Chapter Text
If asked of his motives, Alfred would have loved to say that he had a reason behind it.
That he had this master plan, a grand scheme that would possibly work to justify his actions; but he didn't. He hadn't even consciously planned to make the call, however, as he heard the dial tone sounding beside his ear like some sort of wake-up-call, with his eyes focused on the ceiling of his apartment, he realised he had no idea what he was going to say. He had no idea what had driven him to scroll through his contacts, to press the phone icon and not hang up straight away as he usually did in this exact reoccurring situation. The fact that his apartment was eerily quiet compared to an hour or so ago when he had had some people over for a drink seemed to only compliment the pattern of noises that symbolised the fact that he knew he was fucking up. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to end the call. Maybe it was the liquid courage in his veins, or the fact that he wanted to hear something – someone, a voice, his voice – other than the seemingly distant sounds of the city below him; regardless, by the time the other line was picked up, he knew that no matter how he felt, he was too far in.
He would know Alfred had called. The thought of him knowing that he had called and hung up bothered Alfred; he would know that he had backed out of it at the last moment. If he would be talking about it to someone else, he would no doubt add on 'like he always does' to his sentence, with that trademark scowl on his features. He never used to scowl so much.
“Hello?”
Arthur's voice was groggy. Tired. Alfred could hear a rustling of sheets in the background, a stifled yawn. His accent was thicker than usual, signifying to the American that he had truly interrupted sleep. It was comforting, though. In an odd sense. Alfred knew that that was probably due to the fact that he was drunk, more than anything. Never when he was sober would he ever admit that he actually missed the sound of his voice, and that accent he never seemed to grow tired of. It was warm compared to the chills that his own empty apartment gave him, the open space that seemed dead without others occupying it. Fake, even. Alfred just as well be part of the furniture. “Hello?” He hadn't answered. He could hear slight confusion and irritation within his voice, masked with patience and a knowledge that the call was possibly an important one.
That, it wasn't. At least, it wouldn't be in his eyes.
“Hey.” Alfred's own voice sounded foreign, like it didn't belong to him at all. Too gruff, tired. It echoed down the halls, bouncing off walls plastered with various colourful posters of fictional works Alfred often found comfort in immersing himself within. A true contrast to how he really felt, how every day seemed to unfold. The same grey days.
There was more silence, and Alfred closed his eyes from the view of white plaster to imagine what exactly was happening on the other side of the line. Bed-hair, flushed cheeks, knitted brows. Looking over at the clock to check the time. Blinking to try and wake up properly. The faint smell of lavender and mint. A comfortable quiet. One of stark contrast to the quiet that surrounded Alfred, the one that begged him to escape from it in any means possible, yet always seemed to come back. It was one that seemed attached to him, one that was always there, like a demon hanging onto his back. It would always be there.
“Alfred?” He was confused. Alfred could tell by his tone, and he knew that he would probably be massaging his temples in resignation, his eyes closed and his forehead creasing in a way that always made him look at least 10 years older than he was. He had given him the same look whenever he had done stupid things when growing up. The same look he had given him when Alfred had said he wanted to be independent. “Alfred, is that you? God, it's four in the morning! What in the bloody hell could you want at this hour?” He knew it was four. He knew Arthur had been sleeping, however at least a small part of him had hoped that he'd been up too, like Alfred was. The better part of him knew that that was a stupid thing to hope for. That it was unrealistic.
“Hey, Arthur.” He wasn't used to saying his name like that any more. As a whole. Not a nickname, or a name abbreviated into something impersonal. It felt weird in his mouth. Heavy, almost.
Alfred swallowed, and heard Arthur sigh in apparent annoyance from the other side of the line, accompanied with further rustling of movement under his duvet. He wondered what cover he had on it at that moment, whether he still had that pillow he would put underneath Alfred's head whenever he fell asleep on the sofa while reading a book. He always read the same ones, over and over. Yet he couldn't remember the titles of them to save his life, let alone what they had been about. Did Arthur have those too? Or did he burn them in the fireplace? “I...” Arthur was waiting for him to speak again, to offer some sort of explanation.
He didn't have one. “I wanted to see how you're going.” It sounded pathetic, even to him. Yet he didn't scramble to correct himself, nor throw in his usual satirical comment that Arthur found downright obnoxious. He just listened to Arthur's steady breathing. The occasional sniffle of a cold that was receding into non-existence. Was it cold there? It was cold in the apartment, despite the fact it was hot enough to brand a tan onto Alfred's skin during the day. He had goosebumps on his arms.
“I was sleeping.”
“I'm sorry.”
“What do you want, Alfred?"
Again, with that question. He had no answer, no concocted lie that he had pre-prepared in order to make sure he didn't look stupid or desperate. To make sure he didn't look lonely. Alfred found himself looking across the room, through the window that overlooked the city; full of life and movement despite the early hour. He could see people moving through the windows across the street – shadow puppet figures, weaving and interacting in their own worlds. “Alfred, I'm going to hang up. If this is your idea of a prank, it's a new level of childish on your--”
“How are you, Arthur?” Please stay on the line. Please keep talking. I can almost pretend as if you're here, with that disgruntled expression and hint of anger you always seem to carry on your person. What are you so angry about? Are you even angry at all? Why is it getting harder to read you, to understand you? Why are you so distant?
There was no answer straight away, and Alfred thought for a split second that Arthur had put down the phone and left it, if not for the slight sound of an exhale.
Please talk to me.
“I'm fine.” It was sharp and concise, the tone of business that Alfred had grown to hate over the years due to it's formal nature, the fact that it was just so... emotionless, so hollow. Something said out of necessity rather than anything else. “I'm really just fine, Alfred.”
“I miss you.”
The words slipped past his lips without a second thought; the small sentence hanging in the air by a string of apprehension as Alfred watched a couple embrace on a balcony. He wondered what they were talking about. He wondered if they were happy. He wondered what it was like. To be with someone. He didn't remember how it felt when he lived with Arthur, growing up. It all seemed like another life, like it barely happened. Like it had always been like this between them. Scattered pieces, short sentences, hollow words and gritted teeth. He knew that that's not how things were supposed to be. Not really.
“Are you drunk?”
“That doesn't matter.”
“Go to sleep, Alfred.”
“I miss you, Arthur.” His eyes were screwed shut. As if the tighter he would clench them, the more likely he would open them to see the Brit across from him, sitting on the shag carpet on the floorboards of his living room cross legged and bathed in moonlight that streamed in through the slightly opened up windows. He could smell the alcohol on his own breath. “We... don't talk. I haven't seen you since the last meeting.”
“There's a reason for that.”
It hurt more than it should have. The words were harsh in nature, yet spoken with care. Arthur had intended to say them as they were, when they were, how they were. He wasn't like Alfred; he didn't say things on impulse, he didn't say what was on his mind, what he really felt. He was practised, well rehearsed; at least, with Alfred he was. He was never personal, like he had once been. He didn't smile when he talked to him any more. “You know that. It's been like this for years, Alfred.”
“Is he there? With you?” He didn't want to say 'his' name. Not in this situation; it tasted like bile on his tongue, and left his lips like knives; cutting up. There was rustling as Arthur sounded to be getting up from his bed, no doubt leaving his room. Maybe to sit on that old chair he had, the one he liked to read on and that Alfred would occasionally sit upon the arm as Arthur read to him from the complicated works he adored. Alfred would just look at the words and ask for their meanings, watch as Arthur's face displayed countless micro-emotions that he would learn how to read like a second language as he aged. Arthur had a defence mechanism that had formed over countless years; however, with every wall there were always cracks to see through. You just had to find them.
“No.”
“You're lying.”
“That's none of your business, Alfred.”
“It is, and you know it.”
“Alfred.”
“Is he there?”
“Yes.”
Alfred inhaled, and he found himself sitting up on his sofa, the furniture creaking ever so slightly as his feet hit the floor. Despite living there alone for years, it still felt foreign. It didn't feel like home. He wasn't sure where exactly would. He hadn't felt home for...
“Is he listening?”
“No. He's asleep.” In his bed. Alfred knew he was in his bed. Blissfully unaware, sound. He could hear the sound of the kettle being switched on. He couldn't stop thinking about the fact that he had been sleeping right next to Arthur in a show of intimacy Alfred didn't know. Not any more. It was part of a past long gone. One he yearned to have back. God, he would give anything...
“You don't love him.” It was obvious for Alfred – not just a hope that he had fooled himself into believing. He knew Arthur, he knew what his love entailed. He knew his warm smiles, the way his green eyes brightened, stolen glances and soft touches and hitched breaths. It was genuine, and pure.
“No. I don't.” Arthur was simple with his answer. The thought didn't bring any solace to Alfred. He knew he had no right to be angry. He had no right to anything with Arthur. He had no right to the memories he held so dearly, the nights he spent in his own room, telling himself everything between them was as it was while he breathed heavy sins into the air; hand shamelessly working away while he pretended it didn't belong to him. While he pretended, pretended, pretended. He was always pretending.
“Why do you do it then?”
“Do what?”
His feigned ignorance stirred something within Alfred, a slight spark of anger landing on his tongue as he walked through his dark dwelling, feet almost silent against the cold floor. He sat at the table. He tried not to think that while he was sitting alone, Arthur would sit opposite Francis. Talk softly to him as they shared breakfast, as he drank his tea and read the papers and did those fiddly puzzles in blue pen.
“Why do you let him touch you? Why do you let him near you? Sleep next to you at night? Why do you let him fuck you?” He practically spat his profanities, his teeth gritting as he found his grip around his phone tightening until it was painted with white knuckles and the threat of light bruising.
“Alfred, stop this.” He sounded tired, worn out. For some reason, this did nothing but fuel the small fire that danced on Alfred's nerves, his words spilling out on their own accord. He wasn't a child anymore.
Was this his reason?
“Why do you let him? That used to be me, Arthur! That was me!" His voice was rising in volume, and he could hear it echo through the kitchen, reminding him of how goddamn alone he was. Reminding him that all the lights were off, that all his so-called 'friends' had left his house with their one-night-stands and their 'lovers' to spend the night with people who 'loved them' – if only for a brief moment.
“Was. Alfred, it's... not like that any more. Please stop this nonsense. You're acting like a child.”
No. You're acting like a child.
“You don't even love him! Why do you let him do that? I loved you, Arthur! And you loved me! And now he's... he's there, and he's with you and he's touching you and you don't even fucking love him yet you let him! You fucking let him do everything we had, everything we did. Was it not special? Did it mean nothing to you? Did I mean nothing? Why? Why him?”
“Because he loves me.”
“I loved you too!” Alfred slammed his hand down on the table, his palm smacking the wood with enough force to make a sound that resonated throughout the room, bouncing off the white walls. He could remember Arthur sitting on the edge of the counter, legs swinging, smiling as the morning sun would shine through his blonde hair and illuminate it with the essence of a halo. Soft kisses, the smell of cinnamon. Gentle sex, hiccups, prayers. “...I loved you too.” It was quieter. His voice was quieter, hoarser, and he realised that the anger had resonated into something else entirely, his head throbbing and his hands shaking.
“That wasn't love, Alfred.”
“Did you love me too?”
“It was never that simple.”
“Did you love me too, Arthur?”
“Alfr--”
“DID YOU EVER LOVE ME TOO? OR WAS I JUST LIKE HE IS?” He could hear the shocked silence at the sudden anger in his voice, the uncharacteristic change in personality that was always so well masked, always so well preserved and hardly witnessed. “FUCKING TALK TO ME, ARTHUR! FUCKING ANSWER ME!”
“You were nothing like he is.” He was speaking through his teeth.
Lavender, mint, tea. Old melodies, crackling vinyl, gentle dances. Passion filled kisses, lustful gestures, stolen time. Was it stolen? Or was it lost? “I loved you, too.”
“Then why--”
“I still do love you.”
Alfred was silent. All of the words seemed to leave him, leave his body, the anger extinguished as forcefully as it had started. Alfred had hardly noticed that he was shaking, that there were angry, frustrated tears streaking down his cheeks. They splattered the table haphazardly, creating a constellation on the polished wood that was barely used. No one had sat around that table for months. “But he loves me in a way that you can't. He gives me security that you can't. I love you, but I can't have anything to do with you if I don't want to get hurt. You're a hazard.”
Alfred was silent. Everything was silent. The city was silent, Arthur was silent. He couldn't hear his heart, nor his breathing. It was as if everything had stopped at that moment with a realisation he had tried to deny all this time. Whenever he had seen them together, told himself whatever story got him through the rest of the day. All the fantasies he had constructed in his mind were simultaneously ripped apart at the words so effortlessly spoken in that eloquent accent that proved to be the sweetest of poisons.
“Please.” He wasn't even sure if he had said anything at this point. He wasn't sure if there was a difference between speaking and breathing and thinking. “Arthur, please. Please. Arthur, I love you. You know that.”
He could hear a slight sniffle, the inhale and exhale of unaffected breath, the mundane placement of a porcelain cup on a wooden bench.
“Please don't call again.”
They both knew that he would. That within weeks, possibly days, the roles in this would have no meaning and while the Frenchman was away for his meetings, Alfred would fuck Arthur into the same mattress Arthur lied to Francis on, told the man he 'loved him' upon. He knew that within days, Arthur would call him and ask him to come and see him for this exact reason, that words would not be exchanged as they would kiss with enough force to draw blood and bruise and swell. That Arthur would beg, that they would go round after round after round until they could no longer feel anything. That their emotion would fuel their actions; anger, frustration, desperation. That Arthur would breathlessly plead for Alfred to fill him up, dig his nails into Alfred's skin and bite him until he bled, only for them to part ways within hours and pretend as if nothing ever was. But it always was. It always was.
It was 5am, yet it felt like it had been hours more. It felt, as they both were silent on either end of the line, as if some unspoken barrier had been broken, as if they had both accepted the cycle that had been created.
“I'm sorry.” He wasn't. Alfred knew he wasn't. “But please. Don't call again.”
He didn't; because he knew that within only a matter of time, Arthur would call him.
And he always had the same reason.