Hello, everyone! It's Nightfall again.
Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed "This Charming Man," and since many of you asked to know what happened after the events of that story, I decided to go ahead and try my hand at writing a multi-chapter sequel to it.
For those of you who haven't read "This Charming Man," you should probably read it first in order to understand what's going on . . . and I would very much appreciate it if you reviewed. :)
First of all - let me say that it took me forever to write this first chapter. I started writing the beginning immediately after I published the oneshot, and from there it took well over two months, teasing this chapter out sentence by sentence. I do hope you'll like it, though!
I've decided to write the sequel in the same vein as the oneshot: each chapter will be titled with a song (probably all by Death Cab for Cutie, because I love them) and I will probably intersperse lyric phrases with my own writing. It's easier for me this way, because at this point, listening to the music on repeat is what motivates me. The title of this story (and this chapter) comes from the Death Cab song "20th-Century Towers"; go and give it a listen, if you like. It's lovely.
This first chapter takes place several months after the events of "This Charming Man." Alfred is in university now, studying alongside Arthur, and they do have an established relationship, although with Arthur being such a gentleman and Alfred being so uncertain, both of them are ridiculously timid about the whole affair. XD Alfred's regained quite a bit of his cocky personality here, but we will see many glimmers of the hesitancy he showed in the oneshot - and you can probably guess at the main source of the tension in future chapters.
Hope you enjoy!
They cut quite a striking couple, the pair of them, as they wandered leisurely down the pavement. Passersby to their right and left turned to throw them glances that were equal parts admiration and envy, but these objects of the public eye were oblivious to it all, immersed only in the mutual affection they had for each other.
The young man on the right was the taller of the two. He was modestly dressed, his lean figure clothed in a simple pale-gray shirt and painstakingly patched trousers that were slightly too short for his long legs. His broad shoulders were covered with a weather-beaten leather jacket, and the shoes on his feet were scuffed with wear.
In spite of his shabby appearance, Alfred Jones was a singularly handsome man, with dark gold hair and blue eyes that were vivid with enthusiasm behind his glasses. From the cheerful smile that wreathed his face, none of the passersby could guess that such delight had made itself evident only a few months ago, for the first time in a long while.
Some, however, could perhaps guess at the cause of his delight: the elegant young man who walked on his left. Arthur Kirkland was smaller than his companion, with a slight frame clad in a dark blue double-breasted suit and tie. His charming face was framed by a wealth of bright blond hair; his intense green eyes, set upon by truly massive eyebrows, rested on his partner's face as the two young men conversed. His very posture, if not his appearance, seemed suggestive of high breeding and refinement, and his words to Alfred were spoken in a tone of courtly geniality.
Some may have wondered why such a gentleman could be found in the company of an obviously lower-class, less educated individual. However, the few who questioned this were evidently not very perceptive, as one only had to look at the gentle affection on Arthur's face to understand everything.
". . . would you mind explaining that to me all over again, Alfred?" Arthur was saying as the two of them stood on a curb, watching the surging traffic and waiting for their turn to cross. "And please omit the mathematics this time, love. You know I don't understand them."
Alfred laughed; a bright, hearty sound that seemed to fill the air with sunlight.
"Very well," he said, smiling. "Essentially, the uncertainty principle of Werner Heisenberg—he's a German theoretical physicist, Ludwig quite admires him—states that the speed and location of a quantum particle cannot be calculated at the same time." Arthur nodded and gave a "hmm"of contemplation as they crossed the street. "If we find the value of one, we cannot find the other. It's impossible."
"Why is that?" Arthur inquired. "Do we simply not have the technology at the moment?"
Alfred shook his head. "Like I said, it is completely impossible. A quantum particle is a unit of possibilities. We cannot calculate its exact movement—just a general area of all possible trajectories, and that is called quantum foam. Ludwig and I are investigating it right now with several other students in the physics class."
"I see."
It was clear that Arthur understood very little of the realm of quantum physics, but there was an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. As he glanced sideways at his companion, his green eyes were soft.
"It is good to see you so enthusiastic about your studies, Alfred," Arthur murmured as they strode down the sidewalk. "It . . . gladdens me to see you so happy. I hope the university offers you everything you could wish for."
Alfred stopped walking, forcing Arthur to halt as well and turn to face him.
"Arthur, do you tease me?" Alfred protested, spreading his arms. "The university offers me everything that I could ever hope for and more. I'm learning such a lot now; I am finally pursuing my dreams. For someone of my background, Arthur—it is incredible. I . . . I couldn't begin to describe to you how happy I am."
Arthur's lips curved into a gentle smile.
"Then there is nothing that makes me happier."
"I haven't forgotten to whom I truly owe all of this, though," Alfred continued. His voice softened as he gazed at the other man. "I could never have gotten here without you, Arthur. You . . . you made my life so much better, you reminded me who I am. You've given me everything I've ever wanted."
Arthur's lips parted; he seemed slightly taken aback by Alfred's heartfelt words.
"Anyone would have helped you, Alfred," he said softly. They were standing on a stretch of pavement winding alongside a small, quiet side street now. Further down in the shade, the pastel awning of the storefront of one of Alfred's favorite pastry shops beckoned. Apart from the occasional person hurrying past down the opposite sidewalk, they were completely alone. "You have so much potential. Anyone, given the chance to discover your talent, would have gladly helped you to realize its fullness."
Alfred shook his head, although he could not completely ignore the steady thudding beneath his ribs.
"You know just as well as I do that that would have been impossible for someone like me." He drew a breath. "You are the only person who has ever truly believed in me . . . willing to do so much for a man you merely plucked from the side of the road." He hesitated. "And . . . and when I said that you'd given me everything I've ever wanted, I wasn't just referring to the university classes, Arthur. . . ."
At these words, a heavy blush stole over the other man's face. As much as Alfred wanted to smile at the endearing sight, he struggled with every last ounce of his self-discipline to maintain a serious expression. He needed Arthur to be certain of his sincerity.
"Alfred," Arthur breathed at last, his cheeks still heatedly aflame, "I believe anyone would have given that to you, as well."
"Compared to you? Not a chance." Alfred grinned. "I believe I will never quite understand what it is that draws you to me."
"To the contrary, my dear Alfred," the other man sighed. "I find you absolutely enthralling. And make no mistake when I tell you as such."
Alfred felt a searing heat flare across his face, and could only beam wordlessly at Arthur, rendered utterly incoherent. After a quick glance around him to confirm that the premises were otherwise deserted, he extended his hand to his companion.
Arthur took it, wrapping his slim fingers around Alfred's. In the gentle pressure of his touch Alfred felt all the words that he wanted to say, and he tightened his hold in response.
For one moment, they stood, fingers entwined, and then they let go.
"Well," Arthur said softly, straightening his collar. He nodded ahead of them. "Shall we go on, then?"
". . . ah, of course." Alfred shook his head briskly and fervently willed speech to return to his tongue.
He supposed he should be grateful that he only spent a fraction of his day with Arthur. Otherwise he would most likely be left perpetually hovering about the man in mute admiration like a fool.
Then again, that is what we all are in love.
"How are your own studies faring?" Alfred inquired as the two of them crossed a street at a busy intersection at a lull in the traffic.
"Very well, thank you." Arthur permitted Alfred to hold his elbow briefly as he guided the smaller man over an uneven section of pavement. "The classic literature class has been somewhat slow of progress these past few days, but it is fine. The work that we're currently reading is quite gripping—the play Antigone, by the ancient Greek tragic writer, Sophocles. Have you ever heard of it?"
Alfred shook his head. "Tell me about it."
Arthur gladly continued, eager to discuss the subject that he loved best in the world. "Well, it is a bit of a sequel to the play Seven Against Thebes by Aeschylus—he's another Greek tragic writer—and it is rather a complicated story, but let me see if I can sum it up . . ."
Alfred waited patiently for Arthur to organize his thoughts as they strolled. He had recognized the keen gleam in his companion's eyes and understood that he wanted to share his passion for literature as much as Alfred had his enthusiasm for science.
"All right," Arthur said finally. "So, essentially, there were two brothers who were fighting for control of a city. A massive civil war ensued, and they both died battling each other. Their uncle, who ascended the throne next, decreed that only one of the brothers would be given an honorable burial. The other one he left on the battlefield, unburied, at the mercy of the carrion animals. At the time, this was the height of blasphemy, the harshest punishment one could possibly deliver. As long as his body remained unburied, his spirit would never find peace.
"Furthermore, the king decreed that anyone who dared to bury his body would be subject to the death penalty. The two brothers had two sisters, though, and one of them, Antigone, was determined to give her brother an honorable burial, in defiance of her uncle's cruelty. . . ."
Arthur was a gifted storyteller. Whenever he began to relate the tale of some long-ago happening or of a figment of someone's imagination, his rich voice took on a sonorous tone, relishing the elegant words that flowed from his tongue. He wielded language as easily and beautifully as a skilled potter might manipulate the smooth clay of his craft.
Alfred loved it when Arthur began to tell stories and his voice slipped into that quiet faraway tone, painting the air with the soft colors and vibrant hues of his imagination. Alfred himself harbored only a mild interest in literature. However, he felt that he could fully appreciate writing when he heard the words spoken from Arthur's lips. Somehow, Arthur's voice had the ability to summon to brilliant, intelligent life the texts of ancient past, to cause one to lose oneself in spellbound fascination with olden writing.
Such was his skill. Or perhaps it was merely the fact that Alfred (shamelessly) adored Arthur and anything he had to say.
". . . and the king, enraged, sentenced her to be buried alive for her crime. The entire city mourned for the girl behind closed doors; they secretly agreed with her decision, but were too afraid to voice this to the king, and finally, she killed herself before she could be buried alive. The king's son, who loved her, killed himself, as did the queen." Arthur glanced sideways at his companion. "In the end, the king's own arrogance and short-sightedness brought about this tragedy."
"That sounds so sad," Alfred murmured, thoughtful, musing. "And somewhat familiar. . . ."
"It is a common literary theme," Arthur agreed. "Human flaws being at the root of all sorrow. Somewhat depressing, but accurate."
Alfred nodded, still reflecting on the story (what a tragic way to see one's final days).
"I suppose you would like to write something like that," he said, smiling. "What with your great understanding of literature."
The other man cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed.
"You are too kind, Alfred. However, I am not . . . I mean, it would be very difficult to write a piece so moving, so dramatic, as I often envision . . . but I do wish, of course, to write a novel. A fairly decent novel, hopefully, that people will find pleasure in reading."
"Of course they would enjoy reading something you'd written, Arthur."
The two men turned a corner and continued sauntering down the sidewalk that led into the more downtown area of the city. Here, the crowds thickened, swarming into the movie theatres, coffee shops, restaurants, outfitters, and countless other stores that lined the streets.
"After all, you're brilliant at literature and history," Alfred went on, "and you'll soon have a lot of time to focus on writing a novel. You're nearly finished with university, and—how long is it until the term ends?"
"About four months." Arthur sighed. "I would not rather think about it. I have a ridiculously lengthy dissertation to complete before then, in addition to my other assignments and the examinations. Even after I finish university, I'll be hard pressed for time, working as a teaching assistant and in the archival center. There will be little time to work on my writing. . . ."
"Don't give up on it, though." Alfred grinned. "I am still waiting for the day when I walk into a bookshop, and I see an entire shelf of best-selling novels, all with 'Arthur Kirkland' written on the covers—"
"And I am waiting for the day when I see the name 'Alfred Jones' scrawled all over the papers, because you've become famous for inventing half a million newfangled devices and making astounding scientific discoveries," Arthur countered, a hint of gentle banter in his voice.
"Is that it, then? You as the famed author, me the mediocre scientist?" Alfred teased, although indeed, the vision that Arthur had painted was a wish very dear to his heart.
"Of course not. I hear tell that you are making excellent progress in your studies. I met Ludwig the other day by chance. He was full of enthusiasm about you, raving about how inventive and ingenious your ideas were. The professors had nothing but praise for you, as well."
Alfred raised an eyebrow as he absorbed this information. "Ludwig was raving about my ideas?"
"Well, perhaps not," Arthur admitted. "But you do know how he is when he's enthusiastic about something."
Alfred laughed as they drew to a halt on the pavement. They were standing in front of a rather dilapidated wood-and-brick building, slightly smaller and narrower than all of the others in its row. Several shingles were missing from the roof, and the cracks in the window were badly in need of repair. Above the peeling rust-red paint of the door, a faded hand-lettered sign proclaimed the curious title of the establishment: The Tang and Barrel.
When Arthur had first expressed an interest in visiting the pub where he had been employed for most of his life, Alfred had initially been wary of introducing such a coarse, unrefined place to his sophisticated partner. Arthur, though intelligent and cultured as he was, did not fully understand the harshness of the city's darker divisions—he had not grown up in a cruel world of alleys and asphalt, fending for himself (often with violence). He did not know the nature of the streets as Alfred did.
Yet, he was not afraid.
"It will not repulse me, Alfred," he had said softly, when Alfred had conveyed his anxiety. "Unless you are mistreated there, I do not believe that I could find something that would disgust me."
And it was then that Alfred had thought, not for the first time, how completely unlike the typical upper-class citizen Arthur Kirkland was. His willing acceptance, his humble compassion—they set him apart from the educated, privileged men of high society who would otherwise be identical.
Alfred smiled at him now, silently grateful that he had insisted that the difference in their backgrounds not be a barrier in their companionship.
"Well, here we are." He pulled the door aside for him, listening to the empty tinkle of the tarnished bell, and waited for Arthur to enter the pub before doing so himself.
The Tang and Barrel was a small tavern, the limits of its interior further emphasized by its encroaching darkness. The pub owner was evermore complaining about the gloom, and swore frequently that he would have more lights installed, but of course he had done no such thing. For now, the patrons would be forced to drink their cheap beer in the dim half-light.
There were a few clients in the pub today, sitting at several of the tables scattered haphazardly across the poorly swept floor. They were laughing raucously, their uproar accompanied by the sounds of their bottles and glasses clinking together as they drunkenly toasted each other.
There always seemed to be a certain number of customers present, Alfred noticed suddenly. He had never given it much thought before, but when he applied his attention—he was certain that the fellow in the corner, the one with the tattered newsboy-style cap . . . yes, he seemed to be a regular. Alfred had seen him lurking around quite a few times; every other day, actually, like clockwork, always ordering a few shots of something rather strong and then lapsing quickly into rambling inebriation.
It was an interesting way to view it. Before now, these men had always been part of the pub's collective atmosphere, part of the décor, almost; nothing more than faceless drunkards without names or stories.
Behind the bar, the pub owner stood in his customary grimy apron, filling shot glasses with bourbon whiskey. He was a heavyset, balding man with a great protruding curve of a belly stretching the stitches of his clothing. He seemed to be performing his task with little enthusiasm, and as Alfred approached the bar, he did not so much as register his arrival with a flicker of his eyes.
"Uhmm," the pub owner grunted around a thick cigar clamped between his teeth, which was his way of greeting. "Finally here."
"I am not late," Alfred pointed out. "I did tell you beforehand what hours I'd be working tonight. I'm sure you remember."
"Of course I do!" snapped the pub owner, pounding his fist down on the bar in indignation and making the little glasses rattle. "Fixing your own hours to make it work with your time at that confounded university. Be grateful that I didn't kick you out on your backside. Now get over here, boy. There are glasses waiting to be polished and floors to be swept."
At his side, Alfred felt Arthur stiffen and quickly guessed the cause of his unspoken anger: the pub owner's dismissive, insulting treatment of him.
He gave Arthur a reassuring grin (do not worry, this happens all the time, it's all right), then turned his smile on his employer.
"I'll be right there!" he said brightly.
As he set to work, Arthur lowered himself into a seat at the bar, never taking his eyes off him. With his fine clothes and air of unmistakable breeding, he stood out in the coarse pub setting like a diamond amidst coals.
Which he certainly was, Alfred thought to himself, wiping one of the shot glasses with a rag.
They remained like that in silence until one of the clients staggered up from his chair, obviously having had a little too much to drink, pounded his fist on the bar, and loudly demanded another round of drinks. While the pub owner's attention was distracted, Alfred seized the opportunity to move towards Arthur and whisper: "Don't look like that. I am usually treated this way; it is nothing new. Remember, I am only the pantry boy, after all."
"I am aware of your station here, Alfred, but . . ."
Arthur hesitated, clearly unwilling to see his companion treated in such a manner. Alfred was suddenly reminded that, for all his courtly behavior, Arthur had a rather fierce defensive side.
"It is fine," Alfred insisted softly, hoping that he sounded convincing. "I am getting paid here, anyway. You know that it is the only way I can make any—"
He broke off as the bell above the door jangled, and a pretty young woman pushed her way into the bar. She had an extremely harried expression on her lovely face, and she slammed the door with a loud, forceful crash as she entered.
"Hey!" roared the pub owner, in an eruption of fury and cigar smoke. "Watch that door, woman!"
She only tossed her head, sending masses of curling dark brown hair rippling over her shoulders, and strode past the tables into the working area behind the bar.
Alfred grinned as she joined him and began to load shot glasses onto a tray. "Hello, Elizabeta."
"Alfred," she responded, expertly giving him a playful whack upside the head as she passed into the main pub area again, causing him to burst into laughter.
The pub owner let out an ill-tempered growl as he slammed a new bottle of brandy onto the bar. "Damn it, there is not a single day you are here on time, woman. One of these days, I might make good on my threats and give you the sack!"
"You would not," Elizabeta retorted. Her eyes, the green of fresh apples, were defiant. "And you know why."
Alfred lowered his head, but he was smirking. He knew perfectly well, just as well as did the pub owner, why Elizabeta could not be dismissed. For all her temper and lack of punctuality, she was a diligent and efficient member of the staff. When the drunks and the riffraff in the pub began to get a little too wild—or worse, initiate riotous bar fights—she was, for some inexplicable reason, the only one who could bring the situation under control and restore order.
The most significant reason, however, was one that Alfred knew the pub owner would never admit: Elizabeta's appearance. She was, without a doubt, a fetching young woman, and her attractive form had lured many a passerby into the otherwise unremarkable pub—and maintained a steady stream of customers. Indeed, even now, as she moved amongst the tables with her tray of glasses, many of the drunkards raised their unpleasant faces to stare openly at her. She was wearing only a plain white shirtwaist and drab gray skirt, but her graceful figure was still evident; and her skin was smooth and flushed with color. Only her hands were work-roughened, hardened by years of desperate labor.
The pub owner uttered a growl of impotent frustration, clearly unable to refute Elizabeta, and banged another bottle of brandy onto the bar, more forcibly than was strictly necessary.
Elizabeta smirked, satisfied with the knowledge of her victory, and returned to where Alfred and Arthur were situated. She leaned down beside them, draping her arms over the bar and resting her elbows on the counter.
"I recall having met you before," she said to Arthur, directing a searching glance at him. One of her brows furrowed. "A good friend of Alfred, are you not? Ah . . . I remember your name now. Mr. Kirkland?"
"Yes," Arthur said, extending his hand; she shook it firmly. "Please, call me Arthur. And you are Miss Héderváry?"
"Elizabeta," she replied, with a slight pucker about her lips that suggested that she did not particularly like the formality.
"Yes, of course. Forgive me. It is good to see you again."
"And you," Elizabeta responded, with a sideways glance at Alfred that revealed her surprise at the man's politeness.
Alfred merely smirked in reply and reached for the next glass to clean. It was amusing, the wondering incredulous manner with which the pub staff viewed Arthur Kirkland; among them he was utterly incongruous, and his respectful civility only made him all the more incredible to those who had expected nothing but scornful contempt from him.
Moreover, they had been unable to fathom why their lowly pantry boy had suddenly begun appearing for work with an elegant young gentleman by his side every afternoon. It had created, indeed, a most awkward situation. Alfred had been well aware of their burning curiosity, the whispers that rolled to and fro behind the bar whenever his back was turned; hence he had not been surprised when the pub owner abruptly ordered him downstairs to the cellar on one occasion to retrieve a fresh bottle of brandy, forcing him to leave Arthur alone at the bar. Alfred had complied swiftly, but waited against the darkened stairwell, hidden from view and listening intently.
Unsurprisingly, the pub owner had seized upon Alfred's absence in order to question his extraordinary companion. Upon being directly addressed by the other man, Arthur's face bore an expression of fleeting alarm; clearly he had not expected to be spoken to, situated as he was in his solitary corner.
"You." The pub owner grunted, exhaling a bitter cloud of cigar smoke. "You're an . . . acquaintance of Alfred's?"
"Yes, sir." Arthur gave a small, taciturn nod. "A friend of his, actually."
"Huh."
Another exhalation of smoke, this time accompanied by a piercing stare as he leaned forward, fixing Arthur with his beady eyes.
"What I'd like to know," he said bluntly, "is why a gentleman like yourself would be ambling about with the likes of him."
Arthur had colored slightly under the inquisition, but his voice was cool and firm when he answered:
"Alfred is a very talented man. I am fortunate to have had the pleasure of getting to know him—we are, after all, currently completing our studies at the same university, and I can quite honestly say that I consider him to be one of my closest friends. I see no reason why it is so unusual that we spend time with each other."
A long, pregnant pause trailed past. Alfred, safely concealed beneath the landing, could not help but feel a deep flush of delighted pride at hearing Arthur speak of him with such praise.
Finally, the pub owner expelled a heavy sigh and lifted himself from the counter.
"Very well, then," he grunted, wedging his malodorous cigar more firmly into his mouth. "As long as you know what you're doing." He made as if to return to his work, but apparently reconsidered it and turned back to Arthur. "Let me say this, though: the two of you must be the most oddly matched pair that I have ever seen. But the boy looks happier than he has in months, so you must be doing some good, eh?"
He let out a wheezing chuckle, and Alfred saw some of the tension in Arthur's face ease.
"Yes, sir," he said, and that was enough.
That conversation had evidently ended all debate concerning Alfred's companion, because from that point on, the two of them were no longer on the receiving end of openly gawking stares from the staff whenever they entered the tavern. The pub owner more or less paid no heed to Arthur, preferring instead to bellow at Alfred in the fashion that he had always done. However, he had made a conspicuous point of assigning Alfred less menial labor whenever Arthur was present. Clearly, he did not wish to incur the Briton's wrath by humiliating Alfred in front of him. The work would of course be later completed, but Alfred was still deeply grateful that Arthur did not have to bear witness to his drudgery.
During the brief hours that Arthur had spent at the pub over the past few months, he had grown somewhat acquainted with the staff, who were gradually adjusting to the notion of their pantry boy associating with him. Often, no more than nods of greeting were passed between the two parties, though he'd exchanged more amiable pleasantries with the other bar girl, Emma Debroux, who worked long shifts and was frequently there. Elizabeta, who arranged her own hours as she saw fit, often arrived after Arthur had left, but they had spoken once or twice before.
Now, however, as she took up the tray of glasses again, she shot Alfred a keen glance, one that held the promise of later conversation. He gave her a nod in reply, but couldn't contain the amusement that curved his lips into a smile. Between him and Elizabeta, there were no secrets—she needn't have worried. However, judging from the intent gleam in her eyes and the way her gaze flickered between him and Arthur, he would not have been surprised if she had guessed that he was being courted by the English gentleman.
Elizabeta Héderváry had been, from childhood, Alfred's dearest friend, confidante, and playmate, and still was. She had grown up in the same cluster of tenement houses that he had, directly across the street from him; and together they had whiled away the years of their early age, when she had been a rambunctious, hot-tempered little girl with roughly cut hair, and he a cheerful young rascal with perpetually grimy hands and a gap-toothed, infectious smile. Her parents had been Hungarian immigrants who exhausted themselves from dawn to dusk, toiling to earn what little keep they could and often too weary to devote much time to their young daughter. As a result, Elizabeta had had to learn how to fend for herself out on the streets—something that she did fearsomely well. The first time that Alfred encountered her, she was roughing up several boys who had made the dire mistake of teasing her.
The Hungarian girl had initially been distrustful of him, demanding if he'd come to taunt her as well and warning him that she could defeat him as easily as she had the other youths. However, the seven-year-old Alfred had denied it cheerfully, and invited her to come and play with him, dissolving her fears in his innocent smile and soothing her bristling attitude.
Thus the two of them had struck up a quick friendship, and with their alliance firmly in place, they launched a massive war against the rest of the neighboring ruffians and urchins—from which they emerged, undoubtedly, triumphant. Alfred would forever after recall the memory of their first victory with a certain amount of fondness: the two of them, crouching together on one of the lower rooftops, their hands and faces streaked with dirt, laughing as they pelted their enemies with clods of rubbish.
From that moment on, Elizabeta had taken Alfred under her wing, caring for him with just as much as affection as if she were his older sister. They'd played, roughhousing and tussling in the avenue where they'd been raised; braved the early-morning traffic as they walked together to the dingy, ramshackle building of a schoolhouse where they learned their lessons, with its faded brick and time-worn veneer. Often Elizabeta, knowing that Alfred would not be fed at home, would cook supper for him—a gesture of utmost warmth, considering that her family struggled to feed and support even themselves. They would sit in her kitchen on evenings that her parents were working late hours, eating a thick vegetable stew that Elizabeta called főzelék, as she attempted unsuccessfully to teach him fragments of her native language.
In many ways, she had been a mother figure throughout his life, the font of all the tenderness and affection in his childhood that he had never received from his own parents. Even now, at the ages of nineteen and twenty-one, respectively, and with both of them heavily anxious about and occupied with their own lives, they remained close and continued to care for each other. Often Alfred would marvel, watching the lovely young woman that she had become and remembering the obstinate, unruly little girl she had once been. He could only assume that he had changed as much.
He certainly felt different, within the adult body that he seemed to have acquired not-so-very-long-ago, while his childhood felt several lifetimes away. How easily were things subject to change. . . .
Perhaps, though, he mused, letting his gaze drift across the bustling surroundings and come to rest upon Arthur, some things were meant to remain.
Arthur, feeling Alfred's scrutiny, raised his head with an inquiring expression that faded to tenderness as he met his eyes. Alfred smiled gently, prompting the other's lips to assume the same form.
Contented with the answering softness in Arthur's eyes, Alfred straightened his glasses and glanced out of the window.
Evening had fallen over the city, streaking the air with dusky and subfusc hues. Along the edges of the pavement, the lamplighters had appeared, almost if they were akin to some sort of mythological creature of the night, like the ones Arthur was so fond of reading about. Alfred watched them light the gas streetlights, each a tiny brilliant flare held high against the mounting gloom.
Arthur was gazing out of the window as well, leaning his chin against his hand. He was clearly lost in thought as he followed the movements of the lamplighters through the dirty glass, perhaps making up some story in his mind.
"Shall we go now?" Alfred asked him; it was getting late and he'd finished with his shift.
"Hmm?" Arthur started, his eyes slightly unfocused. He took a few moments to weave his way back out of that absent-minded reverie before concentrating on Alfred. "Oh—yes, of course." He stood up.
"I'll be here tomorrow afternoon," Alfred told his employer, whose grunt of assent was the only reply he received.
"Are you leaving, Alfred?" Elizabeta called across the pub from where she was wrestling apart two drunkards who had spontaneously decided to go at each other, a twinge of disappointment in her voice.
"Yes, so you should arrive earlier for work if you want to see me," he said teasingly.
Elizabeta laughed as she came up to him, giving him a quick embrace followed by a good-natured thump to his head. "What gave you the idea that anyone would want to see you? Oh—I will be here rather late tonight. Would you mind checking to see if my apartment door is locked? I cannot remember if I locked it before I left. . . ."
"Of course, I will. You didn't have to ask. After all—this would not be the first time," he said, with a mischievous smirk. Elizabeta seemed to think that remark warranted another clout, which Alfred dodged laughingly. "I'll see you tomorrow, Elizabeta! Goodnight!"
"Goodbye, Alfred, and goodnight! Goodnight, Mr. Kirkland," she added, waving farewell to Arthur, who was standing by the door.
"Goodnight, Elizabeta," Arthur answered. "I am glad we could speak again."
Alfred opened the door, allowing Arthur to step out, and with a final wave to Elizabeta, closed it, shutting out the dissonant ruckus of the tavern. With the absence of noise, the urban hush fell upon their ears like the sheerest of gauze, punctuated only by the unmeasured footsteps of passersby and the murmur of automobile tires against asphalt.
Alfred tilted his face back as they strolled back down the way they'd come, letting the last vestiges of sunlight catch his glasses and diverge into a dazzling prism of gold. Inside, he savored the feeling of Arthur's closeness beside him, so near that their arms touched, so near that his hand brushed lightly against his wrist.
"There's still time yet before it gets too late," Arthur said after a pause. He inclined his head, sending the dark-blue light falling across his face, softly illuminating his features. "Would you like to get supper somewhere with me? Or . . . or do they expect you home early tonight?"
"Well, there's no one at home at this hour—my father is off either drinking or working, and my mother will most likely be out collecting laundry to be washed this week . . . so I think I ought to go home. Elizabeta wants me to check her apartment door, anyway, and I have a few lessons for the physics class that I should read over before tomorrow. Besides which . . . " Alfred cleared his throat slightly and focused his gaze on the worn leather of his shoes. " I haven't any money with me at the moment."
"Oh, Alfred." Alfred felt Arthur's hand, gentle and unobtrusive and reassuring, slip into his, hidden from the public eye in the mingling shadows of their sleeves. "You know that would not matter. If we went out to dine together, I would gladly pay for you."
"You are good enough to me as it is," Alfred answered honestly, skirting around the more pressing factor: he hated the feeling of being indebted to Arthur because he was unable to afford things. "I don't like to . . . take advantage of you like this, when I know that it is money that I can't return to you. It's difficult enough that you're paying for my tuition at the university, let alone other things."
"It is only one part of the tuition—" Arthur protested, but Alfred shook his head.
"It's most of it, Arthur, and you know it. And I know that it is not even the full fee the university would normally charge its students. It's not even the full charge, and I still cannot afford it. Instead, I have to rely on your kindness to me."
"You sound as if that makes you unhappy."
"Yes—and no . . . oh, Arthur, that isn't what I mean." Alfred let out a frustrated sigh. "Arthur, you do understand, if I had the money, I would not have to borrow it from you. It's not an easy thing, trying to make enough just to feed myself and pay for housing, and here you are, giving me the money for an education that I can't afford on my own, an education that no one of my station would even dream of. I am grateful to you, Arthur, more than I could say. You've done so much for me. It just seems . . . unfair to you and me."
"This is a gift, Alfred." Arthur's voice was soft. "You deserve it. Don't think about whether or not you can pay it back. It's as I told you all those months ago—education should not have to revolve around money. It should be given to those who are worthy of it."
"Arthur—"
Alfred cut himself off, not knowing how to go on.
How could he explain this to Arthur; intelligent, eloquent Arthur, who had never before in his life truly wanted for something? Who knew ever so much—yet very little about this life, where every obligation was a curse and every wretched penny was possessively clutched? Who did not seem to understand that it simply wasn't fair, the way that Alfred could get at these things, at education, only because a gentleman had taken a fancy to him and was willing to give them to him? That otherwise, such an opportunity would be utterly impossible for him, and consequently it felt so very wrong?
"Alfred." Arthur's voice reached him. "Don't trouble your mind over this. Simply . . . think of it as a gift, from me."
The unspoken please in his words pulled at Alfred, and with an effort he summoned a bright smile. He had no reason to upset Arthur with his own discomfort; he was living his dream now, and surely that was enough.
"I'm sorry," he said, letting his thumb run lightly over Arthur's wrist in apology. "Thank you, I meant to say. You know how much I appreciate this."
Their footsteps halted at the edge of the pavement. By now, they had reached the street corner where Arthur's handsome Studebaker was parked; he'd left it there earlier that afternoon after his classes before walking to the pub with Alfred.
Alfred stood by, waiting as Arthur took a set of keys from the pocket of his jacket and unlocked the automobile door. As he opened it, he glanced back over his shoulder. "You're sure that I can't drive you home, Alfred?"
Alfred shook his head. "No, I'd rather walk, but thank you."
"You are always welcome, Alfred. I shall see you tomorrow morning, then."
Arthur had half slid into his seat, one hand still gripping the edge of the open automobile door as he glanced up at Alfred through his lashes. For one trembling moment, he hesitated, before stepping back out and (slowly, tentatively) slipping his arms around Alfred's shoulders. Alfred's hand reached up, weaving his fingers with Arthur's as his other arm encircled his waist, pulling him closer into the embrace.
For several brief, transcendent seconds—or perhaps it was an eternity—they stood there at the deserted street intersection, arms tied about each other, and for Alfred, nothing else existed but for the soft brush of Arthur's hair against his face and the sensation of his heartbeat, fleeting and warm, against his.
After dashing hastily across the street to inspect Elizabeta's door (she had indeed locked it), Alfred returned home to his own apartment. His footfalls were cautious on the stairs, so as not to disturb any of the other tenants.
The door greeted him with a hollow creak when he swung it open, revealing the bare, silent apartment where he had lived for the past nineteen years of his life.
Yes, this was home—the poorly whitewashed walls with what few faded pictures they held, the threadbare curtains drawn tightly closed, casting a dim gloom over the surroundings, the loose worn floorboards, the solitary table at the head of the room with its single lamp.
A quick glance about the vacant room confirmed his earlier predictions: the absence of the two large laundry hampers that normally stood against the far wall indicated that his mother was out, and he knew from experience that she would not be back until late. His father's overcoat was missing from the rack, and Alfred knew that he, too, would not soon return.
His parents' absence was a small blessing, promising an evening blissfully devoid of their serrated criticism and ill-aimed vitriol. Alfred welcomed the solitude eagerly, the unfamiliar feeling of returning home to quiet peacefulness.
He lit the lamp on the table, filling the small space with flickering shadows, and went into the kitchen. In a short while, there was a pot on the stove brimming with boiling water for soup, and Alfred was leaning against the table, poring over one of his physics textbooks as he sipped from a cup of coffee.
What wondrous things there were to be found and observed in the incredible macrocosm of physics! His blue eyes, behind their glasses, narrowed in intense concentration as he skimmed paragraphs of text, before flicking across to diagrams and pages filled with mathematical equations. Absorbed as he was, Alfred descended into a focused trance as he calculated and analyzed, taking in the information with a powerful curiosity.
He took no notice of the passage of time, and it was some while later when he finally leaned back from his books and stretched, removing his glasses and rubbing his aching eyes. The apartment was very dark by now, the only source of light being the small lamp on the table. The cup of coffee sat forgotten and cold amid the strew of sheets of diagrams written in Alfred's scrawl.
Alfred rested one elbow on the table, thinking as he ran the other hand absentmindedly through his dark gold hair.
It had been several months since he had first accepted Arthur's offer to arrange his admission into several of the classes at the university. He had vaguely mentioned to his parents that he had been attending lessons someplace, but they had no idea of the full extent of the situation: that he intended to achieve a degree in physics, that his education was attained only at Arthur's expense.
Neither did he feel that they had earned the right to know. His dreams of becoming an inventor and a scientist were too precious to betray to his parents, and to have them deride and trample them before his eyes, just as they had done to everything else in his life, was unthinkable. A few things, at least, deserved to remain intact.
Still, perhaps . . . one day, he could make them understand. Oh, how he yearned to explain the multitude of possibilities to every person he met, how he could see the answers to the problems that he encountered day after day in the technology of the next age. The answers were there, in the arches of the twentieth-century towers, in the motion of comfortable luxury cars. How could he make the world see?
Set adrift in a wandering reverie, he lost himself in his immense, brilliant plans, as in his mind's eye he began to sketch down the designs for the inventions and advancements of the future, for a world surpassing all imagination . . . a world that he, Alfred Jones, had created.
Ahhh. I'm not cut out for writing things like this. XD Still, it was fun! I'm so in love with USUK that it probably isn't normal. XD
Concerning the sections on quantum physics and Antigone: those were merely ways for me to sneak in my own interests into a USUK story, but I think they fit with Alfred and Arthur respectively, lawl!
I focused a lot on Alfred's side of the story in this, exploring his childhood and memories, but in the next chapter, I'll be focusing on Arthur's high-society world. I'll probably put the party scene in it, too. ;)
The phrases that I borrowed/altered from Death Cab's beautiful "20th-Century Towers" are:
"what a tragic way to see our final days"
"The answers are in the arches of the twentieth-century towers, and in comfortable cars in motion."
I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Please review and let me know what you liked and what you didn't, and what I could improve on. I'll always be happy to receive your feedback, be it negative or positive!
Thank you so much!