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Alfred didn’t mean to knock the shelf over. He was just pacing around the room when he stumbled on a box on the floor and fell. Stacks of leather-bound books fell down on the dark brown surface with a thud. Dust stirred. Alfred sighed, and without Arthur to scold him, he bent down and started to pick up the books.
He scrambled to place the books back on the shelf when something caught his eye. He saw an old book with black leather lying between two larger books. Out of his curiosity, he slowly picked it up and saw the plain back cover with the inscription “A.K.” on the corner. As he realised it was Arthur's journal, he decided it was not too much harm to take a look inside, so as carefully as possible, he flipped open the cover. Inside he found a page with the date 20/08 written in black ink and many lines written in neat cursive. He stared confused as he thought that there were only 12 months, not 20. Still, he decided to read along and squinted at the words on the paper.
Sometimes, the house seems dreadfully quiet these days. I half-expect to hear the boy’s loud voice and bright laughter while I’m at the window watching the rain. It never does. But then again, he has grown, and everyone changes over time, but I don’t understand why I feel this way.
Alfred froze as his breath hitched. He stared down. He knew who ‘the boy’ was. It was him. He just started to notice a trace of smudged ink forming a circle on the otherwise perfect page. So Arthur had cried while writing this, he realised. Maybe he cared way more than Alfred did. He continued to read.
He is so determined to be the 'hero' now. He walks with that insufferable confidence and demands his independence while he keeps saying he doesn’t need me anymore. Today, I just found an old toy ship he used to play with, and I remembered how he could talk and laugh about it with me. I wished he didn’t cut me out like he did. I miss those precious moments. I wish I were important to him like that and that he would still laugh with me and be so innocent.
Alfred felt a pang in his heart and a sting behind his eyes. He knew that toy. He tried to find it a few weeks before the war but figured that Arthur had thrown it away from hatred. But Arthur had kept it. He had just hidden it.
I let him go because a bird could not grow if you kept it locked in a cage. But God, this silence feels like a terrible punishment. If he had looked back, he would have noticed the door was never truly locked. All I can do is pray that he will not completely forget the man who taught him how to fly.
A single, heavy tear rolled down Alfred’s cheek and slipped onto the page. The words blurred, his chest felt tight, and overwhelming guilt washed over him.
Alfred was so deep in thought that he did not hear Arthur’s footsteps. He walked in with a cup of tea and was in shock as he tore the book from Alfred’s hands. He quickly looked up to see Arthur pale in fear and anger.
“What do you think you are doing, you idiot!” Arthur yelled, but his voice cracked as he took in Alfred’s tear-stained face.
“Oh, I-I’m sorry.” Alfred swallowed. “I, um, I just knocked over your shelf by accident, and I, well.”
“You should not be looking into my business, is that clear? God, I don’t know why I let you visit in the first place.” Arthur said while trying to look angry, but he betrayed himself as tears started to well up in his eyes. He quickly looked away.
Alfred moved a hand to his shoulder. “Did you really mean everything?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Slowly, Arthur nodded without making eye contact and added, “You weren’t supposed to read that, Al.” But this time, his voice was softer.
Alfred realised that his knuckles were white and clenched around the mug, so he moved his hand to Arthur’s and gently took it and set it on a table.
Then he whispered, “Come here, Arthur,” as he held his tense shoulders as he pulled him into an embrace. Arthur stiffened, then relaxed as he buried his head into Alfred’s shoulders and loudly sobbed.
Arthur’s shoulders shook violently under Alfred’s hands, his composure shattering into raw, breathless sobs. Centuries of unspoken weight shattered as they hung to each other for support. Alfred held him tighter while he drained himself by crying. Arthur sank down onto the floor as Alfred followed, neither of them speaking. They clung to each other silently before Alfred finally broke the silence.
“So you kept it. I thought you threw away the toy,” Alfred stated.
“Oh, Alfred, dear, of course I kept it. I tried burning it many times, but I couldn’t bring myself to.” Silence followed.
So Alfred decided to ask the question in his mind.
“Hey, what's up with the date anyways? Like a twentieth month?”
"That's August twentieth, you bloody American fool.”
“But that’s not how you write it.”
"That's how everyone except you writes it.”
Then Alfred smiles. A genuine smile that makes Arthur's chest feel warm again. Maybe, just maybe, it could still feel similar to how it once was after all.