A Gloomy December Eve

19th century England. Arthur Kirkland is a struggling writer without two coppers to rub together. Why then, should he care if a little urchin in rags should appear at his doorstop in the dead of night?

~*o*O*o*~

Hello, everyone! Probably sappy enough for you to vomit, and it's a Christmas story in the middle of bloody June, but please enjoy and review!

~*o*O*o*~

London was the capital of the world's largest and most powerful empire, a place where any man who labored hard enough could make his fortune. But riches were hard to come by for any lowly-born man, particularly a lowly-born man who insisted on earning his bread by telling stories rather than trading spices or selling pots.

Arthur Kirkland was such a man. At twenty-three years of age, his eyes had not yet lost the sharp and hopeful vigor so many of the young English artisans had before their orbs became clouded with resignation and disappointment. Instead of searching for an apprenticeship that would help him start his own trade, Arthur lingered in the English bookstores, fingers twitching with poorly-concealed desire as the man stared hungrily at a sea of handsome leather-bound books he would likely never be able to own.

Instead of searching for a respectable or at least pretty lass to court and wed, Arthur spent much of his free time wandering the streets of London, picking up stray bits of charcoal he found near the great belching chimneys of factories. He also kept his piercing green eyes out for pieces of paper which might be wayward advertisements, dingy old newspapers or food wrappers.

Rather than working hard so that he could afford a new waistcoat, Arthur clumsily continued to patch up his old and growing increasingly threadbare jacket, much to the amusement of passerby. Even in this enormous, sprawling city, Arthur was considered a hopeless eccentric, an absentminded loner who often murmured to himself promising-sounding lines even as he walked the cobbled streets. It was said that his great love of collecting charcoal and paper came from his desire to preserve as much store-bought paper as he could, as the cost was dear and Arthur practically destitute.

He rented a small, gloomy room—it was one of hundreds—and could barely manage to afford it, let alone put bread on the table. When he'd first came to the city, he'd managed to find himself two jobs, and back then life was somewhat easier, but Arthur had despised his job in the taverns. That was where the poor man had found himself constantly mocked and ridiculed for his short and thin stature, as well as constantly splashed with ale and rotten food. So, he'd quit that job, had told himself that he could do very well with his one position as a lawyer's clerk.

It wouldn't even be a permanent position; Arthur would use the free time he now had to himself to write his great epics. He would accomplish his dream of publication and gradually work his way upward so that he could sustain himself purely by writing, the task that was his mistress and family. Arthur didn't know if he could reasonably expect fame or fortune, but it would have been enough just to be able to see his name in print, to see people reading his words, to be respected and a proper gentleman.

But even as he wrote until his fingers bled, Arthur had been luckless. He returned to the printing facility nearly every week with a new short story, but the men who worked there merely skimmed a line or two before they thrust his work in his face and denounced it as unsuitable for publication. The local shopkeepers would see Arthur anxiously waiting outside the publishers with a stack of paper and chuckle to themselves, knowing that the man would only retreat from the building with slumped shoulders and hopeless hope on his face. The local baker had made a cruel joke to one of the tailors, claiming that the day Arthur Kirkland walked away from the publishers with a bright eye and a spring in his step was the day that he'd eat his hat.

It was the eighth month of Arthur's stay in London, and his prospects were looking increasingly dim; the lawyer he worked for was heartless and paid but little—and Arthur worried that perhaps his boss was searching for another clerk who would work for less to fill Arthur's place. Despite this, the boy continued to work late into the night writing, though his spirits had taken a decisive turn for the worse.

One dark night, as the wind moaned and whistled through the many cracks in the writer's walls, making the newspaper Arthur had thrust in them crackle and rustle, the writer blew on his filthy fingertips as he considered the newest line he had written:

"—and so it was that the good lady accepted his hand, and the two entwined made a handsome pair—"

Arthur dropped his pen, scowled, and resisted the urge to shred the paper into pieces right then and there. Groaning, he buried his face in his hands. How very like him to write about something he knew nothing about! He had tried a half-dozen different angles in his writing: fantasy, horror, adventure, mystery, drama, even comedy, though he could scarcely crack a joke to save his life—and had retreated to the most beloved genre of all time: the love story.

But he was most unsatisfied; he felt nothing as he read his own words, which might as well have belonged to a stranger. They were weak, clichéd, and meaningless to the writer. So a girl had wound up with a lad—that was nice, but it left so little to the imagination. Certainly there had been some plot twists to the tale—a romantic rival here, an argument between the lovers there—but from the very beginning, there was no real plot, no real pretense. There were only vague descriptions of affection that Arthur had only heard from other writers, other people.

When Arthur wrote about anger, he loved to feel the blood throb as he scribbled furiously on the paper, and when he wrote of sorrow, he was accustomed to feeling a growing sense of hollowness in the depths of his stomach and in his chest cavity. He loved to surprise himself with unexpected plot turns that appeared out of nowhere and made the world beneath him disappear, and there were few thrills quite so lovely to him as the sense of bone-chilling terror as he made writhing phantoms slowly bleed out from his ink, reaching out in the darkness with so many clawed hands.

But of soft, tender affection, of blooming touches and obsessive thoughts and agony and supposedly all-consuming love, whether friendly love or motherly love or romantic love—he knew nothing of. His mother had been kind to him and he'd had a few friends in his youth, but while he supposed his nursed some degree of fondness for them all, he wouldn't classify these feelings as earnest love. Or if it were love, it was nothing of the love he'd heard the Immortal Bard Shakespeare write…

He could describe nothing which he did not understand. Perhaps that was the reason he lived in squalor, with only one pair of shoes to his name and a woebegone room that stayed obstinately gray no matter how hard one scrubbed at the dingy walls. Arthur sighed; his breath was a puff in the freezing air.

Arthur was jerked out of his reverie with the realization that his candle stub was burning low. The writer's eyes ached from squinting so in the dark, and he longed to light the other candle he had bought just yesterday, or to light a decent fire in the ashen grate nearby, but he wasn't sure which commodity he could more ill-afford to waste, candles or coal.

He leaned back in his wooden seat and ran his hands through his straw-like hair. It was getting late, and getting cold. Arthur wasn't particularly inspired tonight, so he wondered if he ought to perhaps sup early and go to church like a good Christian. It was at least warmer in the chapel, and he could "borrow" a candle or two if the priest weren't working. He supposed it was particularly shabby for him to steal, especially from a church, but what would a statue care if a candle were lit at her feet or not? If there was a gentle deity looking in from above, it would surely rather Arthur had warmth and light when the church could so obviously spare some, made it a POINT to share such things?

Smiling slightly at his own pun, Arthur stood, stretched, and retrieved the tin plate of bread and cheese that he'd been saving. He picked up the bread, and braced himself to eat when—

Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

Arthur turned around. Barely audible over the sound of the gales outside, there was the lightest tap-tap-tapping at his door. He waited for a moment, hoping that maybe he'd imagined it, but the sound did not go away. If it were not the dead of winter, he would have thought a bird was pecking at his door.

Who would come? Arthur had no close friends who would come to visit, and his landlord wasn't due to start demanding his rent for another three days. A robber? He searched the room for a weapon, but found none. He liked to think that his pen was as good as a sword, but he doubted a quill would do him very well in a fight! Arthur swallowed.

"Yes?" he asked sharply, in a voice that was much braver than it sounded. "Who's there?"

A pause, then a soft garbling noise. Arthur's thick brows furrowed, and he cautiously approached his door and swung it open.

He wasn't expecting what he saw; a young boy, perhaps four or five years of age, was staring up at him from the snowy steps, arms wound tightly around himself, teeth chattering. He seemed to be wearing a gown of some sort, though it was torn and tattered and spotted with grime. The child's feet were wrapped in dirty rags, and his limbs were like little twigs. His hair seemed to be a dull gold, but it was so dirty and wild Arthur wondered whether it were hair at all, and not a porcupine perching on the lad's head.

The boy had started back from the door when Arthur appeared, robin egg blue eyes widening. "Ah! Um…" He twiddled his fingers, suddenly shy. "Uh, sir, d'you have a scrap of bread to spare?" he asked hopefully. "Or a bit of fish or meat or somethin'? Not picky."

The boy had a light, garbled accent; Arthur winced at his bad grammar. While his heart went out to the wretch, Arthur scarcely had enough to feed himself. Besides, his father could be heard scathing about beggars when he was a lad himself. "They ask and they grovel and they trouble passerby, but never do they do an honest day's work in their lives." Arthur began to tell the boy no.

But upon seeing the hope immediately vanish within the boy's eyes, Arthur's spirits sank. Did he look so hopeless when his short stories were rejected? He couldn't possibly look so sad, or so hopeless—

'It is Christmas time.' Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned his head back and groaned. Perhaps the heavens would grant him good fortune for another good deed. It seemed logical enough.

"Oh, very well," he said dispiritedly, noticing the boy's face light up like a rare snatch of English sunshine, and his eyes glitter like two stars. "Come along, then."

~*o*O*o*~

The boy wolfed down Arthur's dinner with all the speed of lightning; Arthur watched from his bed and tried to ignore the whimpering groans of disappointment in his still empty stomach.

"Slow down boy, or you'll make himself sick," he said tiredly, rubbing his eyes. Oh, but he would enjoy breakfast tomorrow…if he could afford it.

The child looked up from his plate and his ears turned red. Mouth still full, he said,

"'msreesuhwuhduh."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "And don't speak with your mouth full, son."

"Ohhh…." The boy swallowed heavily. "S'rry, sir." Oh, if Arthur's old schoolteacher could only hear him now! His sorry-looking palms would be even redder than they were now. "Thank you, sir, you're very nice sir, uh, this is really good sir, so, uh, thanks, sir." He coughed and uncertainly shuffled his dirty feet, looking shy.

Arthur managed a wan smile. "What's your name, boy?"

The boy crammed more food into his mouth and made an effort to chew before swallowing. "Alfred, sir." Alfred looked around the garret, eyes straying to the amount of papers on the desk. "What's that, if ya don't mind, sir?"

Arthur just looked at him icily, not noticing the boy's tremor. "I'm…I'm a writer. Therefore, I write." A lawyer's office lackey hardly sounds very impressive.

"Oh!" A wide smile spread across Alfred's face. "That's neat! I know a wroter! Uh, what's your name, sir?"

"Writer, boy," corrected Arthur, smile twitching slightly at Alfred's enthusiasm. "My name is Mr. Kirkland." Bad idea to tell him your name, old boy, the last thing you need is for this little nipper to pop up every day seeking charity….

"You tell stories n'things!" exclaimed the child, popping some bread into his mouth.

"Yes. Though I haven't published anything yet," he added, looking slightly crestfallen. Alfred looked confused.

"Oh! Does publi…pubo…what you said…very important?"

"Publication? Of course," Arthur sniffed. "Exceedingly so. The pinnacle point for writers."

The boy looked up from his meal to give Arthur a curious look. "How come? Whyzit 'portant? Is that wot you saided when you finish a story?"

"'Publication' means that your book is put into print, and many people can read it and buy your book and make you rich."

Alfred looked slightly agog, as though you had told him skipping rope could earn you a sum.

"Wow. I never learned lettahs, but you must be very happy, tellin' 'tories all the time!" Alfred seemed to speak with a lisp when it came to the letter 'S.' The boy rocked back and forth in Arthur's wooden chair, smiling broadly. Arthur shuffled his feet.

"I suppose I would be, if I made any money doing what I love best."

Looking startled, Alfred stopped rocking.

"But why dozit matter if you're doing what you like best? That's the greatest thing in the world! And if ya like it so much, iffit takes ya fifty years, than you'll get somethin' uh…uh, publized!"

Arthur scoffed. "If it doesn't put bread on the table, than what's the point? Perhaps I truly am a failure…"

"If ya not happy, why botherin' puttin' bread on the table ta begin with?" asked Alfred, and Arthur just stared blankly at him, racking his brains to find some witty retort, only to find none. Alfred crammed the last bits of food into his mouth, and Arthur noticed for the first time the pretty silver chain that was around the boy's neck. He looked down and saw what looked like a locket against the boy's thin, birdlike little chest. It was decorated with tiny silver roses which surrounded a small brown stone in the locket's center, which might have been amber, or topaz.

"That's a pretty thing," commented Arthur, suspicion entering into his eyes. "Oh, no. You didn't steal it, did you?"

Looking affronted, Alfred wiped the crumbs away from his mouth and shook his head wildly, like a dog trying to rid himself of water. "No sir!" he exclaimed, crossing his little arms and frowning. "This was Mama's."

"And now it's yours?"

"Mama told me to hold onto it." Alfred sighed lightly, a hint of sadness entering his eyes. But soon enough, it disappeared, as if a cool spring wind blew it away. "And I can prove it's mine," he said proudly, carefully taking the locket into his hands and prying the lid open. Arthur stood up to take a better look at the little black and white picture, frowning in confusion.

There was a beautiful young woman dressed, if not very fashionably, very nicely and modestly. Though the picture was black and white, Arthur could tell her hair was very similar to the hair of the two little children she held on her lap, one of whom was very obviously Alfred, and the other…Alfred? Arthur blinked and looked closer. A twin brother, but one with longer hair and a more nervous, drawn-in slouch than Alfred's cheerful and confidant posture.

"My brother, Mattie," said Alfred fondly. Ah, so the boy did have family. Arthur felt better.

There was a man, but his face was half-drawn in shadow, and so Arthur could not tell much about him. He scrutinized the picture. The family looked fairly well-to-do; Alfred was neat and tidy in his photo, not at all the tangled wreck Arthur saw before him. He supposed the family had fallen on hard times, and his heart ached in sympathy for the child.

The little boy stood up, carefully folded his locket up, and to Arthur's surprise, gave the writer's knee—it was as high as he could reach—a tight embrace. Arthur started and then hemmed before he awkwardly patted Alfred on the head.

"Yes, yes. That will do. Won't your mother worry about you if you're not home soon?"

Alfred said nothing. He withdrew away from Arthur, looking wistful, and Arthur swallowed the urge to comb out his dirty hair with the nearly-frozen water in his pitcher, to make it clean and presentable. "Thank you, Mistah Kirkland. I'm glad I got to meet you," he said sincerely, face glowing with contentment. "I went ta lotsa of the taverns in town and ta many places lookin' for dinner, but people kept gettin' angry and yelling things and throwing things," said the boy sadly, covering his tiny ears. "And dogs! Scary big dogs with scary big teeth! I asked butchers and bakahs but even a priest but the priest said that the bread he had had ta go to the baby Jesus statue, which I don't get. But you're good!" he exclaimed merrily. "You're very good, Mr. Kirkland, and if you write as gooder as you are, you'll make a very good story and be very, very happy! Thank you. I hope you gets everythin' you want for Christmas. I'll go ta the church tonight and pray for it!"

In spite of the cold, Arthur's ears turned red.

"…and what good did prayer ever do for anyone?"

Alfred puffed out his little chest. "I thought da same thing, when Papa weren't coming back from America, but I got ta meet an angel like I asked," he bragged.

"Oh, really?" asked Arthur coyly. Alfred nodded.

"Yes. He doesn't sell any books yet, but he will." Overlooking Arthur's stunned expression, Alfred wandered over to the door and Arthur opened it with great difficulty; the wind was now positively roaring outside, and the man had had to slam his shoulder against it with all his might before it would swing open. It had started to snow, and Arthur got a quick face full of the stuff. Shivering again, Alfred hurried down the stone steps, turned, and waved a cheery goodbye.

"Thank you! Thank you! God bless you!" he cried as he scurried away down the street, humming what sounded like Christmas songs to himself. Arthur just looked at him for a moment before reality struck him about the face.

"W—wait!" The chill made Arthur's bones hurt, and he'd only been outside for perhaps two minutes! "Lad! Perhaps you should wait until the wind dies down…lad! WAIT!"

But the wind's moaning was much too loud; as it was, Arthur could barely hear himself. Alfred was quickly swallowed up by the darkness. The only sign that there had been anyone there at was the little pair of footprints leading to and from Arthur's door. Sighing, Arthur shut his door, made a face at the amount of snow that had blown in through the cracks, and tried his best to mop it up with some old rags. Old rags, like the ones Alfred had been wearing around his feet…

He's got a mother, albeit a mother who can't seem to keep him tidy. He'll be fine.

Once the mess was somewhat cleared, Arthur went to his fireplace and started up a good blaze. Soon, the room was filled with flickering light, and the writer held up his hands and enjoyed the heat.

Does Alfred have a hearth, wherever he lives?

Arthur shook his head and groaned. He was not to be responsible for every pauper that came begging, and while it was very sad, too many poor people perished on the streets of London every day, from sickness, starvation, and the better off just simply walked briskly around them as if they were stacks of hay rather than corpses, their bony hands extended out in a last-ditch effort for mercy…

He was skin and bones…skin and bones…even with the locket, he was skin and bones…

Arthur settled back in his seat, lit a candle, and began to work again. Or tried to; the words kept swimming before his eyes and popping off the parchment, even with his new light. He swallowed and ignored the lump he felt in his throat. He would chase it away with some tea, which was cheap and always good for staying hunger pains and the more peculiar ones he felt in his chest.

The weakhearted died quickly in London without a good purse; Alfred did not at all seemed weakhearted, and even without a purse or farthing, he would probably be fine. Surely someone else would take pity on the boy and see him off to wherever he lived, perhaps with a meager amount of soup or something.

It's so cold…you couldn't even see him off to his mother's? What will his brother do if the child freezes to death in those poor little rags, or gets struck by a horse, or gets lost? You couldn't even lend him some of your old rags, the ones too tattered for even YOU to wear anymore?

Swearing oaths underneath his breath, Arthur's thick brows furrowed and the writer's grip of his quill tightened. Damn it all, damn it all, damn it all…

Shouting one last oath, Arthur stood up, crabbily yanked on his coat and old scarf before striding to his door, wrestling it open, and slamming it shut, locking it behind him with his rusty old key. He had no way of knowing where Alfred went, other than the little footprints that were slowly beginning to fill up once again. Teeth chattering, Arthur went forward, though it seemed the icy gusts were intent on holding him back. If the winds were like this, Alfred could not have gone far. He could only hope.

~*o*O*o*~

Arthur was unnerved as he passed by many handsomely decorated shops, festively ornamented for the season with fat birds and shining puddings and pretty cloaks in their windows.

How must it feel, to be a child who still believed in angels and didn't even have a pair of poor shoes to wear, to see all of these things, to see people dressed in silks and furs buy all these things and look at you like you were something that crawled from the sewers? He'd gotten off well enough as a child, but now people were turning his nose up at him because his cloak was covered in patches? At least he had one to call his own—the little boy was probably treated no better than the horse dung that often littered the streets.

Making a face, Arthur kept following the little prints—thankfully, they were not so tarnished as to make the trail impossible to follow—and anxiously shouted out for the boy. He'd asked passerby if they'd seen him, but while people could remember the fine feathers on a lady's hat, there was no room in anyone's memory for a hungry-looking child.

Arthur walked on and on, eventually stopping when he noticed the little pair of prints had gone off at the church of St. Nicholas, the patron saint of Christmas, children, and prostitutes.

Ah. Surely some kind priest has given the boy and his family sanctuary for this cold night.

Sighing in relief, Arthur had approached the wooden doors only to notice that the little pair of footprints led away from the doors, out back to the cemetery. Puzzled, Arthur followed the tracks, rubbing his hands together every so often to keep the feeling in his fingers.

He walked past the fine marble tombs and the sculpted angels to the poor pauper's graves, most of which didn't even have an inscription on them. It was among these poor little stones that he saw a little figure bending over a plot. Before he had time to think, Arthur raced towards it, panting in exertion.

The tiny boy looked up at the sound of running footsteps through the snow and Arthur was relieved to see Alfred give him a small, if not quizzical smile. His blue eyes turned back towards the little mounds and Arthur's hands found the child's frail shoulders.

"Lad, why aren't you heading home? You'll catch your death."

Alfred shuffled from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. "'m gonna go home. When they come."

Arthur shivered and looked around. What a miserable and queer place to meet anyone in—a graveyard! "Why, who are you waiting for, that they'd have you meet them here?"

"Mama and Matthew" was the child's simple answer. Arthur cleared his throat.

"What about your father? A boy needs a father." He supposed he might as well ask. Alfred shrugged, and poked at the snow with a little red finger.

"Gone away to 'merica. Mama said that means Papa's found someone else and is never comin' back."

Arthur said nothing. The wind blew overhead, sending snowflakes scattering in all directions.

"…I see." He tried to keep the pity out of his voice. "What time did your mother and brother ask you to meet, Alfred?" He hoped it wouldn't be too long; it was quite cold.

Alfred looked away. "Well, they didn't say when or where we'd see each other again, but I know it's gonna be here."

"But why?"

Alfred smiled, though it didn't touch his eyes. "Cause I'm gonna die tonight and Mama and Mattie will come down from heaven to the cemetery to take me with 'em. Then we'll find Papa and he'll come to heaven too and everything and everyone will be happy!"

Aghast, Arthur just looked at him, thinking he was the recipient of a terrible and tasteless joke only to realize, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that the boy was being sincere.

"…your mother and brother…are dead?"

Alfred stared at the rags on his feet and took a deep breath. It looked like he were steeling himself not to cry. "Yes," he said softly. "But I'll see 'em soon. When Papa's letters stopped comin', Mama used to wear lotsa lotsa makeup and go out inta the streets and come home with strangers." The child shivered, though it didn't seem to be from the cold. "It scared Mattie and me, but Mama said that's how we get food…then, Mama snapped one day and started cryin' a lot and Mattie and I tried to make money but no would hire us and Mama got sick and didn't get up one morn and the church buried her here." Tears welled up in the boy's eyes and streamed down his face. "Then, Mattie and I got sent to a bad, awful place where we got hit a lot and the air was smoky and we never got much food and the people there yelled and screamed and whipped if we didn't work fast 'nough."

"I don't believe you," said Arthur hoarsely. He didn't want to believe it.

Alfred shrugged, and lowered his thin shirt and coat, and Arthur's eyes widened. Swallowing past the sharp sting of bile in his throat, Arthur slowly reached forward to touch the poor, scarred flesh, only to hastily draw back as Alfred cringed away with a whimper. This boy had been on the receiving end of several brutal beatings, and Arthur swore right then and there that whether woman or man or beast, if he ever found out who had done such a monstrous thing to a child, he would kill them. Arthur's eyes blurred.

Alfred hastily drew up his shirt and wrapped himself back up. "They took Mama's necklace away, and she never sold that coz she said it were 'portant. From her Mama's mama, though the pitcher in it was ours." He cuddled the locket to his chest as if it were his firstborn. "Mattie got sick there and started coughing a real lot. I gave him my food, but he didn't get no better and he didn't want ta eat no more." He sadly gestured with his foot towards a pitifully small headstone. "The priest said God took Mattie when he died to be in a place where everyone sings all the time and has plenty ta eat and aren't scared of whippin's or beatin's, so I'm happy.

"But when the lady at the workhouse beat me again three days 'go, I stoled into her bedroom and stoled my mama's locket back out of her jewelry box! I didn't take anythin' else, though," he said hastily. "Mama and Mattie said that stealin' weren't no good, but the locket does not count, because it's mine. But when I ran out of the workhouse, she shouted, 'Fine, go—you'll be back soon, begging to come back in! You'll freeze to death or starve, and either will be too good for you, little rat!' It's been three days and the dinner I just had was the only food I got since the workhouse, 'sides some garbage I got outta bin."

Alfred settled down on the snowy ground and rocked back and forth. "So cold out, so cold out, so tonight's gotta be the right night!" he said cheerfully, oblivious to Arthur's heart breaking. "Gonna wait in the graveyard till Mama and Mattie come for me."

"My boy, you will die."

"I know." Alfred grinned. "And when I do, I can be with Mattie again and Mama can be pretty and happy and I can eat and not be 'lone anymore! I did my best to be good, so maybe God'll send me 'nother angel like you, only they will have wings and take me to heaven where it's not cold no more!"

Arthur screwed his eyes shut and looked away, before turning his sad green eyes to the stars overhead, the ones that managed to twinkle despite the heavy storm clouds rushing in the night sky.

His decision was easier than he'd thought it'd be. "Alfred," he said softly, taking hold of the boy's shoulder. "I think you should come home with me for right now."

The boy gave him a surprised look.

"But sir, Arthur sir, I gotta stay here if I want the angels to come."

"They won't come tonight," said Arthur quietly, taking the boy's cold and bony hand in his own. "They can't."

"But why?"

"Because they would be too sad if you just sat there and died!" exclaimed Arthur passionately, angrily stamping his foot in the frozen ground. "If you died, they would sit there in the sky and your mother and brother would cry and cry and cry until the snow became rain and flooded the Earth, and it would be all your fault, blast you!"

Alfred's eyes filled with bewildered tears.

"But I NEED 'em to come!" he cried out, voice breaking as more tears poured down his face. "Need 'em to come! Need 'em to come! I'm lonely! I'm so lonely, and there's nothin' here on Earth but hungry stomachs and bad faces and cold! It's so cold all the time and I'm lonely and it's Christmastime soon and no one's gonna be there to wait for St. Nicholas and—and—"

Arthur pulled the boy into a hug, and that was all it took for the dam to broke. Alfred buried his face in Arthur's shoulder and wailed in misery, tears steadily soaking the rough fabric of Arthur's shirt. Though Arthur had no idea what to do with a little boy—he wasn't a father and had no siblings of his own—it just seemed right to simply hold Alfred close against his shoulder, and love him.

"We'll work something out," Arthur soothed, patting Alfred's back. "We'll find someplace for you to stay and you'll be safe and happy. I promise. There's more to life than bad things, Alfred."

"Like what?" the voice was cracked with sadness, but also a genuine question.

"Well, there's you. That's a very good thing, and it makes me happy." Arthur kissed Alfred's cheek, which had the grime on it wiped clean with tears. "According to you, there's also me."

Alfred did not look up, but he slowly nodded. "You're a very good thing."

Feeling the wind pick up, Arthur gently pulled on Alfred's hand. "See? There are many good things here on Earth that your Matthew and mother want you to see," he said quietly, brow creasing when Alfred looked longingly towards his family's graves. "Because they can't anymore. They need you to stay here so that you can learn about other good things and tell them about them one day. But not before your time."

Arthur began to lead Alfred out of the graveyard. Alfred sniffed and hurried to keep up with Arthur's long strides. "But how will I know when it is?"

"You'll know," reassured Arthur, passing the ominous black gates, the ones that seemed to make Alfred squeak with fright just a little. "Everything's eventual, dear boy. But in the meantime, we can smile with our lot and find a great many good things, or we can be very sad and go to hideous places without running the race through. What sounds better, little one?"

Alfred wiped his eyes with a dirty fist. "The…the first one. I wanna do that."

"Good boy." And with that, Arthur scooped Alfred up and carried him on his shoulders back home to the garret.

~*o*O*o*~

He wrapped Alfred up in his old blanket and kept him near the fire as he took the rags off the nearly blue feet and rubbed them until they were somewhat pink again. Then it came time to heat the old kettle of water so that the boys could have a cup of tea and, in Alfred's case, a good scrubbing. Alfred protested the way through, but Arthur persisted and made him stand in the old washbasin as Arthur patiently scrubbed the grim off the pouting boy until his skin glowed. The boy's hair, surprisingly enough, was a gleaming jonquil yellow when Arthur managed to brush the dirt and soot out of it, and it seemed as though a corpse were slowly coming alive again with color as Arthur rubbed the boy dry.

Well, not quite. He was still very skinny.

When Alfred was warm and dry after sitting next to the fire for some time, he slowly nodded off, and Arthur placed him in his little bed. It would be a tight squeeze with the both of them, but it would have to do.

Exhausted though he was, he knew he would not sleep. Arthur turned to his work once again and began to scribble, enjoying the warmth twisting and curling pleasantly on the inside.

~*o*O*o*~

A few days drifted by. Arthur went back to the taverns to get his job back, which thankfully (or not) had not been filled. Arthur went back to a schedule where he scarcely had time to write, leaving early in the morning and returning in the dead of night all days of the week but two, eyes heavily flickering in exhaustion, shutting almost immediately as he curled up next to Alfred. At least he didn't need to buy so much coal, now—it was much warmer in the bed with two.

As he had feared the man would, the lawyer Arthur worked for docked his salary, though Arthur was just happy that he still had a job. Alfred was slowly putting some weight back on, though he had a voracious appetite. He was desperate to be useful, putting on a cup of tea for when Arthur came home and tried his very best to keep the garret neat and tidy as he waited for Arthur in the evenings. Arthur supposed that he ought to start looking for a boy's home to keep the child, but as the days passed and Alfred continued to joyously greet the weary man at the end of each day, the idea became more and deplorable, especially considering how hideously Alfred had been treated at one of them. After two weeks went by, Arthur had managed to complete one short story full of the descriptions that Alfred had given him, all of which made him feel quite ill.

The publishing company had turned him down yet again, but they'd seemed fairly intrigued this time by Arthur's proposal, and suggested that he turn the article into the local paper. Funny, Arthur had never thought himself the muckraker, but he took their advice and sure enough, got a small sum for the story which was labeled "Tis the Season?"

~*o*O*o*~

They could not decorate their home, nor afford any luxuries on Christmas Eve. Alfred's new clothes had been pillaged from the poor box at church and were awfully big for him, but his shoes—which he was very proud of—were new and his Christmas present. At least they were both eating well enough now, though Arthur's clothes were growing increasingly shabby. Arthur tried to teach Alfred how to stitch, though the boy's stitches were clumsier and even more far apart than his own.

They sang a few carols together—neither of them could carry a tune in a bucket—and had gone to bed after a simple meal of bread and fish, though Alfred's face had glowed with anticipation. He'd insisted that he and Arthur lead their shoes by the fireplace for St. Nicholas, and Arthur couldn't bring it in himself to dissuade him. He supposed he'd wake up very early and put a hay penny in the boy's shoe or something, and pretend to find some invisible gift in his own shoe.

When Christmas morning dawned, Arthur sleepily arose from where he'd been snuggled up with Alfred, only to blink in surprise as he noticed his old and falling-apart at the seams shoes were gone. In their place was a pair of handsome loafers, with a pretty feather sticking out of one of them. He rushed to the fireplace, and scooped them up; a new quill. A new quill in one shoe and a little bottle of ink in the other! A secondhand-looking but well-kept cloak hanging over the fire, warm and dry and without holes!

He heard a giggle from behind him and whipped around; Alfred was sleepily rubbing his eyes, a mischievous glint shining in them.

"Merry Christmas!" he said cheerfully, grinning at Arthur's dumbfounded look. "D'you like 'em?"

"I…." Arthur shivered as he ran the pen's sharp tip across his fingertips. "You…how…"

His eyes wandered to Alfred's little chest, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head.

"My boy, where is your locket?"

Alfred shrugged lazily. "Kept the pitcher," he said cheerfully, drawing out the little black and white photograph from underneath his pillow. "Sold the locket."

"But my boy, that was your mother's!"

Alfred shrugged and hopped out of bed, shyly sidling up to the astonished man's side. "Can always get 'nother locket, though I don't think I'll want 'ne," he said distastefully. "If I wanna 'nother pitcher, can go to the print store and get more of my photo. Can't get 'nother Arthur."

Arthur bent down on one knee to stare at the boy, and Alfred stepped forward to give him a brief peck on the nose. He laughed and buried his face in his little hands.

"So, Merry Christmas! Uh, um, d'you like 'em?" A hint of worry entered his voice. "I…"

Alfred squawked as Arthur immediately seized him in a bone crushing embrace, tears racing down his red face.

"Yes….yes, of course. Oh, thank you. Thank you. Merry Christmas!" he exclaimed. "I love you, Alfred. I…I…"

His face fell as he realized he had no present to give Alfred, but then his spirits rose almost immediately.

"I love my new pen. I think I'll use it now."

"Really?"

Arthur smiled broadly as he scooped up Alfred and his new ink and quill to his desks, green eyes flashing in the excitable way Alfred loved best.

"Yes. My present to you. I'm only going to write the greatest story ever told."

"Really?"

Arthur was already dipping his pen into the ink. "Yes! And it'll be so special, too special to share with anyone else!"

"But what about pub—"

"Who gives a hat about publication?" crowed Arthur, relishing the way the still gleaming words shone with life and meaning on his paper. "This story is just for Alfred, my very own Christmas angel and my muse."

*Makes face* Oh, wow. Did I really just write this? *Goes to dentist with cavities* Please review! :D