Arthur's vision is the first thing to go. He doesn't mind being blind considering he doesn't have anything to see anymore. A new nurse replaced Alfred seamlessly. They do not kiss, she just talks with him about his plans, and what he likes to do. She gives him a notebook and a pencil because he is wonderfully poetic and seems like the type to appreciate that.
He never told her that he can't write anymore.
She teaches him Braille, but his brain can't grasp onto straws easily anymore, and it is a struggle. A month passes, and winter is almost over. It is the last day in February and a blizzard rages outside, painting the windows white and the streets a dirty, polluted grey.
The French boy isn't his roommate anymore, they only kissed twice, and the first time it was an accident. Their lips feel together when Arthur stumbled out of the bathroom. The second time was just to experiment, and Arthur felt pity for the boy who was dying so quickly. It was electric and he didn't think of Alfred.
Alfred just became a regular heartache that he sometimes thought about. His mother called him every week, and they would talk and he was glad she wasn't there. They had already exhausted their resources trying to keep him alive. They needed a turn to live.
His new nurse comes in. She is tall and curvy, with brown hair and a sharp nose.
"You loved him, didn't you?" She asks as Arthur faces the window, not seeing but pretending all the same.
"No, I did not. If it was love, I would have forgiven. Instead I have chosen to forget," He thinks that is a wonderful way to phrase it, but she doesn't buy it.
"And how is this forgetting going?" Arthur doesn't reply, and just opens his dull green eyes and faces her. It scares her; he can hear her breath hitch. He must be so ugly, curved spine, blind eyes, purple hands and feet, so thin that if he turns, he'd disappear.
She rolls him outside for lunch. He is wearing a vomit green jacket with three brass buttons fitted along his neck. It was snowing but it wasn't cold.
"I like winter most. The snow can cover everything. It's easiest to lie."
"And do you do it often? Lie?" She isn't curious, just trying to avoid awkward silence as best as she can. He hadn't asked her favourite season, so she must replace that lack with another question.
"I suppose I do, it makes things rather convenient. I hate people who blame lies for their problems." His eyes are closed, because he doesn't know what else to do with them now that he can't see. He wonders what it looks like. Soft honey snow coating the ground in paper-like patterns.
"If lying isn't the problem, what is?" Again, a silence filler.
"It's the need to lie, of course. It's believing in lies. If someone tells you a pink elephant wearing a crown made of bones ate your cake when all the while chocolate icing is smeared around their lips, you're the fool for believing them. Not them for lying." He says it reasonably, as if his whole life had been leading up to this question. He is well prepared.
"Would you like some cake, then?" Of course she doesn't understand. His words were hollow in her ears, sinking down to her stomach and now she realised, hey- I'm hungry.
"No, but you can get some, I feel as though that is what you're trying to ask." His lips are a light lavender, his fingernails a dull blue. Arthur needs to go inside; his body's circulation isn't working too well at the moment.
"I'll make you some warm milk, good for your bones. How about that?" Arthur doesn't answer, just feels his own heart beat and decides on how long it will last. Yes, spring would be a nice time for a funeral.
February has been a good month, and Arthur says goodbye to it under sheets, listening to the soft snores of his nurse, the one with brown hair. She is sleeping in his room today, because he is expected to die soon. They don't tell him this, but he can feel it in himself as well as in their stares, so he knows.
When it is night, and he can't sleep, he plays little games with himself. Counting shadows, lights that fade and die from passing cars. It's fairly simple. How long he can hold his breath, though he doesn't attempt it now because his lungs are weak and his life is fleeting. Tonight he gives up to rest and to dream.
Three things are wrong when he wakes up. One; the window is open and the sound of traffic is blaring through the paper thin walls and leaving him restless. Two; his nurse is gone. Her soft brown hair is missing from the snow white pillow. The lumps of her body not hidden under sheets. Three; Alfred Jones is standing in the doorway, watching him with regretful eyes.
Arthur only notices one, the fact that the noise from the street below is too loud. He can't see, so Alfred speaks.
"Sup, dude?" Those idiotic words anger Arthur so inexplicably; he wonders why he hasn't exploded yet.
"And why the hell are you here?" Arthur manages to snap out, his throat feeling like sandpaper, his tongue rough.
"I just wanted to say goodbye. But it's not going to be a goodbye, is it? You're going to live. I can tell," And then Alfred is beaming, his white teeth glistening but it doesn't mean anything because Arthur is still blind and Arthur is still angry.
"I'm going to die, and I'm going to decay, and I'm going to be buried, and it'll all be too late for us, I'm sorry, our movie moment was ruined by you being a slag." And even though Arthur was blind, he could see. See the hurt in Alfred. He wanted to draw it out and make the other suffer like he had. Arthur wanted the other crying; clutching the fabric of his shirt around the shallow, black heart of his.
"You aren't, can't you see? That'd be an awful ending for the movie. We're going to get married," And he's peppering kisses around Arthur's face, while the dying Briton is slapping them away and frowning. Then he falls back onto the bed, his arms stiff, his legs thrashing about, kicking everywhere. Arthur screams, cries out, but he can't stop it. He can't tell his body to stop. This spasm last for a while, but Dr. Jones takes care of him, rubbing his sides and trying to calm him down. It's all very heroic.
And then it's over and Alfred is pretending it never happened, Arthur is so thankful he pulls the doctor into a kiss, delighted the warmth and passion is still there. He misses Alfred's mouth, but that's okay, because it still means the same thing.
"What am I to make of these contradictions? I wear white cuffs, I bow." It is more to himself, but Dr. Jones hears it anyways, and wonders.
The struggle has ended. Arthur is so very much in love, and tells Alfred. Tells him a hundred times until the other is glowing, his skin warm under blue fingers. Arthur feels comfortable enough to sleep…for just a little while.
When he wakes up, everything is a perfect dream. Light sounds buzz around him, creating a certain dizziness in the atmosphere.
"I have enchanted all of Nature, and forged each moment's quality. And what a horrifying freedom I found in such a sorcery," Alfred is still asleep, hanging off the small bed, his long legs dragging on the ground, giving Arthur plenty of space. Space he doesn't want. All he wants is to make up for wasted time.
"Alfred, Alfred dear, wake up. I want to go out today. I want to smell spring." The doctor is groaning, not realising that he looks so hopelessly awkward.
The brown haired nurse is waiting for Arthur when he rolls himself downstairs. She speaks to him in a comforting voice, as if he'd just experienced a letdown.
"I'm not dead yet, you know," He reminds her as she helps him with a bath, turning the water dials with an eased practice. Arthur likes very warm baths, and would stay in them until he became a wrinkly mess. It is a small comfort he can still control. They can't take baths away from him, can they?
"That's the problem." She mumbles, and he feels so horrified that she explains. "I'm worried about Alfred, we all are. He's putting so much faith in you." She says this as if it's in Arthur's control. As if him dying is really just a minor inconvenience to everyone, and he should just stop.
"Do you think I want to die? Do you think I'm enjoying this?" He's angry again, always anger. He's snapping and resisting her burning touches; the water splashes around dangerously.
After a few moments, he calms down, and she finishes cleaning him in silence. Alfred is in the staff room cooking a breakfast the dietary specialist picked out for the guests. He likes cooking Arthur's food, slicing the tomatoes and dicing onions is a lot easier than admitting feelings and confrontation. He doesn't really want to talk about it.
The onions are sizzling, a sautéed brown, when Arthur is rolled into the kitchen in a sharp green sweater vest and tan trousers.
"I can take it from here, Eli," Dr. Jones lets the nurse know. He doesn't actually know if he can. Because it'll be the time for serious talking. And somehow, that doesn't settle well in his stomach.
She understands, apparently, because there is no snarky comment as she makes her leave. At first, it's just a few moments of an awful silence. It is like an uncrossable barrier has blossomed between the two, and now they'd never be able to converse freely again. They'd always be held back by Alfred's infidelity and Arthur's mortality.
"So," Arthur eloquently starts.
"It's my fault!" Arthur blurts; he is facing the wrong way, and Alfred is sort of amused, but he realises that if he laughed, all would be lost so he holds it in.
"It really, really isn't. I know you're young to the world, but cheating is never okay. Not even when I stud like me- ow, okay, that kinda hurt- like me does it."
"Then why did you do it?" A ghost whisper asks, trying to dig up the truth.
"Because I wasn't thinking. I wasn't thinking about you, or me, or anything. And if you forgive me now, then that'd just move the show along faster. 'Cause me and you are going to be happy," Alfred is beaming again, forgetting that it doesn't mean anything anymore. That he can't win with his false smiles, that false hope is easier to spot in a dark room.
"What if I don't want to be happy?" It comes a moment later, after a slow judgement of Alfred's words.
"Then I'll leave you with your stinky soup and never talk to you again." It sounds unbearable. Arthur's life is much too short to deal with that brand of nonsense all over again.
"Come here, you giant oaf." Pale arms are outstretched, and to Dr. Jones, it's like he finally found a home. Arthur's hugs are the best. It feels like hugging a freezer, but it means so much that the warmth that erupts from within makes up for any physical discomfort.
Later, they are outside. It is a March sunset, the sky looks like cotton candy, fluffy pink and blues. The only one who can see it isn't paying attention. The sight of a wonderful boy, all bones and bravery, is preferred.
"Your parents are coming tomorrow."
"Any special reason?" Arthur knows, knows he hasn't got much time to be alive. What he doesn't know is if Alfred is just in denial or too bloody hopeful for his own good.
"Too see their lovely son, do you know of a better reason?" So this is the path Alfred chooses. The pretending game. Arthur is quite adept at this, and plays along eagerly.
"No. No better reason in the world. What exactly did you do while you were away?"
"I got a new hobby."
"Did you, now?" Arthur asks with fake shock, turning more towards the direction of Alfred's voice. Missing his sight so much at that moment because he wants to have the brilliant blue eyes blind him again.
"Yes, speed eating tubs of Ben and Jerry's. I'm a boss at it."
"Oh, here you are being so dashing and out of my league. Now I will worry constantly over the girls fawning over you." Arthur is teasing, he must be feeling nice. His fingers warm up when they're taken into the hot, lively palm of another.
"I try," And then Alfred winks, but he keeps forgetting no one can see it.
"Don't try too hard, love, or I might have to go and get jealous."
Alfred laughs. Arthur can hear that, and it's just so wonderful that he doesn't even register the pain of his head, the way his brain feels swollen and throbs against his skull.
"That only entices me."
"Keep up with this and I just might pick the stinky soup." Arthur isn't feeling cold at all, at least not today. The heat from his hands spreads through him like wildfire, and he feels himself glowing in the dying light.
"You would at least pick a tasty soup over me, right?" Alfred jokes back, falling into the familiar ease of their banter.
"No, I'd pick anything, really. Campbell's is more filling than you."
"Hey, I can show you filling!" And then they're kissing, but it's so much more than that. They are becoming each other, slipping out of their pretences and thoughts and fully accepting each other. Acknowledging all the do and think and say, memorising the way the other's heart beats. It is a comforting sound in Arthur's ear.
Their tongues are wet, sliding along each other with an eased pace, rubbing around teeth and tangling together as hands roam up shoulders and down backs and another wheelchair hug is given.
Alfred stops the fornicating to roll Arthur to an empty clearing out back. No one is out, and darkness finally comes.
"Alfred, Alfred, don't let me die a virgin, please." Arthur is mumbling into the shirt of his doctor. He is almost crying through blind eyes, but doesn't let himself. He doesn't need to feel sad; he has all he could ever want.
"I can't do that, Artie. You know I can't." A bittersweet smile graces his lips, because he knows he only needs a little more pushing and then he can do it.
"Please, oh, don't make me beg. That'd be cruel. You owe me. I want it, please!" He is yelling now, not able to control what passes through his lips but all he knows is that this is what he wants.
"Your parents are coming tomorrow," Alfred reminds him needlessly. No one is thinking about the parents.
"I'm not saying please again. You don't deserve it." Arthur slides himself out of the wheelchair on his own, and he lays sprawled on the grass, lips full and pouty.
And so of course Alfred takes him. It is slow and passionate, and the stars pop up sometime after. They glitter like diamonds in the sky, and Alfred feels so relaxed that the world could end and all would be fine.
"The stars come nightly to the sky; the tidal wave unto the sea; nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, can keep my own away from me."Arthur is great, too. His mind is nowhere, his lungs heaving, but he is getting better. He feels like a normal kid.
"What are you babbling about now?"
"Are you saying you don't enjoy my poetry?" Arthur is too happy to have any bite in his voice.
"Whether I enjoy it or not ain't the thing, you're babblin' like a bobble head, doll."
"That metaphor doesn't even make sense," Arthur groans, tries to roll over but fails. Alfred turns him his arms.
The air is misty around them, but Arthur isn't shivering, so they'll stay outside for now. Alfred still slips the teenager back into his clothes, not wanting to risk the flu or any other preventable illnesses.
The rest of the month will pass like this. Late night rendezvous, avoiding the parents. And wonderful, whimsical conversations about futures that will never happen. That could never happen.
"Will there be red roses at our wedding?" Arthur kids, smiling playfully in the general direction of Alfred.
"Yes, of course sweetie. I promise."
Arthur feels like he could live forever.
Of course Arthur Kirkland dies. It is on the 23rd of April. His birthday. What a surprise-he did live to be eighteen. He is lying in bed; his parents are out getting lunch because Ireland and Scot are complaining about themselves dying of hunger if they wait any longer, and Martha can't agree with Oliver on which brand of juice will be best for the kids, so they both have to go anyways- and surely if he just spent eighteen years slowing decomposing, he won't go too fast all of a sudden. Which is wrong, because twenty minutes later, while they are eating chicken nuggets, his heart starts to fail. His mouth starts to convulse, and the rest of his body is slack. At first, Alfred thinks he's choking, and what an awful way to die that would be. But instead, it is a final poem, barely even heard, his speech so awful and childish.
"Let not the roses lie too thickly tangled round my tomb." At first, it doesn't mean anything. It means nothing at all and Alfred thinks Arthur left without saying goodbye, but then a conversation that seemed forever ago comes flooding back to him in a wave of something like relief and remorse. Yes, their wedding. Arthur in a white suit and blue waistcoat, Alfred looking dashing in something-anything, because he hadn't decided yet. And roses, so many roses everywhere that all of the guests feel in love and romantic, but not French. Never French.
How childish they were, planning a nonexistent future so well. They couldn't live in the present, it was much too painful. But now the painless options are over. There is no pretending on a death bed. Alfred must be brave.
It occurs to him that he never told Arthur he loved him, and Arthur never told him he loved him either. His heart hurts at that thought. Then he wonders if it would've been a lie if he told him.
What they had was stronger than love. Love is too light and overused. What they had was mostly sorrow, the perfect pain that is so easy to get addicted to. It numbs you politely. One that scars you while you are aware of it, fully aware. But you continue anyway. Arthur was his swain. So young. Maybe it wasn't love. Maybe it was just devotion, and some blind faith that was going to end wrong, so don't open your heart the full way. Or just the opposite, Alfred opened himself too much because he knew it was going to end badly. Out of all the people who'd left him, died and left him on Earth alone, he was glad Arthur was the one that hurt the most.
Dr. Jones reaches over to the side of the bed, watching the white sheets clench in fists, he is in pain. Medicine won't do now, there is no more pain to dull. Only the pain of death. Alfred doesn't cry, his cheeks and eyes are dry, a drought extends inside of him and suddenly he just wants a cool glass of water, wet with condensation. With the poetry book firm in his arms, he picks it up and flips to a random page. No, that is about swimming and it won't do because he's too thirsty to talk about that. On the second try a poem by Arthur Symons is found. He scans down the page until he finds a comforting place to start. The end. He doesn't think about the words until after his Arthur stops breathing, and to him, it's very true. It's a promise, the very last step in courting Arthur Kirkland.
"Only thoughts of you remain in my heart where they have lain, perfumed thoughts of you, remaining, a hid sweetness, in my brain. Others leave me; all things leave me- you remain."
And then he's dead, and Alfred knows he's dead because he's seen it a million times in the hospital when there is beeping and flashing, but he doesn't need beeping and flashing now to know what he knew the first time he ever stepped foot into that room. A lifetime ago. Another lifetime passes, but it is all the same. The lesson remains in place by some universal code of conduct.
The lesson is this:
It's always a bit sullen in a hospice. Quiet and a little bitter. Carefree laughs don't exist there. And if you tried to name a smell, you could say it was a methodic bleach cleaning, powdery, packet mashed potatoes, and mothball books. The absurd poetry never left. No, not very pleasant smells. And no, the walls are not all a dead white. The occupants are not all old and shrivelled and positively mad or delightfully cynical. In fact, a little boy sits on the edge of his bed.
He is wearing satin pants, the same colour as his long, black hair tied back in a ponytail that swishes down and tickles his back. He doesn't smile often, nor does he leave his room. Besides his talks with Dr. Jones, he is silent. But this story will never be about him. In three weeks, he'll be gone. And someone else will be in the washed-rewashed-sheets, keeping them warm for a few more nights.
Here in the little room
You sleep the sleep of innocent tired youth,
While I, in very sooth,
Tired, and awake beside you in the gloom,
Watch for the dawn, and feel the morning make
A loneliness about me for your sake.
You are so young, so fair,
And such a child, and might have loved so well;
And now, I cannot tell,
But surely one might love you anywhere,
Come to you as a lover, and make bold
To beg for that which all may buy with gold.
Your sweet, scarce lost, estate
Of innocence, the candour of your eyes,
Your childlike pleased surprise,
Your patience: these afflict me with a weight
As of some heavy wrong that I must share
With God who made, and man who found you, fair.
Thank you so much for reading/reviewing/favouriting/everything awesome that you guys have done.
A special thanks to RamenNoodlesXD who beta'd the story
Hope to see you all around!