Same Job, Different Time and Place [R-18] - Part 3

Arthur scowled, regretting shoving Alfred a little bit, considering that the other didn’t fight back. He’d clearly been raised better than Arthur.

“Tend to me?! I’m not some forest fucking flower that you need to look after! I can take care of myself! I don’t need you to do anything for me!” he balled his own fists. “I’m tired too! Do you know how much work I do so that I can earn us that little bit extra?! Why else do you think I would sacrifice my free time to stay in that stifling environment?!”

That last comment stung.

“Fuck you. This is the way that I fucking am and nothing you do or say is going to change that! I’m sorry that I’m so much bloody work for you! Not all of us had loving parents and siblings or fucking idyllic dreams and ideas about the world! I never had the world you did! The closest fucking thing between us is the bullies and even then, I couldn’t escape mine because they were sleeping down the hall!” he growled out.

“Drug addiction, smoking addiction, child abuse, for fuck’s sake, Alfred! At least I have a reason to be an arsehole, whereas you have none!”

Alfred scoffed at that.

"Yeah you say that you don't need me to do anything for you but the moment I don't do something for you, you bitch about it," He muttered darkly, his heart pounding in his chest and if it wasn't for the stinging words, then he wouldn't be surprised if he could hear anything other than the blood in his head.

He was about to retort to the other but he soon heard about the bullies and that made him freeze still. Eerily still.

His mother and brother would have never told Arthur about that. That was something that they would have always left to Alfred to tell. And it was with that assurance that he realised something with even more dread.

"...You read my fucking journal, Arthur!? That couldn't have even been accidental! Why the hell did you read my journal!? Were you that fucking keen to dig up something about me that you just couldn't ask!?" His voice was raised now and he was trembling.

"And I'm being an asshole because you've been treating me like shit this past week! None of those experiences give you any right to be an asshole to someone who has never had the intention of hurting you!"

Arthur was equally as tense.

“I didn’t think that there would be anything like that in there! I assumed that it was going to be the diary of a five year old, not of a troubled youth!” he shook his head. “Besides, you’re a damn hypocrite! You went through my photographs and didn’t tell me about it! For months! This was just last fucking week, not half a year! You didn’t even look at any of the places I’ve been to, or the few friends that I had! No, you were too busy looking at Francis fucking Bonnefoy’s hairy chest in those bloody stupid Speedos he used to insist on wearing!”

He seethed at the prospect of ‘digging’.

“There’s nothing to dig, Alfred,” he snarled. He really just wanted to break something. Anything. Not Alfred’s face. But something.

“Well, if I’m treating you so horribly then why don’t you go and live with my father because clearly you would make a better son than I ever have!” Arthur stormed out of the kitchen and into the living room. He would have sat down if he wasn't so angry. He just lurked by the back of the sofa, gripping at it frustratedly.

Alfred scowled and he stood up to linger by the kitchen doorway.

"That was because I didn't know what they were! Alright? I thought it might have been just friends! It didn't bother me until I figured out about the things that Francis had done to you!"

He turned away, not looking at Arthur anymore.

"I was just trying to get on his good side. I wanted to at least be accepted by one of your family members! Don't take his actions out on me!" He shuddered a bit and he went back to the kitchen table so he could bury his face in his hands again.

God dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit!

He just wanted to sleep or just escape this situation. Anything but this. Why did it all have to turn out to become such shit? He was so tired of this.

“Of course fucking not! Play the innocent card, why don’t you? You aren’t a child!” Arthur punched the back of the sofa, barely feeling the throbbing stinging that coursed through his fist.

“What good side? The man has none. He’s a bastard and a snob! Why would you want a man like that’s approval? Or his acceptance?! I hope that he doesn’t accept you so that he leaves us alone!”

There was a brief lull but Arthur wasn’t done yet.

“And do you have to sing in the fucking car? You should like a cat being repeated run over, refusing to die.”

Alfred didn't say anything to that and he was just about to let everything drop until he heard Arthur's statement. Did he really have to continue this argument?

"What the hell does that have anything to do with this?" He asked though his face was flushed in more shame and embarrassment. He walked back to the living room and he bit his lip hard, arm trembling though he soon took a deep and calming breath despite the anger still evident in his darkened eyes.

"What the hell is with you and needing to keep up an argument? I'm sorry my singing isn't amazing! You could have just told me to be quiet those other times and you wouldn't have to listen to my god awful singing!"

“Considering that we’re getting everything off of our chests, I thought this was appropriate,” Arthur frowned. He drew in a deep breath before turning to Alfred for round two.

“It’s hard to specifically tell you off for one thing when so much of you already fucks me off!” he bellowed. “I hate how you eat, like some fucking greedy vacuum cleaner; I hate the way that you look at me sometimes like I’m the moronic one when you’ve just said something totally idiotic; I hate the way you drape yourself all fucking over me when you’ve just got home from the gym without taking a shower – I mean, honestly? That’s disgusting! And who the fuck wears a cunt bag, or as you call them in this God forsaken country, a ‘fannypack’, when they go on holiday?!”

Alfred just quietly stared at Arthur in shock and he felt his mouth go dry. He opened it before closing it again and for the first time out of their whole argument, he actually looked extremely pained.

He bit his lip, trying to find something to say before quietly reaching over to grab his jacket, slipping it on. He refused to look at Arthur until he got to the door, glaring over at the other as he clutched the doorknob.

"I'm so god damned sorry for being a fucking mess up who annoys you with everything I do." He barked out a bitter laugh before turning away once again, opening the door. "Fuck off, Arthur."

That was all he said before he headed into the hallway.

Arthur saw that flash of pain in Alfred’s eyes and began to feel extremely hollow as he looked at the man that he loved, regretting everything he’d said. The burn began to set in as he watched Alfred turn his back and walk towards the door. He felt his eyes beginning to water. Was he crying? By the way that his throat felt dry, he assumed so.

He flinched at the cold words and wanted to chase after him but his legs wouldn’t work. He could make himself move.

“I-I love…” he fumbled to find something to say. “I won’t be here when you get back,” was all that he was able to find in himself to say. And it killed him.

Alfred had seen the other's watery eyes and it took him so much effort to simply turn him away like this. But he was hurt and he wasn't going to forgive Arthur easily. He stopped in his spot though, ready to listen to the other though he didn't turn towards Arthur.

He just hoped those words would slip out of his lips and things would be better.

Yet they never came. It broke Alfred's heart and he stared down at the ground, cheeks wet. He refused to turn.

"...F--..." He stopped quickly before slamming the door behind him and heading out of the building.

Arthur heard himself beginning to whimper as the door slammed shut. He then just let it out and cried. Really cried. So much that it felt like his throat was on fire, his nose was running, his eyes were burning and his lungs ached.

That was it, wasn’t it? That was really it. He’d fucked it up. The one man he’d wanted forever with: marriage, a house to call their own, old age, and even (at some points) children. And because he couldn’t get let things go and not take things too far, he’d lost all of his hopes and dreams in one argument. And unlike the last big fight they’d had, this was serious.

Alfred tried his best to hold back the tears. He really, really tried and he didn't know for how long he was wandering the streets of New York City. Without his car, his legs were beginning to hurt and he looked like a terrible mess in a crowd of people. But they would never notice him. No one but Arthur had ever noticed a mess up like him in such a big city.

Soon enough he found himself at the Hudson River and he had thought that the pain would have dulled by now.

Yet it was still sharp, still burning everything in him. Burning all of his future aspirations with Arthur, his love and everything. He grabbed the a small black box from his jacket, clutching it and staring into the water. His hand shook as he reared his arm back, refusing to let those tears shed.

Arthur had been drinking heavily; he knew that he probably stank of booze. He didn’t really care though. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Although he could, if he really wanted to make it even more final with Alfred. But he didn’t. He loved him. Loved him so much.

And now Arthur was stumbling through Broadway, getting the occasional odd look from people as he had to stop himself from falling into the road. He really had no idea where he was going and it was getting late. There was no way he was going back to the flat like this, to see Alfred. All they would do is fight again and Arthur didn’t really want to see him. Besides he had said that he wasn’t coming back. He was sick of Alfred’s face. Those stupid bloody glasses, stupid freckles, stupid nose, stupid fluctuating weight, stupid blue eyes, stupid…

“Allo?” he could hear his phone talking to him and fumbled before pressing it to his ear.

“Hello?” he slurred. “I didn’t realise you could talk.” He held on to a near by lamp post after almost once again falling into the road.

“Polite as always, je vois.”

“You’re French?”

“Arthur,” the voice was beginning to sound more impatient, “how much have you been drinking, uh? It’s me. Francis, oui?”

“Frog?”

There was a sigh.

“Ouais, c’est moi. Malheureusement.”

He must have pressed too many buttons on his phone when he was looking for the time. Or maybe he didn’t ‘lock’ it. Infernal technology. He hated all these fancy gadgets that he was told would make his life easier when all they actually did was pocket call French men.

“Am I making an international call? Aren’t you asleep?”

“Ah, non. I am in New York.”

“What?” Arthur’s eyes widened.

“I am in New York, mon cher,” he repeated, slower than before as though Arthur was mentally deficient.

“Why?” was all that Arthur could respond.

“I am visiting my partner and your company has asked me to come to a meeting. So, I got on the plane and now I am here. Alors, Arthur, I don’t have the time for this. What do you want?”

“Don’t have the time? What, do you have a floozy there?” Arthur frowned at the pavement as he stood in a puddle. A very yellow-looking puddle.

Francis scoffed, “Oui, my part-un-air. You were not listening to me, uh?”

Arthur hummed in response and rubbed at his eyes, beginning to feel increasingly lost and alone despite the voice on the other end of the line.

“I… Francis.”

“Yes?”

“I had a fight with Alfred,” he felt his shoulders shake a little, as though he might cry again. Francis grew quiet on the other end of the line. “I… I think he hates me. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to go back to him. I – I don’t… fuck, I’m lost.”

Alfred collapsed on the edge of the river, holding the box close to him as he finally started to cry. His sobs were choked and ragged and his whole body shook.

"I can't do it, I can't do it," He muttered to himself, holding the box even closer now. He had been ready to, so ready but then everything broke down for him.

He couldn't bring himself to care if his tears were getting on the black box and he simply shook and God, he couldn't breathe. He couldn't do it though. He couldn't ever let this go. Never.

But everything seemed so impossible now. Opening the box, he looked at the glimmering ring inside and he soon reached up to wipe the tears from his face. Seeing it on Arthur's finger seemed so impossible now. Why would Arthur ever want to be with someone like him forever?

“Where are you?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

“Describe the building next to you,” Francis sighed.

“Umm… I was in Broadway a minute ago. I’m not anymore though. It’s just a… street.”

“You must be really drunk to be so inarticulate.”

“Your face is inarticulate.”

“Oh la la… d’accord. Catch a taxi to 41 Lexington Avenue. That’s where I am staying. You are not far… but don’t try to walk. You will get mugged.”

Arthur hung up without another word and began to work on trying to flag down a taxi (or a cab, as Alfred always called them). His chest ached at the thought. But soon enough, he was on his way, fumbled to pay the taxi driver money and fell out on to the pavement. Arthur could see Francis leaning against the wall outside, cigarette in hand. He could remember those lips, wrapped around that cigarette. They always tasted of nicotine and wine; delicious. But his lips were hard, not like Alfred’s soft and sweet lips. A mouth which smelt and tasted like chocolate and vanilla, that peppered kisses across his body; arms that held him as though he was the most precious thing in the world.

“Ciao,” Francis greeted with a raised eyebrow as he looked Arthur up and down. “Dressed to the nines, non?” he was obviously trying not to smirk as he examined Arthur’s tatty jeans and scoop-neck jumper.

“Piss off.”

Francis laughed throatily and offered Arthur a drag, which the Brit gratefully accepted, relieved for the nicotine in his system. It was calming (but not sobering). He dropped down to sit, leaning back against the wall as he stared numbly up at the sky.

“Antonio is here,” Francis told him.

“Vraiment?” Arthur drawled, not really thinking as he watched Francis blow out another lungful of smoke. “Pourquoi?”

“This is his flat, which is why you must behave.” Arthur gave him a look and Francis just sneered a little, “You didn’t think that I would waste money on a place of my own when I have someone to stay with, did you?” it was rhetorical, clearly. But Arthur still huffed in response. “Alors, what happened?”

“We just had a fight, that’s all.” Arthur closed his eyes and swallowed thickly.

“Mmm… over what?”

“Everything.”

“Did he hit you?”

“No.”

There was a pause.

“Did you hit him?”

“Fuck off. No. No, I didn’t…” He lied and frowned, re-opening his eyes to glower at Francis who shrugged.

“It’s worth checking, lapin. How will I know if I do not ask?”

“Fair enough,” Arthur breathed out, defeated as he started to feel tired. “I just want to forget everything.”

“Everything?”

“Oui.”

“Even Alfred?” Francis was testing the waters and Arthur tensed, not answering. Instead, he curled up more, not caring if he dirtied his clothes.

“I’m cold,” he lied again, to which Francis nodded. He took one last drag and dropped his cigarette, stubbing it out on the ground before he held out his hand to Arthur to help him to his feet. But when they were eye-level, Francis froze and looked at Arthur concernedly.

Before Arthur could snap at him, Francis was rubbing the tears away from Alfred’s eyes with his thumb.

“Don’t cry,” he smiled in a pleasant way and guided him inside, up to the apartment. “Antonio, we’re back,” the Frenchman called out, kicking off his shoes and signalled for Arthur to do the same.

For all Alfred knew, hours could have passed yet it all felt the same. He really didn't care anymore. New York was an ever bustling city and it just reminded him that despite everything, the world around him still moved. He shook and cried until he couldn't anymore and then all he felt was exhaustion. Pocketing the box again, he kept his hand on it, rubbing his thumb over the top.

He soon headed back home to his flat and it felt so goddamned lonely.

Was it always this lonely? They couldn't stand being around each other so much...right?

Then why was it so miserable not being with him? He walked into the kitchen quietly, looking at the pile of letters again and he shut his eyes tight, taking a deep breath. Soon he reached forward to grab the letter from the top, reopening it and staring at the contents tiredly before shoving it back in the envelope. He took it with him to the bedroom, taking off his jacket and placing it in the pocket alongside with the box.

Soon he fell back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and wanting to do nothing.

Antonio had popped his head out of the kitchen when he heard Francis come back and he couldn't help but pause when he saw Arthur, frowning. "¿Qué hace usted aquí?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at Arthur. He shook his head. "Sorry, I mean what are you doing here?" He questioned suspiciously, looking over at Francis soon enough.

Francis pursed his lips and was about to answer but Arthur spoke up.

“I don’t have anywhere to stay,” he muttered, ashamed. Francis glided across the room to his partner and kissed him on the cheek.

“Just for one night?” he kissed him again. “Look at him. He is pitiful. He needs some help. Please, mon amour, mon un? Pour moi?” he pouted.

Arthur noted that Francis was still as smooth as he always was. He could remember that line. He just stood shifting awkwardly in the doorway as Francis continued to whisper sweet nothings into Antonio’s ear.

Arthur sighed and leaned back against the door, staring at the ceiling, blurred from the alcohol.

“I can leave if it’s a bother.”

“Non,” Francis shook his head and pulled away from Antonio. “One night, oui? C’est tout?”

“Yes.”

“You can sleep on the sofa. Just do not throw up on anything, merci.”

Antonio seemed to ponder for a moment and while he wasn't all that fond of Arthur for obvious reasons, he decided to relent. "Sí, one night only," He murmured as he ran a hand through his brown locks.

"As he said, don't throw up on anything."

Despite everything, he felt bad for Arthur. Really bad. To get Alfred angry at even his boyfriend? That was definitely something that he had never really expected. He always seemed like a well tempered boy though he knew that he shouldn't always think of him like that considering that one time he punched Francis in the face.

"Do you want anything to eat? Agua? Comida?" He asked as he looked back at Arthur and it was possible that the only reason why he relented was because of Francis's sweet nothings.

“Thank you,” Arthur said, and meant it. “And, um, no. No, thank you. I don’t think I’d be able to stomach it.”

Francis gestured for Arthur to sit on the sofa next to him, and so he did. After some prompting, Arthur spilled that he thought that was it for him and Alfred, that it was his fault. He ended up crying again, uncontrollably, much to Francis’ joy. The Frenchman tried to comfort him as best as he could.

“I love him,” Arthur hiccupped, hiding his face in his hands as his body shook. Fleetingly, Francis wondered if Arthur had cried the same way about him but just rubbed his back.

“Je sais, mon ami… je sais,” he sighed. “Why did you let him walk out of the door if you love him so much?”

“I-I didn’t know what to do,” Arthur sobbed. “Not all of us are good with words, you know. I can’t… I couldn’t… there wasn’t anything I could have said.”

“You could have told me what you just told me.”

“What…?”

“That you love him. Sometimes, it is that simple. When you admit to things, the burden is lessened, non?”

“I suppose,” Arthur sniffled and rubbed at his eyes.

“Contact him before it is too late,” he advised. “If you really love him, you will chase him. That is what he wanted earlier.”

“How do you know?”

“Everyone wants to be chased,” Francis said simply, looking across to the kitchen where Antonio was, “to be wanted and loved… you are a writer at heart, you know this. Now tell Alfred.”

With that, Francis got up and went to the kitchen, clearly thinking about Antonio as he went up to the man to kiss him.

Arthur pointedly looked away and sighed. He fumbled with his phone but was soon able to text, although there were a few typos:

At Antooios with francis i miss yov

Antonio just nodded and went into the kitchen instead once more, letting Francis and Arthur talk it out. It really wasn't his business what they talked about as long as they didn't do anything. Of course he never expected for that to happen. He just had no desire to hear Arthur at the moment, especially when it wasn't for his ears.

When Francis came into the kitchen, Antonio rested his hand on the other's waist as he leant forward to kiss him back.

By the time that Arthur had texted him, Alfred was far into sleep to really hear anything. All of the crying from earlier had made him exhausted and it was one of those times where he wished he wouldn't have to wake up again.

Even if he was awake, he would have been hesitant to actually check his phone.

He didn't want to hear more from Arthur, more of his hurtful words.

Arthur waited for a response, staring at the small screen as he tried to ignore the increasingly passionate snogging session happening in the other room. He could hear Francis whispering things in French like ‘I love you’ and ‘never leave me’.

It only made it harder for Arthur as, after five minutes of waiting, he started to cry again.

There were several texts that followed within the next hour as Francis seemed to lose interest in him; although Arthur supposed that he should just be grateful that he was given somewhere to stay and offered kind words of reassurance.

Five minutes.
Alfred please listn to me i miss you

Ten minutes.
Dont ignore me im sorry

Twelve minutes.
Fine if you dont wnt me ill just hae an orgy or something u have a small penis anyway

Fifteen mintes.
I didnt mean that im sorry im sorry

Twenty minutes.
Please answer alfrd

Thirty minutes.
I guess that ill collect me thngs tomoro if you don want me

Forty minutes.
Dont leave me thats wat francis is sayin to antooio why arent we like like that

Fifty five minutes.
This is killing me

Fifty nine minutes.
I love you

And Arthur passed out on the sofa.

Alfred didn't wake up until the next day, the morning light nearly blinding his eyes and he just groaned, burying his face against the pillow. Glancing over at the shades, he scowled. Damn good they did. He should buy better and heavier curtains.

Rubbing his eyes, he hesitated when he saw that Arthur wasn't there.

What else was he expecting? For it to be some terrible dream? He soon glanced over at his phone, noticing the texts and he bit his lip. His heart pounded against his chest and he was scared to read those messages.

Though soon he flipped his phone open and read the messages quietly. He closed his eyes, pressing his lips lightly to the screen for just a few moments before finally resting his head on his knees. He was probably drunk when he typed this... God...

Soon he began to type.

come over here. we need to talk.

God, he didn't want to talk. He didn't want to experience that pain again but he knew he had to.

Francis had been up for a few hours, having had a suitable amount of loving from his partner the night before, after Arthur passed out. So, the Frenchman was in extremely good mood. He was whistling to himself as he made coffee, but heard Arthur’s phone go off. After there was no sign of movement from the other, Francis snuck into the other room and checked the phone.

He was somewhat relieved to see Alfred’s name immediately appear on the screen. He read the text, shamelessly and then looked at Arthur, tutting at how he’d slept in his clothes. Casually, Francis began to poke Arthur with the phone to wake him up.

“Arthur~? Wake up, sleepy. Today is a big day for you and if you play it right you will get laid tonight~” Francis continued to poke the Brit until he stirred with a loud snort of surprise. He jumped at the sight of Francis before being greeted by the familiar pain of his hangover.

“What do you want, frog?” Arthur scowled at the bathrobe that met his gaze. He’d better had been wearing underwear this time.

“You need to shower. Veet, veet! I will iron your clothes… or wash them. Whatever. Get up, mon cher! Today is a big day!” he started poking Arthur again until the disgruntled man stood up.

“What the hell are you talking about, you strange man?”

“Look,” Francis held out the poking-tool to Arthur who read the text and promptly threw the phone back at Francis, who nimbly avoided it.

“You read it!”

“But of course. Now go and shower, my English friend.”

Arthur grumbled, but did as the man suggested. He felt incredibly anxious.

Alfred just sighed after he sent the text and he sprawled out on the bed. It was still rather early (for him at least) and so he wouldn't have been surprised if Arthur was still asleep. Or maybe he just didn't want to send a message back because he 'ignored' him the night before.

Either way, Arthur had to come back for his stuff whether he wanted to or not.

Closing his eyes, he let himself drift off for another half hour before finally climbing off the bed tiredly. He was too tired to fight now. All of the steam was gone and he was simply left as a tired, hollow shell for right now.

Soon he went to take a much needed shower before changing into more comfortable clothes. He didn't want to go out tonight and instead he curled up on the couch after he fixed himself something to eat. He just waited patiently with his eyes on the door and hand on his phone.

Arthur ended up not letting Francis touch his clothes after the man offered to come into the bathroom and collect them himself. That was not something that Arthur was okay with, despite the fact that Francis had definitely seen him naked enough times not to stare (but Arthur had known that he would, anyway).

Smelling slightly fresher than he had done, Arthur left the flat in under an hour and started to make his way back through the city. Unsure of what he could possibly say or do to make it up to Alfred, he bought a small box of chocolates and hoped for the best.

Soon enough, he was at the flat and, not without hesitance, knocked on the door. He might have been able to remember the code to get into the building, but he’d left his key behind.