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Oh, Patrick. Dear, stupid, wonderful Patrick. Arthur shuffled along the cobblestone streets of the brewery, lungs still burning from exertion, throat dry and choked. He was shivering, despite the luxuriously thick coat wrapped around his shoulders. Glancing around, leery of the Guards that may very well be lurking, waiting to arrest him, Arthur dashed to the staircase leading to Edward and his shared office. Conspicuously loud clanging emanated from the metal beneath his feet, fraying his nerves more than they already were. He scuttled into the hall before the office, desperate to escape any prying eyes on the street as well as the damp, cold air. Arthur felt at the raw, thin skin below his eyes, desperately hoping Edward would ignore (or better yet, not notice) the redness of his tearstained cheeks. Perhaps he could blame it on the chilly night breeze.
Why couldn’t Patrick have come to him before informing the Guards of his whereabouts? He could have protected the dear, stupid boy from Reverend Grattan had he only been honest from the beginning. There is little limit to the power of the Guinness name within Dublin, a fact Arthur understood well. He would have kept pushing that limit if it meant keeping Patrick safe. It was too late now, however, and he had a name to protect. He could still feel the residual trembling in his chest, desperately trying to contain his sobs of both fear and devastation. He had had to be strong for Patrick, who had not but ten minutes ago been sobbing into his arms. "You must walk away from anyone with this cursed name. There is nothing but bleakness and blackness will come from any connection," he had told Patrick, grasping his face between his hands. Their last kiss and the feel of his fingers gripping to Patrick’s rough coat, carding through his thick hair would haunt him for years, he could already feel it. He replayed the desperate scene in his mind, recalling the quiet shushing he felt compelled to utter, truthfully only barely holding his own emotions in check.
As if I could ever be safe as a blasted sodomite in Ireland.
He choked, quietly gasping outside the door, hoping Edward was once again asleep at his desk and unable to hear the rapidly crumbling resolve of his older brother. Breathing deeply and steeling himself to confront his brother, Arthur’s shaking hands gripped the door handle. Perhaps if the Guards come to Edward’s office, his dear brother would be smart enough to lie, giving Arthur an alibi. Before he could change his mind, he pressed inside, keeping his head dipped low to allow himself one moment more of solitude before slowly raising his eyes to meet the disappointingly wide-open eyes of his sweet brother. Edward stared in surprise, the moonlight gently illuminating his ink-stained hands and rumpled shirt.
“Arthur! What are you doing here so late? You never visit at this hour,” Edward exclaimed, standing suddenly to cross the room to his brother. “What’s happened? You look a mess.” Edward gestured suddenly at the grime-stained knees of Arthur’s pants as well as the large damp patch near the shoulder of his waistcoat. Upon closer inspection, Edward could see the unusual pink tint of not only Arthur’s cheeks, but eyes and nose as well. He stared at the glassy, almost coal-black eyes of his brother, and with a start, Edward realised he was on the brink of tears. No, not the brink. He had been crying for some time now.
“Arthur, are you alright?”
And with that brief question, Arthur broke, clinging desperately to Edward, who immediately rushed to support his brother’s shaking body. Edward gently led him to the small couch in the office, methodically stroking circles into Arthur’s back and shushing him not dissimilarly to how Arthur had comforted Patrick earlier that evening. Noting the comforting practice as that of their late mother, Arthur only shook more harshly, scarcely able to breathe through the tears. He began to feel detached from the world, anchored only by Edward’s gentle voice and firm grip pressing Arthur to his side, his face tucked under Edward's chin. He felt like he was dying, lightheaded and heart racing, gasping desperately for air. Perhaps it would be easier to let the breathlessness take him. He was only a burden to his family after all, and there was nothing in his father’s will stating what would happen to the company upon Arthur’s death. Even now, he relied on Edward’s sturdy resolve, most likely interrupting him from the important work of running the brewery with the messy fallout of yet another failed romance.
There is no happy ending for me. I will always be in danger and I can bare my heart to nobody.
Seemingly reading Arthur's mind, Edward began whispering in his soft Dublin accent, “You’ll be alright, Arthur. I’ll keep you safe, the whole family will. We love you. No matter what life throws at you, we’ll love you.” Noticing the way Arthur began to relax, it became a mantra for Edward, repeating the sentiments until he could comfortably pull Arthur’s face back to look at him. Arthur could scarcely see the concern in his brother’s eyes through the tears, instead choosing to focus on the thumb gently brushing the crow’s feet wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. “My dear brother, please tell me what has happened to leave you so distraught?”
Having calmed considerably, Arthur explained through deep, shaking breaths the ordeal of the night, pausing occasionally to allow Edward to press his handkerchief to the near-constant stream of tears down his cheeks. He focused on the soft, green velvet of the couch under his hands, nervously tracing patterns. The stench of tobacco permeated the air, strangely comforting to Arthur. When it was all out in the open, Edward held his eyes for a moment, a plan clearly forming, likely involving some violence on the part of Mr. Rafferty towards a certain reverend.
“Arthur, I think it best if you stayed in my office for the night. We will go to Lady Olivia in the morning and I swear I will have this all sorted,” Edward promised in a definitive tone, his hand pressed firmly to the back of Arthur’s neck. “Think no more of the matter for the night. I will stay here in case the Guards come by, but truly, get some rest, brother. You desperately need it.”
Nodding, exhausted and devastated, Arthur began to curl onto the couch, tucking his knees up to his chest. Edward stood, making room for him. Collecting a few pillows from the other chairs in the office, he returned, tenderly lifting Arthur’s head and placing it back onto the softest pillow he could find. He then bent to unlace and remove Arthur’s shoes, as well as place his coat from the rack by the door over the small form of his older brother. Already half-asleep, Arthur mumbled his thanks, reaching to grasp Edward’s comfortingly warm hand. Edward squeezed it once, patting Arthur's shoulder with the other hand before returning to his business. Wrecked from the night, it wasn’t long before Edward could hear Arthur’s gentle, even breathing from his desk, punctuated occasionally by congested snores. He began drafting a letter to Mr. Rafferty, outlining exactly what was to be done to ensure his brother’s safety from here on out, as well as the release of all those arrested in the raid.
Damn society, the reverend, and the law. I couldn’t care less whom my brother loves so long as it’s genuine. His gaze fell tenderly on the thick, chocolate-brown waves of the figure on the couch. I swear, I’ll do everything in my power to bend Dublin to my will and they will listen whether they like it or not. My name is Guinness after all.