Work Text:
Sizzling from the pan reminds him very much of the surge of the sea, though Arthur was very much so far away from such a thing. Though the yellow of the yolks of the eggs he fries remind him much of the sunset, even in their popped state, smearing across the pan, unsuccessful was he in keeping the yolks at bay.
Whirring diligently beside him was the microwave that slowly paraded the pot of baked beans he was to pair it for his plate. Their breakfast was something hearty and warm to fill them for a day out in the open, ancient knots of forest, inland cliff sides and caves. Their expedition, carefully handpicked by Kiku who found interest in such a thing. Arthur found Kiku liked for him to recount whatever memory, however unpleasant they may be from childhood. Would prod at it like a misshapen shiny object, to take away and adore; his lover akin to a magpie, striking in beauty and curiosity. Wisdom beyond even Arthur’s years, who he adored in the way he had perfected plating eggs on toast. Arthur’s own attempt was less than desirable, eggs folded, almost scrambled on slightly burnt bread, his portion slathered with beady orange beans. But humble meals didn’t need fancy plating, he sighs with mild acceptance, and sometimes one’s efforts lead to nothing, unsalvageable despite the sacrifice of many kitchens, pots and pans alike. Luckily this one survives another day.
Turning off the cooker’s exhaust fan and making his way toward the dining table he makes a call for Kiku only to realise the seat that overlooked the garden window was vacated, the cat's hairbrush lay within his place, emptied of fur. Glancing on his side, he finds the sliding doors to have been opened, a gap left in consideration for Arthur’s attempts at the kitchen. Swaying curtains, the early drone of the morning, birdsong beckoning. He cleans his hands with the kitchen towel and heads out towards the garden.
A bird feeder swings, newly topped with grains and seeds, beneath it is a trellis intertwined with late blooming roses, half awake in bloom, freshly pruned. Following the decline of the garden he approaches the purple tufts of hydrangea, huddled in morning dew. A garden half maintained, and half left to grow wild, and as Arthur walks deeper into its hold the wilder it gets, knee deep in thick verdant grass.
There Arthur finds him, cushioned by the foliage, Crumpet curled atop his stomach lulled asleep by soft caresses. Peach of his skin peaking through the dense green, slope of his nose dipping to the soft of his lips and strong chin, cliff edge curvature, crescent moon. Laying there as if he had always belonged, a part of the garden that came with the plot of land Arthur had turned into his home, nurtured throughout the years. Colours of the Earth in shadow, Kiku had always suited such tones, synonymous with the predawn hours.
His presence alerts Crumpet awake, glaring at him as if he were a baleful intruder, puffy tail swishing left and right. Arthur carefully lowers his body in appeasement and coos at him, but this seems to agitate the cat further, with the outstretched hand that Arthur offers being the breaking point. Crumpet hisses at him, and with a brazen swing of his tail, leaps off of his resting spot and dives into the bushes. Kiku springs up and is greeted by the culprit who had disturbed his peace propped down on his knees.
“Bugger,” Arthur dusts the deflation off himself as he stands, he couldn't deal with the dramatics. He was always Crumpet's enemy when it came to Kiku’s attention. “I came to say breakfast is ready.”
Kiku gives an airy laugh thoroughly amused, it passes over Arthur like the spring breeze and he gawks, a little in awe of him. Kiku makes no attempt to move from the ground, patting the space next to him instead.
“Sit with me, Arthur.”
Arthur complies.
For all the little things that pass by insignificant to many alike, the sounds of rushing water upon a river, loose change clinking, rolling under an arm chair, a crooked necklace fixed by cold hands, most insignificant of all; two people in the shadow of a garden. The way Kiku sops up the sauce from Arthur’s plate with the rest of his bread, poking fun at Arthur on his questionable tastes, though Kiku would never admit how he actively enjoys the taste of baked beans. Their teasing is back and forth, a pair of dragonflies hovering, shimmering and streamline as the strand of hair Arthur tucks out of Kiku’s eyes. The quiet chase where no destination lies, simply enjoying the rush and the trail it leaves.
Beyond them, at the very bottom of the garden stood a mighty willow tree, its thicket of leaves dancing in the wind. During the late spring it would shed great amounts of its seed, puffing up cotton like bundles that flew in the wind. In the handful of times he had visited, Kiku would lay in the exact same spot they were in and watch the cotton float until he was covered in it, Crumpet beside him launching in the air to swipe away at the floaters.
Ru-chan, he would say, coercing the cat to calm down, speak to him in simple Japanese and he would listen to Kiku as if he understood every word of the language.
A flock of birds burst from the top of the tree and this seems to joggle something from Kiku reaching into his pocket to show Arthur what he had found. Rounded with silver swirling patterns, no bigger than the size of his fingernail, lay a button. Arthur takes it from Kiku to have a closer look, turning it in his palm in examination.
“I spotted it next to the bushes when I was refilling the bird feeder.”
Holding the button up Arthur tries his best to capture the light to gather its shine. It winked at him in blue, purple flashes.
“A gift from the birds?”
“Most likely.” Kiku stretches. The tree sways, the flowers whisper, active in chatter, awaiting the sunlight to come graze through their plot of the land.
“The garden remembers you.”
“I’ve hardly spent any time here.”
“Exactly.” Arthur clasps the button, tucking it into his trouser pocket, making a mental note to remember to pop it into the jar of offerings they have procured throughout the seasons.
“It welcomes you, it takes what it can whenever it is you’re here. Begs for you even.”
Kiku sits with his knees up, holding it close to his body, taking a moment to consider Arthur’s words, They catch eyes and Arthur feels like he is gazing into infinity, ever endless. Treading in silence, timid beginnings; the constant push to solidify their place in the world. From lonely strangers to now living in each other’s clothes, soap suds, bathwater, pairs of shoes beside each other on the shoe rack. It comes quickly, overflowing, Arthur giving what he can. But he notices a wavering; Kiku less and less receptive until he finally pulls back and Arthur is alone, left in search.
The willow shivers.
“It’s so mesmerising,” There is a strange shift, Kiku is hovering over the subject. Hair rising down the length of Arthur’s arms in the same way he suspects a storm brewing; rumbling and swirling nearby in the atmosphere, just beyond what he could see. It might have already been there.
“I can’t help not looking away.”
Following the others’ gaze, Arthur turns towards the tree, as green and wispy as it has always stood. Leaves of a faded green now on their journey of change, tips singed in yellow. He sees it as any other tree, in any other green pasture that stretches for miles and miles. Hedgerows between each open field, either browned, crisp yellow, cleared in preparation for winter in the same rinse and repeat cycle.
“I could spend my days just sitting watching how rich and vibrant everything is. Sit at the top of the garden and watch the fields, hear the birds sing, comfort myself through the cold.”
Rubbing his hands together, Kiku cups his face. He is pleading, so desperate to find the right words, like sifting through the ground for gifts: small buttons, paperclips, a bundle of string.
“Everything feels so alive, every bit of you.” he says it like a passing breath.
A flush creeps through Arthur’s cheeks, taken aback by Kiku’s sudden declaration. When he comes to try and respond he finds he lacks the words, equally in search; silver ring, single penny, sweet wrapper, parmaviolets– sweet on the tongue, floral and fizzing into a crumble. It’s taste surfacing in the back of his mouth, a powdery ghost of itself.
Unsure of how to respond, Arthur tentatively nods. It had been a while since Kiku had been here, he had the tendency to pull from around him and cocoon himself as means of making sense of things. Perhaps that was why he talked so dearly, wanting time to admire the scenery. Arthur centres himself into thinking practically, of preparing for their hike, packing a bag for essentials, water bottles and extra socks.
“Well, we can definitely enjoy more of it later in the day.” Arthur reaches over to collect their plates, ceramics clinking together. He’d allow Kiku his sacred time, walking back into the house.
Through his ascent on the garden path he begins to notice the restlessness surrounding him. The way the wind lashes at the foliage, slicing through the flowerbeds and bushes, the birdfeeder leaving harsh metallic sounds as it creaks, the windchimes by the house door now seem so far away, clanging chaotic melodies that bleed into the atmosphere. Like a warning it calls for him, makes him stop in his tracks. He feels like he’s missed something. He turns to face it all.
Across the field, bitter winds, standing on opposite sides.
He’s been here before.
Reserved gestures, unmovable blankness, how it festered to quiet resentment. Torn away, in his attempts to salvage it, now seething. Warm comforts burning, caught by the flames.
He could almost decipher who it was. Could have sworn he was once familiar with their shape. But he remembers walking away, gathering the persisting silence for anger.
The same blank face looking at him from afar.
Jar of offerings spilling revealing the hidden regret. Something nurtured, something shared; harvest fruit overripe and bursting, rotting on the ground. A pungent scent piercing through the air numbing the senses. To then be laid on the ground, a husk of itself, weathered by the winds passing through its hollow body, whistling a mournful melody that withered away before anyone could hear it, could grieve over it.
How he still carries it as the other passes it to him, winking blue and purple after excavating it from the ground. Multiple warnings he had chosen to diminish, turned a blind eye to.
Arthur starts to see past the placid expression, the straining in the others’ face, and briefly it flashes crumbling through weary glasslike irises, too ashamed to be known. He blinks, shaky breaths, and he does something that he should’ve done years ago.
Timid steps, bodies slotting together haphazardly into an embrace. They face away from one another, Arthur urging Kiku to lean on him and does so stiffly. Soft whispers, sweet nothings, speaking it to no one, pressed against the crook of his neck unknown to him if Kiku sheds any tears. Feeling only of his weak grasp.
“Sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” it comes as a gasp. A plea of confusion, Kiku pauses to collect himself. Arthur holds him, keeps him in place stopping Kiku from wavering. “There was a moment in time where I longed for something like this.”
“Everything's just so rich, too much, surreal. Like I could lose it all at any moment. Like I could disappear.”
“All I’ve ever known is to be alone. But you, having lost you, had shown me such a profound loss. You changed something in me. I’m almost scared by the thought," His voice is breaking, Arthur feels his body submitting, he holds him ever tighter, a deep ache in his chest, ”How empty and cold it is to be alone.”
“You’ve allowed me to stay, I can’t help myself coming back here. All the time.”
A lapse of time. Their bodies shifting, breathing steadying, Kiku resting his forehead on Arthur's shoulder. Old wounds soothed to bay, never fully gone but a part of them to brood over. What they shared between them was still so young, still yet to live out its many cycles of bloom. Separation, a tender, aching thing that shrouds their past connection.
“I wish I had given you better memories. That we were afforded more than what we had back then.”
There is an intake of breath, Arthur could imagine the small smile upon Kiku’s lips, his face still hidden from his view. He turns to place a kiss on the crown of his hair.
“You can stay as long as you like. Until you tire of me.”
The notion resonates, they’d known to grow it well, making a place for themselves, what they wanted at most but unable to speak of it.
To stay.
“And if we were to separate.” The winds quiet, the old willow stops its shaking. The birds halt all song, all flight. Closing of eyes, to cradle and dream somewhere far away.
“Find me in every open field, in every garden. In the same way I search for you, in each grassy plane, in between shadows and up towards the night sky.”
“In all that is cherished, softly cradled, wrapped, in every sorrow, dark winged and fleeting.”
A sigh.
The sweetest reunion.
“Find me in the quiet, in the place that will only ever be known to us.”