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The party was in full swing. As Alfred darted by a man who was trailing whiskey with more of the drink, he couldn't help but feel the same warmth. He never doubted he didn't belong at the center of a celebration like this, but tonight, he was feeling something other than pure joy. He wasn't sure what it was. Maybe it was the way the house almost shook with every rehearsed step the group of dancers performed at the center of the hall. Perhaps a man like him didn't belong in noisy scenery such as this.
Alfred shook his head. It couldn't be the noise.
London grew up with him. They both became noisy teenagers, from dawn until dusk raving with the sounds of industry and horse hooves hitting the ground. And when London was old enough to give Alfred work in ever expanding industries, Alfred was pushed to work. Alfred joined the march of men and boys, women and girls, in the commute to their workplaces.
He made steel. That was what he proudly boasted the first day of his job, going on an entire tirade about how he was bringing in the future. It was the product that only a childish mind could produce, and his father noted it with a tired expression.
Alfred looked at his father more closely. His wide eyes examined the dulled green of Arthur's, once maddeningly wide from diagnosed hysteria. It came up in spurts, and Alfred had lived around it for so long, there was almost an aura he could feel when Arthur was on the brink of hitting another low. He could smell cigarette smoke, Arthur's own proud statement that it was imported across the channel.
The smell of smoke always made Alfred hungry. He adjusted his brown flat cap to face the right direction and then pulled out the change he had earned from his first week. His lanky ten-year-old body slithered into a parlor with salvaged furniture. All the paintings in here were done by past Kirklands, some recent and from one of his friends, all passed down to one man, now passed out. Alfred came over to the large couch that Arthur rested on when he was too exhausted to even make it to the bed he once shared with Alfred's mother.
His mistake was handing his half-awake father his salary, the other's response deafened by their both growling stomachs.
Because Alfred never knew where that money had gone.
"Arthur," a man's voice said, pushing a hand forcefully down on his shoulder and shaking him. The man went back to Alfred's side, lighting a cigarette. His eyes were a tired and glazed over blue, but Alfred enjoyed his presence. Francis' clothes were always stained with paint, and today mud coated the hem of the slacks he wore. He sighed out a puff of smoke, muttering, "You need to call me over more, not just when you're bloody starving to death."
Alfred stared up at Francis with wide eyes, tearing off piece by piece of the warm roll in his hands. He ate so he didn't have to answer, knowing Francis was well-mannered and would have shut him up if he talked with food in his mouth.
Francis tried to wake Arthur up again, murmuring a string of French curse words until Arthur opened his eyes and glared back at Francis.
"Tu enfoiré," Francis said in a low voice, as if Alfred could understand his language, "Ton enfant a faim, lève!" His voice boomed and deepened when he was angry, smoke leaving with every word like he had a fire burning inside him, but Alfred didn't flinch. He tried to understand it, wondering if his ears were working correctly until he realized it was an entirely different language.
"Je suis, branleur," Arthur mumbled, repeating the affirmation as he sat up in his spot, rubbing at his eyes as if he wanted to rub off the first layer of skin. He looked at Alfred through one open eye and let out a long exhale.
Francis crossed his arms, fingers tightening around his lit cigarette and puffing on it to calm himself down. "I brought supper," he said in a heavy accent, "Stay awake for it, why don't you?"
Alfred looked between the two. He had never heard Arthur speak French before. Of course, he had heard it just now, but he couldn't believe it. His father had always thought French was a disgusting language. Yet he said it so naturally in his waking moments. Arthur walked past him to the kitchen, but before that, he turned to Alfred. Though the small child thought he would get in trouble for bringing Francis over, Arthur reached out to ruffle his hair.
And Arthur smiled. It was rare. Maybe it was only because of the food.
But Alfred liked to see his father smile.
Alfred chuckled to himself. Arthur and Francis always fought like your stereotypical married couple, especially when it came to him.
He took another shot of whiskey, the quick and bitter warmth rushing down his throat. He remembered the days when he used to accidentally call Francis dad. When Francis would let him fingerpaint with expensive acrylics. When Francis would put his childish landscapes framed on the same wall as his masterful pieces. When Francis was the stable wall to Arthur's delirious episodes.
Arthur had good days though. And the good days were the best of Alfred's life.
Alfred pestered the confident Arthur, so sure of his work and skill that his eyes were closed and not looking into the oven. He pointed to the print recipe he found in a 'borrowed' book, "You were supposed to separate the eggs."
"Why? It goes in the same bowl," Arthur had explained, and Alfred accepted it. His father always had an aura of knowing better, and it only contradicted itself a few times.
This was one of those times.
Alfred held his jaw and winced, trying to chew through the brick-like gingerbread. By the time he swallowed the mass, his entire mouth was tired out.
Arthur reached for another slice. His son tilted his head out of confusion before just sighing and saying, "This tastes horrible."
"I think it tastes fine," Arthur said, quirking an eyebrow before humming, "I can taste every ounce of effort I put into this, at least." And it did beat tea and bread for every lunchtime meal. He supposed he would give his father that. He did try, and that made Alfred happy.
Alfred then had an idea. He put the hard dough into his tea cup and let it rest there until it softened. He beamed at his father when he tasted his new creation, finding that beneath the dense and tough surface, it tasted... decent?
Arthur laughed to himself, "There we go. Now it's passable, hm?"
They ate and talked together for a few more moments before Francis came over, complaining about how the house smelled like soot. Alfred had blushed at the comment, not sure how he could avoid bringing the factory's scent home with him. The man came over to the stove-top, humming at Arthur's handiwork before taking a small piece to taste for himself.
Francis looked horrified when he heard the crunch his teeth made against the dessert, spitting it out into a cheap handkerchief and cursing Arthur out with a quick, "How can you feed Alfred this?"
"But I like it!" Alfred assured with small snorts of laughter breaking up any further explanation.
"...for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people," Arthur read to him, bumping shoulders with Alfred to wake him up again, "'But it's no use now,' thought poor Alice, 'to pretend to be two people! Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person!'"
Alfred yawned at Arthur's reading voice, dry yet soothing. He didn't bother to do voices for the characters, just letting his tone of voice speak for them. "I'm tired, pa."
"I only have a few paragraphs left. And then you can sleep," Arthur said, not wanting to admit he didn't want to stop reading. He smoothed over Alfred's hair, trying to force down one curl while murmuring more of the story. Alfred leaned his small head against Arthur's chest, drowsily closing his eyes. He knew he was going to forget this entire chapter by tomorrow. Maybe they wouldn't get to read together for a week after this.
Arthur heard a sniffle and looked down. "Alfred?" he asked, "Alfie, why are you crying?"
"I don't know," Alfred mumbled and slurred together the words. He tried to get to sleep faster because he didn't know why he was upset, and he didn't want to upset Arthur too.
"I'll stop reading," Arthur relented, backtracking when it made Alfred cry more, "Okay, I'll keep reading!"
Alfred nodded and attempted to keep quiet. Arthur's voice was never above a whisper at night time.
He never figured out exactly why he was crying then.
Alfred hung around Francis' tenement when bored of the same old atmosphere at home. He would sit there in silence, untrained eye looking at Francis making practiced strokes with his paintbrush. "Isn't it wonderful?" Francis murmured, showing him a waterfall flowing into a rushing current, surrounded by dim forest, "It's something I saw in Canada. Remarkable, isn't it, mon ange?"
"I've never seen anything like that," Alfred shrugged.
"It's where my little Mathieu was born," Francis said, trailing off and dropping his paintbrush into a pool of water. He looked at Alfred, already expecting the next question. "Oh, there's no life to be made in London... He knew it and went to make a life for himself in America."
Alfred took in the information. He had never known before Francis had a child. Both him and Arthur didn't like to talk about their pasts, but Francis avoided his in a more subtle matter. Arthur would get into a fit over any questions. Francis would dodge and parry into another subject matter.
"When did you have Mathieu?" Alfred asked.
Francis paused to count the years, saying, "He should be about twenty now. Two years older than you. Hm... I don't remember his mother's name." He clicked his tongue, murmuring, "What a regretful night. But what a joy Mathieu was, I thought I would get punished for a fling such as she."
"He was so shy. He didn't want to meet Arthur or you. And then one night, he packed and left for America," Francis said, turning his head towards the canvas to shield his expression, "He's quite happy there. He should be."
America. Alfred smiled at the thought. The talk of the factory was always getting to America, where the streets of New York were covered in gold. Alfred wasn't so optimistic to believe that story, but the other workers would reassure him he would at least eat far better than he was in London, and jokingly point out the baggy clothes his thin frame couldn't fill.
He came over to Francis' side, asking more cautiously, "How does Mathieu like America?"
"Oh, he loves it," Francis said, "Would you like to write to him? Maybe he'll tell you."
Francis gave Alfred the address, and pocket change so he could mail the letter on one condition: that Francis could read their letters to each other like the overprotective father Alfred always knew he was. He didn't think at the time that maybe Francis only missed Mathieu.
"Dear Sir," Alfred wrote, his first draft having been discarded when Arthur chided him on using Mathieu's first name. After all, they did not even know each other.
"I write this letter to you on the twenty-first of May if only to introduce myself. Though I do not make good impressions with the paper and ink I use, I'm afraid that is all I have and that I had to send this in haste. I hear news of you in America from your father, and I yearned to know of what the setting is like as I have heard many stories. I wish to have met you while you resided in London, but am excited to hear from you if you wish to reply."
Alfred stopped talking to let Arthur keep up with scrawling his words out in elegant cursive. Arthur had added in an apology for their poor quality ink, but had made no other changes other than making Alfred sound proper. His son grinned, asking all sorts of questions, of what kind of house Mathieu lived in, what he ate, if he had a wife yet, and where he worked.
"Respectfully," Arthur closed, "Alfred Kirkland."
The reply came to him about a month later. It was a pale blue envelope, lightly scented as if Alfred had gotten a letter from a lady. He was thoroughly surprised when this turned out to be Mathieu, who answered Alfred's every question with the same enthusiasm.
He lived in a colonial home in New York, down the block from his workplace. He worked for The World, a newspaper company based in the state.
"No, I am not married," Mathieu had written, "That fact will not change anytime soon."
And he loved apple pie, to which he enclosed a recipe.
Arthur and Alfred could not make it of course, apples were too expensive, but Alfred appreciated the thought.
"Mathieu!" Alfred called out to his friend across the rundown dance hall. He came over and threw a hand around his shoulders.
After that letter so many years ago, they had became close confidants. They knew almost everything about each other, even before Alfred came to America and officially met him.
Mathieu, though surprised still at his friend's touches, smiled and glanced back to him. He didn't drink. Alfred did excessively. He turned towards his completely drunk friend and asked, "How are you doing tonight?"
Alfred looked as if the question had gone completely over his head before he spat out a slurred, "Horrible. It's too loud here."
Mathieu nodded in agreement. He brought a hand to Alfred's arm, knowing that wasn't all that was wrong. Together, they walked to the edge of the room before finally going outside, surrounded by pitch black night and the smoke that wafted out of factories. It was a smell that trailed with Alfred, a factory owner himself now. He did well. Mathieu shook his head, no, Alfred was one of the wealthiest men in New York.
But the money hadn't changed a thing about him. Because Mathieu's friend was now drunkenly ranting about that night, his last night with Arthur.
It was a story that Alfred couldn't forget. It was the story that kept Alfred the same poor boy from London.
The story began with Francis. The lonely painter that missed his son dearly, but thought of Alfred as one of his own. It started with that conversation again: America.
"I've been saving," Francis said through brush strokes, picturing London in its purest form, a smoke-filled city that bore down on the man. "For so long. I wanted to go to America."
And Alfred raised an eyebrow, saying, "So why are you still here?" Francis had money. He had the means to go anywhere.
Francis looked back at him. He sighed, "You needed me." He expected Alfred to look guilty. Because Alfred never wanted help, especially not the one Francis forced on him. If it weren't for the fact that Francis was much older than him, he would have refused all the food, the clothing, and the gifts. "Arthur does too," Francis mentioned with a small chuckle, "You both need fathers, someone to take care of you. Mathieu doesn't."
"You're not going to go live with him?" Alfred asked, then protesting, "But he's your family."
"Do not try to change my mind. I made my decision years ago," Francis said, a hand gripping the edge of his dry canvas, "The best thing I did for Mathieu was let him leave, and I will stick to that." It wasn't true, of course. Alfred was sure of that, that Francis was making excuses to stay. But then he remembered his father, and how fervently Francis stayed by his side, even through how much he scolded Arthur for his mistakes.
Francis turned to Alfred and said, "I still have the money. I wish I could use it for something else, but I would never forgive myself. I've only been letting it sit around."
Alfred didn't know where Francis was going with this until paper, not coins, was shoved into his hands. He examined it, stricken with awe. "You should go," Francis said, "Like I've always said, there's nothing left for you in London."
"What about you?"
Francis gave him a tired smile, thin lines made more obvious on his face as he murmured, "Mon ange, I have Arthur. Don't worry for me."
Francis had let him go, but when Alfred had come home that night and told Arthur, it was a different story.
"You can't leave," Arthur said, wide awake now. He shook his head out of disbelief and a pained noise left when Alfred showed him the money.
"Ce connard!" Arthur yelled, "That fucking bastard gave you this money, didn't he?" He brought his hands to his face, shaking his head more, "Alfred, are you leaving? You have to be kidding." Alfred didn't answer, letting his father get it all out. Arthur huffed and reached for a cigarette, muttering, "Did I do something? Don't just stand there like a damn idiot, tell me why you're leaving!"
Guilt crossed Alfred's expression, realizing his reasons were selfish when they were spoken. A better life for him. Not Arthur. He tucked his hands into his new coat's pockets and said, "It's not your fault, and I'll write."
Arthur burst out laughing in a spiteful manner, muttering, "Oh, that's what Mathieu said, and Francis hadn't heard a damn word out of him in five years! I won't know if you're alive or dead, is that what you want?"
Again, Alfred stayed quiet. "Don't even speak!" Arthur scolded when Alfred did nothing of the sort, "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear excuses. If you're going to leave me, then do it already." Alfred didn't move, but sighed after a few seconds and sat next to Arthur, finally seeing the single tear that ran down his father's cheek. More came soon after.
"Just leave. Go to America," Arthur pointed at the door, losing all reason as Alfred tried to explain he wouldn't leave him immediately. He interrupted the other, "I deserve it, don't I? I wager that French bastard's trying to teach me a lesson, hm?"
Alfred had already concluded that his father was trying to bait him into insulting him, or begging for forgiveness. He did neither, leaning into the smaller and wretched figure to embrace him, letting tears stain his cream white jacket. "Don't forget to write," Arthur said, hesitant before repeating over and over again, "Don't."
"I won't," Alfred promised, feeling awkward that in this moment, he was more mature than his father.
But it was always that way, wasn't it?
Alfred groaned as he got up. He realized he was in a familiar bed that wasn't his. Instinctively, he looked over to the bedside table, a pitcher of water and a short letter set out for him.
"To a beloved yet hungover Alfred," the note read, "I will be out working when you wake up and read this. Do take care of yourself, friend. I will be home at the same time I always am, so do not fret over me at the expense of your health. Only rest today. I will be glad to help you with your duties another time, like we have always done. I know that we may be apart from our families, but trust in me to provide for you like a brother. I hope you will do the same."
"Faithfully yours, Mathieu."
Alfred smiled. Though he would have loved to stay in bed all day, he had some letters to write of his own.
He sat at Mathieu's desk, taking one of the pens and writing the opening, simple yet defining of all of their years together.
"Beloved father."