred could tell Grandma wasn't happy at all. She was using the tone of voice she used when he accidentally spilled juice all over the rug once. It was the same 'you listen here young man!' voice she used when they broke one of the kitchen windows playing baseball with Grandpa outside. He inched closer, trying to figure out who was in trouble.

"…stayed up all night waiting," she said. Pacing. "…don't you dare give me that excuse!"

"Al! What are you doing?"

Alfred jumped.

"Oh my god Mattie! Don't sneak up on me like that," said Alfred, "I'm listenin'. Grandma is telling someone off."

When that didn't get a reaction from his brother, Alfred clarified, "Someone who isn't me."

Matthew sat down on the step above Alfred with a sigh. He was always sighing and rolling his eyes these days, and Alfred didn't like it. It was as if Matthew thought he knew things Alfred didn't – and even if he did, that was just wrong because they were twins and twins were supposed to share everything. Including secrets.

"She's talking to mom," said Matt, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Alfred perked up.

"Mom? Is she gonna be here in time for lunch? 'Cus I think grandpa is making hambur – "

"Jeez Al!" Matt snapped, "Mom's not going to be here in time for anything! She always says she will be and she never is. You're so stupid!"

Something hot and ugly flared up inside Alfred. He jumped up from his position next to the kitchen door.

"I'm not stupid! A-and Mom totally will be here she told me herself so there!"

"Mom's busy with work because mom's always busy with work! She wasn't here last year or the year before but you always think she's gonna be - I can't believe you're so dumb Al!"

Alfred clenched his fists.

"I'm not dumb! I'm not stupid! You take that back!"

Matthew had stood up too, face set in a tight frown.

"You know it's true," he said, stubbornly, "dad and mom argue all the time, they're hardly ever in the house and you never notice! She's not going to come!"

Alfred leapt forwards, grabbing his brother by the shirt. His momentum toppled them both back onto the stairs.

"Stop saying – you're always jinxing it! It's going to cancel out my wish - "

Alfred stopped abruptly, hand flying to his mouth. You can't tell what you wished for or it won't come true. Something cold and heavy sank to the bottom of Alfred's stomach – and he could feel the hot tears well up behind his own eyes but he couldn't let Mattie see because heroes don't cry.

But mostly Alfred was just scared that Matthew would laugh.

"Al…"

"Shut up, I hate you!"

"Alfred Franklin Jones, watch what you say to your brother!"

They both spun around. Grandma stood in the kitchen, one hand on her hip, the other still clutching the phone. The world was going a bit fuzzy and Alfred blinked the tears out of his eyes angrily.

"Apologise," said Grandma sternly.

"No!" said Alfred, "Matthew called me stupid and he keeps saying mom wont' be here and I hate him!"

Pushing past his twin, Alfred ran back up the stairs, back to his room and slammed the door.

:i:

London, 4 years ago.

Every Wednesday, Francis went shopping for groceries, returning with at least three plastic bags full of various ingredients for the week. And every Wednesday, it rained without fail. Fucking London weather.

This particular Wednesday was no different. Francis unlocked the door to the flat, setting his umbrella down beside the coat stand. The light in the short hallway was off, and he held back a sigh.

"I'm back," he called to into the perpetual silence.

Toeing off his shoes, he made his way straight to the kitchen, setting the groceries on the bench-top. He took out the milk and other things that needed to be refrigerated. Then he turned back to the counter and the items remaining to be shelved.

"What did you get?"

Francis nearly dropped the jar of sauce he was holding.

Arthur wasn't in his room. He was sitting by the window, curled up in the squashy armchair that he had presumably moved from where it usually sat in front of the television. The coffee table had also been moved – and Francis wondered if it had been knocked over as Arthur dragged the sofa across the carpet.

"You're up," said Francis, a little dazed.

Arthur merely shrugged and turned his face back to the window. His clothes were mismatched – a hideous knitted sweatshirt thrown over pale blue pyjama bottoms. The sleeves of the jersey were too long, and Arthur had rolled them up to free his hands. With a jolt, Francis realised it was Iuan's sweatshirt, all clashing oranges and neon greens. Arthur was cradling a mug of something in one hand and a grubby looking stuffed bunny rabbit in the other.

In that moment, Francis was reminded that Arthur was barely seventeen. Just a baby, really.

Then Arthur turned back to him, breaking the moment, his head cocked to one side in a silent question. His eyes, still green, but glassy, was looking at a vague point somewhere to Francis' left.

"I could make some scones for you," said Francis, "But perhaps dinner first?"

A long pause.

"Maybe," Arthur agreed, voice quiet. His fingers were stroking the rabbit's long floppy ears, over and over. Francis realised he was still holding the jar of tomato sauce and put it down on the counter.

"Perhaps some pasta? We haven't had Italian food yet."

"Whatever, frog," said Arthur – and the familiar insult made Francis smile.

"It won't take long," said Francis. Taking out a packet of pasta shells, he went about searching for a pot to boil water in, setting the plastic packet down beside the sink. Fresh tomatoes, check; olives, check; chicken to be sliced, check; mushrooms; check.

When he turned around, he found Arthur staring at him with blank unfocused eyes from across the kitchen counter. It nearly gave Francis a heart attack.

"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, clutching at his heart in an exaggerated motion, "Do not sneak up on me like that!"

Arthur shrugged, tapping his index finger against the table-top. But he looked a little pleased with himself all the same. Francis wondered if the boy had familiarised himself with the room and its furniture in his absence – he had barely made a sound, had not knocked anything over. It was a drastic improvement from the first few days back from the hospital. Arthur had not been able to do anything without Francis guiding him by the hand; and Arthur had not liked it at all.

The pasta shells clattered noisily into the pot.

"I want to help," said Arthur.

Francis paused, the empty packet in his left hand.

"Ah…I don't think that'd be wise, mon cher – "

"Don't patronise me!" said Arthur crossly, folding his arms across his chest.

"But you have never been able to cook," protested Francis, "Even when you – well what I mean is – merde!"

Arthur had grabbed the closest thing he set his hands on – an onion – and lobbed it at Francis. It missed, hitting the wall with a sharp thwack.

5 minutes later.

Francis watched Arthur stir the sauce, keeping an eye on the pasta. He had give Arthur a large plastic bowl, prepared the appropriate ingredients for the sauce give him a wooden spoon with instructions to "stir until smooth". Arthur, instead of arguing, had set about stirring with the utmost look of concentration on his face. The sauce was now velvety red. Francis turned off the stove and went about straining the pasta.

At the sound of water being poured into the sink, Arthur looked up.

"Is it nearly done?" he asked, pausing in his compulsive stirring motion.

"Oui," said Francis, slicing button mushrooms with a practice hand, "We can eat once I prepare the vegetables."

Arthur held out the bowl.

"…is this alright?" he asked.

Francis swiped the edge of his thumb along the rim of the bowl and licked. Then had to stop himself from gagging. He masked the sound behind a cough instead.

"Arthur – did you add anything to this…?"

"Only some pepper. I thought I would add to the flavour."

"Ah…" said Francis, grimacing openly and thankful for the first time that Arthur couldn't see his expression.

"Don't you like it?" asked Arthur, frowning.

And the conversation was so…normal, so before, that Francis didn't have the heart to even offer a snide remark as he might have done. Arthur had said more to him in the last half an hour than he had in the month they had been living together. He didn't want to upset him.

"It's certainly adds a bit of…punch, cherie," said Francis breezily, taking the bowl from Arthur's (destructive) hands, "Perfect as it is, no need to add anymore!"

"Hmph," said Arthur.

Francis smiled, for the second time that evening.

:i:

Over time, Arthur started noticing little things.

The Francis now was a very different portrait of the Francis from barely two months ago. This Francis was softer, gentler, and dropped French words like sugar cubes in tea and coffee. He was quieter, though perhaps it was Arthur who had forgotten the point of speaking without seeing, of breathing without living.

The scent of his cologne was sharper than Arthur remembered, floating in a cloud around him whenever he walked into a room. It smelt strange, rose petals soaked in wine, but unbearably familiar. His hands were always silk smooth against Arthur's own, fingers lingering at the small of Arthur's back whenever they walked together. This Francis would always look the same – his portrait forever preserved in Arthur's minds eye until time blurred him out of focus.

This Francis wrapped him in affection, generous and warm. And Arthur didn't know how to respond – it forced him to swallow the bitter pull of guilt until it settled uncomfortably at the bottom of his stomach. Because Francis was Iuan's friend, not his. Francis had a life beyond Arthur's apartment, beyond looking after a blind boy who couldn't even wash his own hair without slipping on the shower tiles. With every kind word, Arthur wondered why Francis was even here. With every home-made meal, Arthur wondered if Francis was acting out of guilt too, of a misplaced sense of duty to his dead brother who had died because Arthur didn't know when to be quiet.

Arthur wondered if Iuan would still be here if he had tried harder to convince him to wear a seatbelt, instead of trying to convince him to watch a film.

The windowsill was just wide enough for Arthur's teacup and the saucer for his scone. It hadn't stopped raining since Monday. Iuan had often joked that Arthur controlled the London weather because it had a habit of raining when Arthur was in a bad mood, tired or upset.

But I don't mind, his brother had said, still warmer than Scotland. Plus, rain sounds nice, aye? Good for taking a nap to.

It often rained.

Arthur ran his hand over Mint Bunny's wings. He was aware of Francis sitting in the seat opposite – but it wasn't like Mint Bunny was a secret. Arthur liked how the rabbit slotted snugly into his hands. It gave him something to hold on to.

"The rain should let up soon," said Francis. The offensive smell of coffee was drifting over to Arthur, who wrinkled his nose.

"Mm." He made a noncommittal noise.

"I fancy a walk later," Francis continued, "the park, perhaps. Come with?"

Arthur tightened his fingers around Mint Bunny. Outside, the rain pattered softly against the window pane. The streets would be wet with puddles, glistening in any stray flecks of sunshine. The gutters would be full, and cars would be sending up a spray of grey water whenever they veered to close. The grass would be dull with mud, the trees sending fat droplets onto umbrellas. There would be children running, and the vendor who sold freshly roasted peanuts on the street corner (Arthur walked past him every afternoon on the way back from school; the packets were striped red and white like the union jack). Now he would only smell the peanuts and the smoke from the cars.

"Not today," said Arthur.

Or any of the days that Francis brought up the idea of going outside. The very thought made Arthur cold with dread.

Inside the safety of his (Iuan's) flat the pitch dark was familiar, full of landmarks he was starting to learn by touch. Outside…the dark was unknown. It made Arthur think of drowning in the sea; with nothing but endless, black water around him. No. Not today.

"Maybe it is still rather wet," Francis conceded, not pushing the matter.

Gratitude fluttered in Arthur's chest. He set Mint Bunny down in his lap and reached for his tea, careful to trace his finger along the wood of the windowsill first. Even so, he knocked into the saucer – and it wobbled for a moment, with Arthur's heart leaping into his throat – but thankfully it did not fall.

Arthur took a long gulp of tea.

"The weather is a bit fairer back home," said Francis pleasantly. Arthur could hear the chink, chink, chink of a spoon being stirred. It reminded him of the tea shop, and with a pang, Arthur remembered that Francis was paying all the bills since the accident. He felt his own cheeks flush with shame and hoped Francis didn't notice.

"France?" said Arthur, trying to distract him.

"Oui. It is lovely in spring. Have you ever been to Nice?"

Arthur shook his head.

"We live about two hours away," said Francis. There was the rustling of fabric. The sofa squeaked. "Well, when I say 'we', I mean my mother and sister. Father's often in Paris, you see."

"…designing coats," said Arthur, remembering a conversation in which Francis had said something about his family being in the fashion industry. It seemed so long ago, now.

"Designing coats. Well, more than that, but yes," said Francis. Arthur imagined him hand-waving in that dismissive sort of way he had whenever the topic of his parents came up. He never liked talking about them, so Arthur wasn't sure why Francis doing so now.

"The town is lovely too, you know. Small, but…quaint I guess. Quiet. All cobblestones and freshly baked croissants in the morning."

"If it's so lovely why did you leave?" asked Arthur. It came out a little meaner than he meant it to, and he bit his tongue to shut himself up. He wished he could see Francis' face, his expression. It was one of the reasons he had refused to venture outside. He could imagine the gaze of every stranger on the street; could feel the imaginary weight of their pity, disdain and –

"The town didn't fit me anymore," said Francis, "It was…suffocating. So I left."

Arthur kept quiet.

"Haven't been back for nearly…oh, five years now."

"You haven't seen your sister in five years?" said Arthur, aghast and breaking his vow of silence.

"I write," said Francis, defensively, "And it isn't as if I couldn't go see her if I wanted to."

Arthur set his cup down with a barely steady hand.

"Yes," Arthur replied, voice stilted, "I suppose you could."

A long pause. A sigh.

"I'm sorry," said Francis, voice subdued. "Arthur - "

"What is your sister like?" Arthur interrupted, not wanting the conversation to turn in that particular direction, "Not as ugly as you, I'm sure that goes without saying."

"Oh!" Francis exclaimed, melodramatic, "How can you say such things? My poor heart. Mon lapin, you are too cruel."

"I say only the truth."

"Non! I'm pretty," said Francis.

Arthur felt something tugging at the edge of his mouth. It tasted like a smile.

"The only good thing about this," Arthur gestured at his own eyes, "is that I don't have to see your ugly mug every day."

"Such insulting comments," said Francis, sounding dour, "You are well on the way to recovery, my dear Brit."

"Piss off," said Arthur, turning back to the sound of rain.

A long, comfortable pause.

"There's a rose garden," said Francis.

"Fat lot of good that will do me, now that I'm blind," said Arthur.

"Oh but they smell lovely," Francis insisted, "Imagine taking your silly English tea out amongst that. There's also a lake. And ducks. You could feed them."

Another pause.

"And I would get to see my sister," said Francis. Then: "It would be like a vacation. Get you away from all this London smoke. What do you think?"

Arthur picked up Mint Bunny surreptitiously. His brother would like the idea of France. He could imagine Iuan and his violin on the corner of some little French street, playing folk music that bounced off the pavement and between the heels of your shoes.

"Yeah," said Arthur, quietly, "it sounds – I mean. I…"

He trailed off, unable to find the words he needed (not to say, but just to have, just to clutch close to his heart). He didn't realise he was crying until he felt Francis lean in close, a handkerchief at Arthur's cheek. Arthur jerked backwards, only to be stopped by Francis dropping a kiss into his hair.

"It's alright," he said, soothingly. And Arthur thought, for the first time, that perhaps he didn't need to say anything at all.

:i:

Later, Arthur would find his 17th birthday present gathering dust in Iuan's bedroom.

It took him a while to unwrap it, being careful not to tear the wrapping paper. The ribbon was satin soft in his hands, the gift in a rectangular box. They felt like books, when Arthur took them out. The titles were imprinted on cloth covers, and he traced the letters one by one, spelling them out.

The Illustrated Collection of Shakespeare's Sonnets.

Opening the first book, he fingered the thick, glossy pages. It felt expensive, heavy and quiet in his hands. Arthur wondered how much Iuan had spent on it. Cupping the spine carefully with one hand, he held the book close to his face and breathed in.

It smelt of words he could never read again.

:i:

London, Present Day.

It was their second day of shooting and Francis was starting to regret putting Alfred and live-animals in the same room. Any sign of nerves seemed to have vanished overnight and he was treating everyone he met on set like they were the best of friends. Including the props.

"Can I pet him? Please can I pet him?"

"Actually this one's a lady," said Jack the handler, "And don't shout, mate, it's rufflin' her feathers yeah?"

"Oh," said Alfred, dropping his voice conspiratorially, "Sorry!"

Arthur, who was standing off in the corner while Antonio fussed over his jacket, made an unimpressed noise. It was ten in the morning and they were already twenty minutes behind schedule. Lovino and the set assistant was putting the finishing touches on the lavish table, which was laden with extravagant silver platters, sugared confectionary and towers of chocolate artfully arranged so they spilled across the white linen tablecloth. They were in the main ballroom with its high frescoed ceiling, chandeliers and dark parquet floor. A long dining table had been moved in for the shoot, and two rows of white-satin chairs lined its side.

The lighting had been set up. But somehow the idiotic bird would not behave and neither would the clasp on Arthur's jacket. Francis took a deep breath and let it out again.

"Antonio," he called, "Can we have Arthur ready please."

"Yes – yes, yes, done," said Antonio, sounding frazzled. He led Arthur over to the center of the table, pulling out a chair for him. "Here?"

"I can sit down by myself," said Arthur, eyebrows bristling with indignation. Both stylist and photographer ignored him. As soon as he sat down, Helen descended upon Arthur with her brushes to finish some last minute touch ups to his makeup.

"Oui, we can start there," said Francis, "Jack – Alfred needs the eagle on his arm. Will she stay still?"

Jack, who had a hawk on one shoulder and a large, ferocious looking eagle on his other arm, grinned.

"Yeah, she's a good girl," he said, "Though she might get a bit restless later in which case we might hav'ta move her."

Francis imagined a 'restless' eagle wrecking havoc on set, ripping the sleeve of Alfred's Zegna … and felt a headache coming on. He rubbed the side of his face. He fought the urge uncork the bottle of red wine on the table and start drinking – props be damned.

"Francis," said Arthur. He always had a knack of being able to know when Francis was spiraling into a whirlpool of doom and panic. It was psychic, really.

"Don't talk please," said the makeup artist.

"Hmph," said Arthur.

"Right. Alfred, on the table – back to the cake and angled towards where Arthur is sitting, oui?"

"Am I gonna be too heavy?" asked Alfred warily, straightening his sleeves and approaching the table as one would approach a raging rhinoceros.

"No," said Francis, patience wearing thin, "Get on the fucking table."

Placing one foot on a chair, Alfred settled himself carefully in the empty spot on the table, surrounded by food and delicate china. He yelped when he nearly knocked over an entire arrangement of macaroons – and shot Francis a furtive look.

"Do be careful not to break anything," said Arthur, who had both feet propped up on the table and looked every inch the spoiled aristocrat. Francis smiled to himself – Arthur always delivered what he wanted. On the other hand, it always took Alfred some ten frames before he stopped looking like an awkward teenager on a table.

"Here, hold out your arm – steady now," said Jack, "When I say three, I want you to tap your arm with two fingers, alright? Nessa will fly over."

"Okay!" said Alfred, looking like he was going to wet himself with excitement.

Francis looked on, a little worried for the desserts on the table. It would take more time than they had if they had to re-set the table. Jack took a few long strides backwards so there were a good ten meters between him and the table.

"One, two…three."

Alfred tapped the protective leather around his forearm and the eagle leapt into the air, wings snapping out as she flapped them once, twice and came to an elegant stop, claws digging into Alfred's arm.

"Whoa!" Alfred exclaimed, all promises to be quiet forgotten, "That's awesome!"

The eagle turned a large, yellow eye in his direction.

"You're so cool," he told the eagle, "I want to take you home!"

"Okay keep that hand steady," said Jack, "She wont' like it if you wobble."

"Oh my god," said Alfred, delighted, "You're so beautiful. I love you."

"Stop making kissy noises at that thing," said Arthur irritably, "It's not a kitten for heaven's sake!"

"Aw it's okay, I think you're pretty too Arthur," said Alfred, shooting the Brit a sly sort of look. Then he seemed to realise what he had just said and blushed to the tips of his ears.

"You – !" Arthur started, chest puffing up like a peacock whose tail had just been stepped on. Francis intervened before it could get out of hand.

"Jack – I want the hawk on Arthur's right fist. Arthur, elbow on the armrest, lean back."

Arthur did as he was told, crossing his legs so that one heel rested on the edge of the table. Antonio gave him a black, bejeweled glove for his right hand. It was a lovely contrast to his white wrist and the exposed skin of his forearm. His three-quarter Dior jacket was unbuttoned, with a gold pin on his left lapel.

"Give'er two taps," said Jack, demonstrating with his own hand, "Make sure he's watchin'."

"On the knuckles," Francis clarified.

They all held their breath as Arthur tapped his gloved fist and the hawk leapt from Jack's own shoulder. The bird stumbled a little, claws scrabbling on the slope of Arthur's hand. It's wings snapped out for balanced, hitting Arthur in the face and making him jerk back in shock. The sudden movement unsettled the hawk, who gave a shrill cry, turning it's sharp yellow eyes (and sharper beak) towards Arthur's face. Everyone seemed to freeze and unfreeze at the same moment.

Francis almost dropped his camera. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Antonio hurrying towards them, whilst Jack was still on the other side of the long dining table.

"Careful – !"

"Steady on mate – "

Alfred put two of his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Both Nessa and the hawk turned their heads sharply to look at him, attention diverted.

Arthur was sitting still as a statue, the lines of his shoulder tense with nerves, eyes darting. Further down the table, a chocolate dipped strawberry threatened to fall from its towering pyramid. Francis held his breath.

The hawk shuffled its feathers, talons flexing. It seemed to settle on Arthur's hand and grew as still as the man himself, save for the eyes which darted between Alfred and Nessa and then back again. Then the hawk blinked, yawning.

Jack let out a relieved laugh, breaking the silence.

"That's what I meant by not startlin' them," he said.

"Blasted bird. Nearly blinded me," Arthur replied, deadpan.

"Did you see what I did there?" Alfred said excitedly, "Yeahhhh who's awesome."

Arthur muttered something incomprehensible. Francis thought he heard the word 'git' and 'gilbert'.

"What?" said Alfred, oblivious. He was grinning.

"I said that was some good work," said Arthur.

"I'm good with animals! They love me."

The hawk leaned over and began picking curiously at the gem at Arthur's wrist. Alfred's eagle watched the whole affair with a distinctly interested gaze, as if she too was deciding whether or not to start scratching expensive designer accessories. Antonio made a sad noise in the background and Francis decided enough was enough.

"Alright. Now that everything is in place. Alfred, facing me – merci."

Obediently, Alfred turned towards him. Nessa was still staring at Arthur intently. The Brit had seemingly gravitated towards the familiar in order to calm his nerves and was picking at a delicate china tea cup which Antonio pressed into his free hand. Rose-coloured tea was poured, matching the blush on Arthur's cheeks.

"Arthur," said Francis after a moment of thoughtful silence, "I need you to slouch a little more…that's it. Now give me a second."

Looking down to tweak his camera, Francis only looked back up when Arthur snapped :

"Don't even think about eating that macaroon, Alfred."

"I wasn't even – !"

"Yes you were. Don't argue with me."

"Stop pouting."

"I'm not pouting!"

"Yes. You're doing it again. Stop it before you ruin all of Francis' photographs."

Alfred mumbled something too low for Francis to hear but a moment later, Arthur nearly jumped out of his seat.

"My eyebrows do not ruin anything you unprofessional idiot!"

"Gentlemen…."

"I'm trying to distract Nessa! She looks hungry."

"She'll be alright, mate."

"Oh."

"…."

"Are you sure?"

"You know," said Francis, "I do like your chemistry. But can we have more shooting and less talking please? Or else your mouths will be open in every photogra – Oui, oui, good bird!"

On Alfred's arm, Nessa had her beak clamped around a strand of Alfred's hair – the piece that stuck up despite all sorts of product and all of Helen's wrath – and was stubbornly not letting go. Alfred attempted pull the eagle away from his hair but the bird had dug in her talons and would not leg go of his arm.

"OW. BAD. BAD - "

:i:

It was only several hours later than Francis realised he hadn't heard Arthur laugh like that in years.

:i:

Author's Notes: sorry for the long wait! in my defence, this chapter is over 14K long! :O I have posted it in two parts on tumblr & LJ but I like to keep everything tidy on FFnet since I can! There are lots of illustrations for this chapter, so please head on to my tumblr or links via my profile to have a look. :) I really hope you enjoyed it and sorry for all the backstory! xx the plot is will certainly start moving much faster from now on, though backstory is quite central to the fic in general. Should I write them as timestamps instead? Thoughts?

Reviews, crit or just a comment will be hugged and loved! :D more soon.