Work Text:
Alfred Jones looks over the last few Polaroids.
Him and Arthur Kirkland in Times Square, their breaths puffy clouds in the air in front of them. The crowd behind them was vibrant and colourful in person, but the photograph captures stilled blurs in black, white, and grey.
Him and Arthur at the top of the Empire State Building, with his arm around the smaller Brit’s shoulders. Arthur’s smile is smaller, but no less bright.
Him in Central Park, snow on the ground, his face scrunched up with glee as he holds a paper bag proudly proclaiming NUTS 4 NUTS.
The next photograph, his prize bottom-up in the snow while his mouth gapes open in shock. The edges of the Polaroid are blurred. He remembers Arthur’s shoulders shaking with laughter as he pressed the button on the camera.
And the end of the trilogy, a pair of squirrels gorging themselves on honey-roasted peanuts while Alfred mopes a few feet away.
Then there’s Arthur in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, studying a small painting with interest. There’s the slightest of furrows in his brow, and he’s leaning in towards the frame.
Arthur on a boat, propped up against the railing, the whole city skyline in the distance.
The two of them at the foot of the Statue of Liberty. In front of the Bull. At the Seaport. Faces all but pressed against the glass outside the M&M’s store. Alfred dragging a surprised Arthur into Nintendo America. Arthur skating easily by while Alfred’s faceplanted on the ice.
He looks up.
“Is this all of them? I coulda sworn we took more.”
Arthur nods quickly. “The good ones. A lot were blurry. We’re not exactly professional photographers.”
Alfred hums. “But this one’s blurry.” He gestures to the spilled peanuts.
“But you can still tell what it is.” Arthur gives an agitated huff. “The others are shite.”
“Okay, okay.” He peers over the photos again. “How many can I have?”
“However many you want.” Arthur leans back against his bed frame, his legs stretching out across the floor. Nonchalant. “Another part of my thanks.”
“Arthuuuur,” Alfred groans. “You’ve already bought me the amiibo, and I know that cost a lot. And besides.” He reaches across to sling his arm around Arthur’s shoulders, an easy grin on his face. “I wanted you to come with us.”
Arthur does his best not to respond visibly, but he can’t help the small jump and squeak of surprise. His heart beat thumps away in his ears. “Th- Thanks. Now hurry up and pick, before I change my mind,” he grouses.
Alfred laughs, then turns incredibly serious as he hunches over the spread of Polaroids. He gives another giggle when Arthur shoves against his shoulder. After a moment of deliberation, he selects seven photos.
The Empire State Building. The ice skating rink. Arthur in the museum. The boat. The two of them at the airport at the beginning of the trip, holding out their tickets with bright smiles. One of two family photos; his parents, his younger brother, him and Arthur. And finally, a shot of a gargoyle on the corner of a building, sneering down at the lens.
“These, then.”
“Okay.” Arthur takes them from him, neatens the small stack, and slides it into an old envelope from the local photography shop. The rest are shifted into another stack, and he holds it on his lap. The dying sunlight paints his buttercup walls a blinding orange.
“I should probably go before it gets dark. That alleyway gets mad creepy.”
“Afraid the ghosts are gonna get you?”
“No!” Alfred pouts at the sight of Arthur smirking. “‘Sides, you’re the one who lives next to an old-ass church and graveyard. If anything they’re gonna get you.”
“And then you wouldn’t have anyone to annoy.”
“I’ve got other friends!”
The smirk shrivels up. Arthur looks away, across the floor. “I know.”
“Arthur,” Alfred says, his voice low. He flops over, his head on Arthur’s lap. “I’d save you from the ghosts. You’re still my best friend.”
Though Arthur tries to look anywhere but down at Alfred, his eyes are drawn to the blue. “You’d piss your pants.” The snark is weaker than usual.
“Arthur, I mean it. You were my first friend here, and you’re always gonna be the most important one.”
Alfred came to the rural English town when they were all still in Primary school. The other children found his way of speaking strange, so the young American had been alone during play time the first few days. Though Alfred was in the class above Arthur, their play time was together and that’s where the similarly lonely Arthur first sat down next to him.
At least Alfred had a feasible reason for why the other children shunned him.
They just didn’t like Arthur.
Even now, as Alfred’s grown and surrounded himself with new friends, Arthur just has him and a German boy in his year named Gilbert, kind of. They sit together because they’re in the same class and both outcasts, but since Arthur has discovered...things about himself, he feels more of a bond towards Gil. Gil has never balked at saying he thinks boys are just as cute as girls.
“Arthur?”
Alfred.
It always comes back to Alfred.
“Sorry, spaced out there.” Arthur shoves him off, onto the pile of Polaroids. They scatter across the floor.
Alfred grabs onto him and pulls him along, laughing at the yelp. He wrestles Arthur into a hug. “We’re best friends, you hear? And we’re always gonna be.”
Arthur’s spine shivers at the contact, his fingers trembling as he squirms against Alfred’s arms. “Alright! Alright, you win, now get off me!” He clenches his hands at his sides to stop from reaching out after Alfred’s warmth when he’s released.
“I always win.” Alfred winks. He grabs the envelope and holds it close as he clambers to his feet. “I really gotta run, Dad doesn’t like it when I get home after him. Don’t get up, I’ll see you at school tomorrow!” Another grin, a wave, and then he’s gone.
Stomach churning from first the wink and then the mention of Mr. Jones, Arthur’s left alone in his room. He feels drained, as if he’d just run five kilometres. Alfred has more and more of that effect on him.
Arthur can’t help but to want more.
His wall is a deep crimson by the time he moves to pick up the scattered photos. A few are bent and the corner of one of them has been torn during their little scuffle, but Arthur’s not angry. He carefully sellotapes the edges together and trails his fingertips over Alfred’s glossy face.
Once all the photos are in order, Arthur picks them up and reaches beneath his bed to pull out a slightly battered shoebox. It’s about half-full of prints, some the black and white gloss of Polaroid snapshots, some printed on cheap paper in the library, a few select ones developed in high quality at the photography shop.
It’s not easy being sneaky with a Polaroid camera, but over the course of their week in the States, Arthur thinks he’s gotten pretty good of it. Along with his cellphone camera and his father’s old digital Canon, Arthur has nearly filled the box with memories of Alfred.
Alfred laughing.
Alfred sleeping.
Alfred crouched down in a field, marvelling over a frog.
Alfred romping with Farmer Maisemore’s new foals.
Photos that Alfred can never see, lest he figures it out.
Arthur plucks a few of them at a time from the box. He spreads them over his bed, his floor, reliving the memories.
Yearning.