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During the original book: 1632
Follows Sweden, Finland and King Gustav II Adolf as they deal with ungodly massacres, righteous battles and time-travelling Americans with history books.
Huge thanks to the first filler of this prompt, for showing me there really are other fans out there.
1631, Brandenburg
The Kingdom of Sweden frowned as his beloved king continued his prayers, his large, powerful body stooped over by the weight of his grief and guilt. Gustav II Adolf was one of his greatest rulers, had done so much to make Sweden respected and feared. Part of what made his king so great was his religious piety and unshakable faith in the Protestant cause, that had lead Gustav to the Germanies to challenge the Catholic Powers.
But now Gustav’s piety was a weakness, his belief in his divine responsibility to protect bringing him guilt and shame. The king of Sweden had vowed to defend the city of Magdeburg, had promised to aid them when the General Tilly and his forces were at their gates. And he had failed to get there in time, to prevent the massacre that followed their surrender.
The greatest king Scandinavia had ever produced, the father of modern warfare, composer of hymns, leader of armies remained on his knees, praying for the souls he had promised to save and failed.
Words had never come easy to Sweden. In times like this they were even harder to find. He wished he could say something to bring peace to his king. Tell him that those German souls did not matter, tell him that war was always unkind to civilians, something to snap him out of it. But none of those things would bring any peace to Gustav’s soul.
Sweden approached his king silently, knelt down besides him and offered up his own prayers, less certain of the good it would do to any of the dead, but willing to try. For his king.
...
Follows Sweden, Finland and King Gustav II Adolf as they deal with ungodly massacres, righteous battles and time-travelling Americans with history books.
Huge thanks to the first filler of this prompt, for showing me there really are other fans out there.
1631, Brandenburg
The Kingdom of Sweden frowned as his beloved king continued his prayers, his large, powerful body stooped over by the weight of his grief and guilt. Gustav II Adolf was one of his greatest rulers, had done so much to make Sweden respected and feared. Part of what made his king so great was his religious piety and unshakable faith in the Protestant cause, that had lead Gustav to the Germanies to challenge the Catholic Powers.
But now Gustav’s piety was a weakness, his belief in his divine responsibility to protect bringing him guilt and shame. The king of Sweden had vowed to defend the city of Magdeburg, had promised to aid them when the General Tilly and his forces were at their gates. And he had failed to get there in time, to prevent the massacre that followed their surrender.
The greatest king Scandinavia had ever produced, the father of modern warfare, composer of hymns, leader of armies remained on his knees, praying for the souls he had promised to save and failed.
Words had never come easy to Sweden. In times like this they were even harder to find. He wished he could say something to bring peace to his king. Tell him that those German souls did not matter, tell him that war was always unkind to civilians, something to snap him out of it. But none of those things would bring any peace to Gustav’s soul.
Sweden approached his king silently, knelt down besides him and offered up his own prayers, less certain of the good it would do to any of the dead, but willing to try. For his king.
...
Much later, when his king had finally risen to resume his duties, Sweden searched out his own source of comfort. The army camped out on Brandenburg territory was 20 thousand strong and none too organised, but generally soldiers from the same territory stuck together. It was easy enough to find the Fin part of the Swedish army.
Compared to some of the armies they had faced the Swedes were a ragged filthy mob, with no uniform to speak of and cleanliness forgotten in favour of ferociousness. The Fins were no exception, many still dressed in their Eastern European styles of caps and furs. Sweden had to wait until he heard Finland’s sweet voice coming from a truly repulsive hooded coat before he was certain he had found his ward.
“Ruotsi.” Finland smiled happily as Sweden approached the fire he was cooking over. Around him his country men quietly left to find another fire, not comfortable around another Nation. Especially the Swedish one who ruled over them and their young .
Finland did not appear to mind being abandoned as he offered Sweden a spoon of mush from the pot. Sweden sat down on a left behind rug and swallowed the mush politely, trying not to notice the taste. He had eaten worse. He gave Finland back the spoon and waved away the offer of more.
“I heard the king got bad news today.” Said Finland quietly, settling himself down with a bowl. “We could hear the furniture breaking from here.”
Sweden nodded his head, staring into the fire. “He blames himself… for Magdeburg.”
“But it was Pappenhein that lead the attack.” Pointed out Finland logically, “And Saxony’s prince that delayed the reinforcements.” He scowled into his bowl adorably. “And Bandenburg too.” Out of nowhere Finland whipped out a knife. “You give me one minute alone with him and I’ll end his indecision once and for all.” He stabbed into his pot violently, pulling it out with a piece of meat on the point. “He called me a savage to my face, thinks I can’t speak German.” Finland delicately nibbled on the meat. “He can’t speak a word of Swedish, let alone Suomi and I’m the savage?”
Sweden nodded again, letting Finland’s chatter wash over him. He had been against him coming with the Fin and Lapland forces to the German States, but was now glad he had the company. It looked to be a long and violent war his king was leading them into, and trips back home would be impossible. Finland was a balm to his tired heart in this blood soaked land.
He let his thoughts float back to Stockholm and the Baltic, his court and his young princess. A stray wish for a prince and a clear succession sprung to his mind but he pushed it back down. Gustav was healthy, there was time yet for him to have a son.
“We will deal with them all.” Said Sweden firmly. One way or another Saxon and Brandenburg would be brought to heel and Tilly would be defeated. And then all of Germany would be his for the taking. And no one, not Denmark, not Poland or even Austria himself, would stop him.
...
Six months later, on the field of Breitenfeld, Sweden made good on his promise. Gustav Adolf himself led the cavalry charge himself, Sweden and the king’s exasperated bodyguard right behind him. Forever and always this battle would be the Lion of the North: Gustav Adolf's defining battle, defeating the undefeatable Johann Tserclaes, Count of Tilly. The road to central Europe lay open to Sweden and the Catholic Nations quailed.
Sweden spared a moment to come out of his daydreams of power and land and admire the figure of Finland, blood spattered and wielding his knife, chasing after retreating Catholic forces, screaming his people’s favourite war cry. Such an adorable sight.
Compared to some of the armies they had faced the Swedes were a ragged filthy mob, with no uniform to speak of and cleanliness forgotten in favour of ferociousness. The Fins were no exception, many still dressed in their Eastern European styles of caps and furs. Sweden had to wait until he heard Finland’s sweet voice coming from a truly repulsive hooded coat before he was certain he had found his ward.
“Ruotsi.” Finland smiled happily as Sweden approached the fire he was cooking over. Around him his country men quietly left to find another fire, not comfortable around another Nation. Especially the Swedish one who ruled over them and their young .
Finland did not appear to mind being abandoned as he offered Sweden a spoon of mush from the pot. Sweden sat down on a left behind rug and swallowed the mush politely, trying not to notice the taste. He had eaten worse. He gave Finland back the spoon and waved away the offer of more.
“I heard the king got bad news today.” Said Finland quietly, settling himself down with a bowl. “We could hear the furniture breaking from here.”
Sweden nodded his head, staring into the fire. “He blames himself… for Magdeburg.”
“But it was Pappenhein that lead the attack.” Pointed out Finland logically, “And Saxony’s prince that delayed the reinforcements.” He scowled into his bowl adorably. “And Bandenburg too.” Out of nowhere Finland whipped out a knife. “You give me one minute alone with him and I’ll end his indecision once and for all.” He stabbed into his pot violently, pulling it out with a piece of meat on the point. “He called me a savage to my face, thinks I can’t speak German.” Finland delicately nibbled on the meat. “He can’t speak a word of Swedish, let alone Suomi and I’m the savage?”
Sweden nodded again, letting Finland’s chatter wash over him. He had been against him coming with the Fin and Lapland forces to the German States, but was now glad he had the company. It looked to be a long and violent war his king was leading them into, and trips back home would be impossible. Finland was a balm to his tired heart in this blood soaked land.
He let his thoughts float back to Stockholm and the Baltic, his court and his young princess. A stray wish for a prince and a clear succession sprung to his mind but he pushed it back down. Gustav was healthy, there was time yet for him to have a son.
“We will deal with them all.” Said Sweden firmly. One way or another Saxon and Brandenburg would be brought to heel and Tilly would be defeated. And then all of Germany would be his for the taking. And no one, not Denmark, not Poland or even Austria himself, would stop him.
...
Six months later, on the field of Breitenfeld, Sweden made good on his promise. Gustav Adolf himself led the cavalry charge himself, Sweden and the king’s exasperated bodyguard right behind him. Forever and always this battle would be the Lion of the North: Gustav Adolf's defining battle, defeating the undefeatable Johann Tserclaes, Count of Tilly. The road to central Europe lay open to Sweden and the Catholic Nations quailed.
Sweden spared a moment to come out of his daydreams of power and land and admire the figure of Finland, blood spattered and wielding his knife, chasing after retreating Catholic forces, screaming his people’s favourite war cry. Such an adorable sight.
It would be great if you'd give this a go ;) No pairings needed, of course.
possible writer anon wondering if lithuania/russia is okay?
I don't usually care for that ship but I would actually kind of love to see it for this prompt! :D
...that's how Finland's war cry goes, I know the deal :D
I haven't read this book, but damn, I'm sure to read it now. The War of the Thirty Years is one of my favourite times ever, Gustav II. Adolf of Sweden very obviously included as absolute badassalthough now I have Sabaton, and I hate power metal, stuck in my head with their GUSTAAAVUS ADOLPHUS LIBERA EEEEET IMPERA--ACERBUS ET INGENS, AUGUSTA PEEEEER ANGUSTA!!!! miiighty eagle rule the north, lalala, I don't know the rest, google it or something, so I just had to read this. And damn, it was worth it. Oh so much. Badass!Fin is a rare and very, very welcome sight.
Congratulations on a short but great little thing!
I haven't read this book, but damn, I'm sure to read it now. The War of the Thirty Years is one of my favourite times ever, Gustav II. Adolf of Sweden very obviously included as absolute badass
Congratulations on a short but great little thing!
Wow, this is so sweet. It just gets sweeter with every update. It really makes me giggle, the narration and what the characters are thinking. I love this fill so much. And, I was only barely an DenNor shipper before this. I like it a lot more now.
Title is Norwegian for "All light is gone". Sorry if this doesn't tackle the issue from the right angle--I sincerely hope you get another, more adequate fill, but also that you enjoy mine at least somewhat, OP!
It was a given thing in ancient days—he would look up at the moon, nod, and slash his wrist to make the powerful liquid of his life drip into a basket or a cauldron or a goblet. Not once would he blink or wince as the silver blade cut through his skin, accepting it as a price worth to pay for the powers it would grant him.
Magic was allowed and banned and allowed again, and he kept practising it. It was always the same knife, until an eternity of splitting flesh made it first dull and then rusty, and sharpening it down further would have made it disappear, so he crafted another one, and then another, and yet another.
Norway was old, older than his own country’s name. In Viking days they had called him a Seiðmaðr, a male magician, and shunned him and spit on him, and he had grinned while they turned their backs and sent his trolls to silence evil tongues, and when they came back he would feed them his blood.
Denmark had watched back then, and never said anything at all.
Then Christianity had come from the south, and he’d kept using his blood for his magic, black and white, and his beliefs, his knowledge, had never been rattled. He’d been burned at the stake for it.
He’d laughed as the fire re-opened old scars. He had explored the world with the might a single drop of blood gave him, what was fire to him after all?
Denmark threatened to destroy it all when he took him, when he made him sign treaties that made him his; but when the night made everything silent, Norway slid his arm across the blade of Denmark’s axe, and laughed as the liquid stained it and the floor and the smell of sorcery filled the room.
Denmark had never taken him into his bed, and Norway thanked the red in his veins for it.
Time passed, so did wars and pain. When everything became boring, Norway would turn to his old, sharp companion to remember the moon filled nights of black magic and pagan sacrifice. When it became too exciting, the blade would comfort him with whispers of dream spells.
Then he fell in love, and once again everything could have shattered.
Looking at Denmark pained him, made him long and yearn. It made him so blind and stupid that he brewed a love potion one night, and only when the blade parted skin and meat to let the most powerful of fluids fall into his cauldron did he realize that this would make him weak, that this would mean abandoning his lonely life and the rest of his independence, that this would endanger the silent, cold company of his sharp knife.
He disposed of the potion and the feelings the best he could, and kept only the steel and the blood and the loneliness.
He was taken away. Sweden came and called him Finland, looked at him with eyes filled with denial and pain, whispering of lost wives that had never been there in the first place.
A few years later, Norway took Sweden’s sword and slashed his wrist, then mixed the red drops with wine that could never be that red, and whispered healing words over the glass.
Sweden never noticed, but Norway cured him of his delusion, gave him strength to stand once more, alone, without Finland. Then Norway left.
Magic slowly died. He had to cut himself more in order to get a greater effect, as the modern world slowly drove the beings to drink his sacrifices away. He told England about it, and the Nation looked at him, disturbed, and asked him if he was joking. Blood, he said, was not necessary for magic.
Norway didn’t believe him. What was he without a knife?
It was a given thing in ancient days—he would look up at the moon, nod, and slash his wrist to make the powerful liquid of his life drip into a basket or a cauldron or a goblet. Not once would he blink or wince as the silver blade cut through his skin, accepting it as a price worth to pay for the powers it would grant him.
Magic was allowed and banned and allowed again, and he kept practising it. It was always the same knife, until an eternity of splitting flesh made it first dull and then rusty, and sharpening it down further would have made it disappear, so he crafted another one, and then another, and yet another.
Norway was old, older than his own country’s name. In Viking days they had called him a Seiðmaðr, a male magician, and shunned him and spit on him, and he had grinned while they turned their backs and sent his trolls to silence evil tongues, and when they came back he would feed them his blood.
Denmark had watched back then, and never said anything at all.
Then Christianity had come from the south, and he’d kept using his blood for his magic, black and white, and his beliefs, his knowledge, had never been rattled. He’d been burned at the stake for it.
He’d laughed as the fire re-opened old scars. He had explored the world with the might a single drop of blood gave him, what was fire to him after all?
Denmark threatened to destroy it all when he took him, when he made him sign treaties that made him his; but when the night made everything silent, Norway slid his arm across the blade of Denmark’s axe, and laughed as the liquid stained it and the floor and the smell of sorcery filled the room.
Denmark had never taken him into his bed, and Norway thanked the red in his veins for it.
Time passed, so did wars and pain. When everything became boring, Norway would turn to his old, sharp companion to remember the moon filled nights of black magic and pagan sacrifice. When it became too exciting, the blade would comfort him with whispers of dream spells.
Then he fell in love, and once again everything could have shattered.
Looking at Denmark pained him, made him long and yearn. It made him so blind and stupid that he brewed a love potion one night, and only when the blade parted skin and meat to let the most powerful of fluids fall into his cauldron did he realize that this would make him weak, that this would mean abandoning his lonely life and the rest of his independence, that this would endanger the silent, cold company of his sharp knife.
He disposed of the potion and the feelings the best he could, and kept only the steel and the blood and the loneliness.
He was taken away. Sweden came and called him Finland, looked at him with eyes filled with denial and pain, whispering of lost wives that had never been there in the first place.
A few years later, Norway took Sweden’s sword and slashed his wrist, then mixed the red drops with wine that could never be that red, and whispered healing words over the glass.
Sweden never noticed, but Norway cured him of his delusion, gave him strength to stand once more, alone, without Finland. Then Norway left.
Magic slowly died. He had to cut himself more in order to get a greater effect, as the modern world slowly drove the beings to drink his sacrifices away. He told England about it, and the Nation looked at him, disturbed, and asked him if he was joking. Blood, he said, was not necessary for magic.
Norway didn’t believe him. What was he without a knife?
Stainless steel and medicine and ever better scalpels eased his work, but England’s words wouldn’t leave his mind. Romania told him to ignore them—blood was precious, blood was life. He asked for a few delicious drops of his, but Norway refused, weary of his friend’s fangs glimmering in anticipation.
Knives at night and Denmark watching him, trying to talk to him, and time dancing in incessant circles around him were all Norway saw for a long time. He longed for Denmark, but he remembered a love potion and treaties and gripped the knife in his pocket until it sliced his palm, and needed not to talk to him.
One midnight, Germany came.
He was everywhere. Norway couldn’t ask anyone for help, only the darkness and his blades, and the mess he made that night left him lying unconscious in a puddle of his own blood—but the magic was gone with the War, and he was just a dying madman ripping his arms open as he felt troops all over his country, attacking in the small hours of the night, stealing the moonlight that so often had protected him and now would never again.
The Germans said that it was a pity an Aryan such as Norway would die, and they tied his arms behind his back and took away his knives and left him alone and screaming and trying to reach his wrists with his nails.
After his release, after chasing Denmark away who had come with smiles and kisses and Oh Norge thank god you’re alive, he took some scissors. His hands shook so badly in anticipation that he made a terrible mess, but he welcomed the stingy sensation and the pain and the coppery smell so badly that he hissed in appreciation and flicked out a tongue to taste himself as the blood ran down his pale skin. It tasted like mere water and nothing alive, and it certainly didn’t taste like magic, but it was warm and red and flowed and Norway didn’t care.
After the years, it got worse. He cut more and more and every night, wishing for the small spark of lost magic to reappear, or for the grunt of a hungry troll. When he felt those things, though, no joy came to him: he just hid in his house and all but skinned himself, knowing that all his wounds would close soon enough so he could re-open them again.
But Denmark, after centuries of love and want, wouldn’t let Norway seclude himself.
He broke into Norway’s house one night.
One night, when the moon was full.
When the blades were sharp.
When magic was a second thought and all that mattered was comfort.
Norway sat half-naked in the moonlight, his skin looking an ashen grey, only disturbed by rivers that looked black flowing down his body in all directions, staining hands and arms and thighs and everything, and there, the glimmering silver of a dagger.
Norway hissed as he cut long and vertically through his entire arm, and Denmark jumped.
He kicked the weapon away.
He lifted Norway by the neck.
He yelled.
What the fuck, Norge? Why would you do this? How long have you—wait don’t, you—how could you, Norge? This is bad—this is sick—please please please Norge—Norge. Have you been doing this all along? Since the old times? Fuck you, Norge, fuck! No, I didn’t mean that, sorry, please Norge, oh shit, why did you do this, why do you do this, why do you do this, why do you, why…
The words all blended in Norway’s brain, and all he felt was the need to cut deeper, but the dagger was somewhere else.
He shrugged and didn’t meet Denmark’s eyes, remaining calm and stoic as always, treating this like a stupid, childish idiocy of Denmark’s. It wasn’t, and he knew that too well, but when the hands left his neck and strong arms engulfed him in a tender embrace he felt a slight spark of magic light up in him and he could fool himself into thinking that the dagger had once again been his tool of sorcery, and not an unhealthy addiction.
But this denial can’t last.
Knives at night and Denmark watching him, trying to talk to him, and time dancing in incessant circles around him were all Norway saw for a long time. He longed for Denmark, but he remembered a love potion and treaties and gripped the knife in his pocket until it sliced his palm, and needed not to talk to him.
One midnight, Germany came.
He was everywhere. Norway couldn’t ask anyone for help, only the darkness and his blades, and the mess he made that night left him lying unconscious in a puddle of his own blood—but the magic was gone with the War, and he was just a dying madman ripping his arms open as he felt troops all over his country, attacking in the small hours of the night, stealing the moonlight that so often had protected him and now would never again.
The Germans said that it was a pity an Aryan such as Norway would die, and they tied his arms behind his back and took away his knives and left him alone and screaming and trying to reach his wrists with his nails.
After his release, after chasing Denmark away who had come with smiles and kisses and Oh Norge thank god you’re alive, he took some scissors. His hands shook so badly in anticipation that he made a terrible mess, but he welcomed the stingy sensation and the pain and the coppery smell so badly that he hissed in appreciation and flicked out a tongue to taste himself as the blood ran down his pale skin. It tasted like mere water and nothing alive, and it certainly didn’t taste like magic, but it was warm and red and flowed and Norway didn’t care.
After the years, it got worse. He cut more and more and every night, wishing for the small spark of lost magic to reappear, or for the grunt of a hungry troll. When he felt those things, though, no joy came to him: he just hid in his house and all but skinned himself, knowing that all his wounds would close soon enough so he could re-open them again.
But Denmark, after centuries of love and want, wouldn’t let Norway seclude himself.
He broke into Norway’s house one night.
One night, when the moon was full.
When the blades were sharp.
When magic was a second thought and all that mattered was comfort.
Norway sat half-naked in the moonlight, his skin looking an ashen grey, only disturbed by rivers that looked black flowing down his body in all directions, staining hands and arms and thighs and everything, and there, the glimmering silver of a dagger.
Norway hissed as he cut long and vertically through his entire arm, and Denmark jumped.
He kicked the weapon away.
He lifted Norway by the neck.
He yelled.
What the fuck, Norge? Why would you do this? How long have you—wait don’t, you—how could you, Norge? This is bad—this is sick—please please please Norge—Norge. Have you been doing this all along? Since the old times? Fuck you, Norge, fuck! No, I didn’t mean that, sorry, please Norge, oh shit, why did you do this, why do you do this, why do you do this, why do you, why…
The words all blended in Norway’s brain, and all he felt was the need to cut deeper, but the dagger was somewhere else.
He shrugged and didn’t meet Denmark’s eyes, remaining calm and stoic as always, treating this like a stupid, childish idiocy of Denmark’s. It wasn’t, and he knew that too well, but when the hands left his neck and strong arms engulfed him in a tender embrace he felt a slight spark of magic light up in him and he could fool himself into thinking that the dagger had once again been his tool of sorcery, and not an unhealthy addiction.
But this denial can’t last.
He was able to tell Denmark that he’d stopped, that this wasn’t something he still did, that it was nothing to worry about, and Denmark, with a suspicious glance at his cured wrists—as if they told the truth, Nations heal faster than humans, and Norway didn’t show him the rest—nodded and left him alone.
And Norway keeps cutting himself.
He manages to think about magic, manages to believe that there is a troll at his side and that it will lick up the streams of red that flow from him, but the truth is that all magic is gone.
All light is gone.
Denmark isn’t.
He stares at him during councils and reunions and meetings, stares at him when they are out, when he talks to his brother, when he tries to be alone. Denmark doesn’t take his eyes off him.
One night, Norway smears his front door with blood. In ancient times, this could keep glances away.
It doesn’t anymore.
The next time he comes unbidden, the southernmost Scandinavian is drunk off his ass, angry at Norway for locking himself up, angry at the world, angry at his feelings, and absolutely outraged at the blood on the door. He kicks it down like locks mean nothing to him.
He runs up to Norway’s dark room, where nothing but moonlight floods in, and even this is scarce.
Norway isn’t moving.
He lights every light in his way and screams at the top of his lungs at the withered, frail naked body on the bed. He looks so weak, so drained, and Denmark knows, even drunk, that he is dead.
He cries, and he slaps him.
Norway doesn’t wake.
Denmark screams. He isn’t sad; he is frustrated.
Death comes to them from time to time, but it is always painful, and it always means something, and it is never a relief; re-awakening is even worse. He has died a few times, and he doesn’t wish it upon anyone—and a nation bringing it to themselves is truly unsettling. One never knows when they wake up, either; it may take minutes. It may take months.
It may take years.
After his independence, Finland was killed in an early riot of civil war and died for nearly twenty years. Prussia was gone for fifty. And Denmark remembers the Holy Roman Empire, and wonders when he will show up. And the longer they’ve been gone, the worse it hurts as the rotten blood warms up again, as the heart manages to squeeze and thrum the congealed ooze forth, as the maggots wither away and return the consumed flesh to them. He still remembers Sweden thrashing and screaming after Denmark killed him during their Viking days, and he’d only been gone for an hour.
Denmark shakes Norway furiously, and only manages to get blood unto his hands.
With those same stained hands, he punches the wall. Then he tears down all decoration, smashes vases, destroys pictures and books and furniture.
When everything is broken, he holds Norway close, and waits.
He’s already awake.
“You’ll pay for that, you know” he chokes out, noncommittally.
Denmark prepares his lungs to scream angrily at him, but Norway sighs and rolls his eyes.
“Calm down. I just took it too far. It doesn’t happen this often.”
Norway, somehow, can’t bring himself to look at Denmark. He thought he’d be better at this—colder and more stoic and empty—but he can feel Denmark judging him, thinking all the wrong things, and the fact that he looks so damn worried makes something—something, something close to guilt—squirm in his stomach until the need of the blade is imminent and overwhelming, even though he’s so weak.
On the back of his mind, he starts thinking that he might have a problem.
“What do you mean, ‘This often’?” Denmark says. His hands are slippery with blood as they search his body for deep wounds that may need treating, although Norway’s cuts are healing.
Slowly. Painfully.
Involuntarily.
And Norway keeps cutting himself.
He manages to think about magic, manages to believe that there is a troll at his side and that it will lick up the streams of red that flow from him, but the truth is that all magic is gone.
All light is gone.
Denmark isn’t.
He stares at him during councils and reunions and meetings, stares at him when they are out, when he talks to his brother, when he tries to be alone. Denmark doesn’t take his eyes off him.
One night, Norway smears his front door with blood. In ancient times, this could keep glances away.
It doesn’t anymore.
The next time he comes unbidden, the southernmost Scandinavian is drunk off his ass, angry at Norway for locking himself up, angry at the world, angry at his feelings, and absolutely outraged at the blood on the door. He kicks it down like locks mean nothing to him.
He runs up to Norway’s dark room, where nothing but moonlight floods in, and even this is scarce.
Norway isn’t moving.
He lights every light in his way and screams at the top of his lungs at the withered, frail naked body on the bed. He looks so weak, so drained, and Denmark knows, even drunk, that he is dead.
He cries, and he slaps him.
Norway doesn’t wake.
Denmark screams. He isn’t sad; he is frustrated.
Death comes to them from time to time, but it is always painful, and it always means something, and it is never a relief; re-awakening is even worse. He has died a few times, and he doesn’t wish it upon anyone—and a nation bringing it to themselves is truly unsettling. One never knows when they wake up, either; it may take minutes. It may take months.
It may take years.
After his independence, Finland was killed in an early riot of civil war and died for nearly twenty years. Prussia was gone for fifty. And Denmark remembers the Holy Roman Empire, and wonders when he will show up. And the longer they’ve been gone, the worse it hurts as the rotten blood warms up again, as the heart manages to squeeze and thrum the congealed ooze forth, as the maggots wither away and return the consumed flesh to them. He still remembers Sweden thrashing and screaming after Denmark killed him during their Viking days, and he’d only been gone for an hour.
Denmark shakes Norway furiously, and only manages to get blood unto his hands.
With those same stained hands, he punches the wall. Then he tears down all decoration, smashes vases, destroys pictures and books and furniture.
When everything is broken, he holds Norway close, and waits.
He’s already awake.
“You’ll pay for that, you know” he chokes out, noncommittally.
Denmark prepares his lungs to scream angrily at him, but Norway sighs and rolls his eyes.
“Calm down. I just took it too far. It doesn’t happen this often.”
Norway, somehow, can’t bring himself to look at Denmark. He thought he’d be better at this—colder and more stoic and empty—but he can feel Denmark judging him, thinking all the wrong things, and the fact that he looks so damn worried makes something—something, something close to guilt—squirm in his stomach until the need of the blade is imminent and overwhelming, even though he’s so weak.
On the back of his mind, he starts thinking that he might have a problem.
“What do you mean, ‘This often’?” Denmark says. His hands are slippery with blood as they search his body for deep wounds that may need treating, although Norway’s cuts are healing.
Slowly. Painfully.
Involuntarily.
He starts registering that he’s naked, as well. It used to mean so little in ancient times, just the absence of clothes, and it could make a spell more powerful back then to present oneself to the gods as a gift—yet now, the meaning has changed, and he feels self conscious. Old, wrinkled, tainted, stained, scarred, unworthy of the hands that roam him and he doesn’t want Denmark to touch him, doesn’t want him to see him this way, but he’s still too weak to squirm or resist and…
All magic and light have left him, and if Denmark was to do anything to him, he could not stop him. He could not defend himself from anyone.
Maybe… maybe, even though in the past it made him strong, now it weakened him.
The thought is pure pain, but everything is.
He looks away, and feels suddenly scared. This can’t be happening. This isn’t just reckless self harm… this is pathetic.
“Norge…?”
There is something dripping that shouldn’t be dripping—something that hasn’t dripped in centuries. It’s not his veins, not the familiar feeling of spilling blood.
It’s tears.
Norway has started crying. He wants to move his hands up to his face to hide it, but finds that he can’t, that he’s completely broken himself, ruined his arms, that he even depends on Denmark to sit right now.
How could he do this to himself?
Denmark’s hand rests on his cheek without him being able to swat it off, to slap him as he always does, and he can do nothing but consent this to him, consent him to notice that he’s helpless and crying and pathetic and small and weak and—
“Oh god, Norge” Denmark whispers, and Norway smells the alcohol off his breath. He’s lucky as it is that Denmark is only sad and not pissed anymore. This could be so much worse.
Then Denmark leans down and kisses him.
The blood in his veins pumps furiously, and the cuts that were closing start bleeding again. His own breath hitches, but each sip of oxygen makes his head hurt worse, until the pain is unbearable once again and he begs to fall unconscious.
“Are you going to rape me?” he asks. The question just slips out of his mouth. He’s weak and resigned and thinks for a second that that’s what he deserves for being such an idiot, anyway.
Denmark lets him fall to the floor and runs away.
He laughs at himself after he’s gone, a bitter laugh devoid of everything—devoid of understanding, too.
Two days later, he can move again. He stinks and everything is full of rotting, dark brown blood. The first thing he does is ram a blade into his arm, and slash.
He feels absolutely nothing. Even the relief is gone.
Light starts flooding into his room as he watches the cut bleed and heal. He stabs his thigh. There’s only a dull sort of pain.
Norway blinks.
He scrambles up, more drags himself than walks and falls face first into the shower, but as he cleans the remains of congealed blood, he thinks that he can see properly again. He gets dressed, eats something, puts his phone into his pocket, and picks up all the cooking oil from the kitchen to spill it on his bloodstained room. He makes a small pile of all his knives in the centre, and tosses the bottle onto it, too. Then he lights a match.
Fire makes light, slowly, warm and almost foreign.
Within the burning blood, a troll smiles at him and says, “Finally. It was getting creepy, man.”
He nods with a curt smile. He walks south as his phone beeps his outgoing call.
He breathes in sunlight. All scars are closed. All light comes back.
“Hello?”
The End
All magic and light have left him, and if Denmark was to do anything to him, he could not stop him. He could not defend himself from anyone.
Maybe… maybe, even though in the past it made him strong, now it weakened him.
The thought is pure pain, but everything is.
He looks away, and feels suddenly scared. This can’t be happening. This isn’t just reckless self harm… this is pathetic.
“Norge…?”
There is something dripping that shouldn’t be dripping—something that hasn’t dripped in centuries. It’s not his veins, not the familiar feeling of spilling blood.
It’s tears.
Norway has started crying. He wants to move his hands up to his face to hide it, but finds that he can’t, that he’s completely broken himself, ruined his arms, that he even depends on Denmark to sit right now.
How could he do this to himself?
Denmark’s hand rests on his cheek without him being able to swat it off, to slap him as he always does, and he can do nothing but consent this to him, consent him to notice that he’s helpless and crying and pathetic and small and weak and—
“Oh god, Norge” Denmark whispers, and Norway smells the alcohol off his breath. He’s lucky as it is that Denmark is only sad and not pissed anymore. This could be so much worse.
Then Denmark leans down and kisses him.
The blood in his veins pumps furiously, and the cuts that were closing start bleeding again. His own breath hitches, but each sip of oxygen makes his head hurt worse, until the pain is unbearable once again and he begs to fall unconscious.
“Are you going to rape me?” he asks. The question just slips out of his mouth. He’s weak and resigned and thinks for a second that that’s what he deserves for being such an idiot, anyway.
Denmark lets him fall to the floor and runs away.
He laughs at himself after he’s gone, a bitter laugh devoid of everything—devoid of understanding, too.
Two days later, he can move again. He stinks and everything is full of rotting, dark brown blood. The first thing he does is ram a blade into his arm, and slash.
He feels absolutely nothing. Even the relief is gone.
Light starts flooding into his room as he watches the cut bleed and heal. He stabs his thigh. There’s only a dull sort of pain.
Norway blinks.
He scrambles up, more drags himself than walks and falls face first into the shower, but as he cleans the remains of congealed blood, he thinks that he can see properly again. He gets dressed, eats something, puts his phone into his pocket, and picks up all the cooking oil from the kitchen to spill it on his bloodstained room. He makes a small pile of all his knives in the centre, and tosses the bottle onto it, too. Then he lights a match.
Fire makes light, slowly, warm and almost foreign.
Within the burning blood, a troll smiles at him and says, “Finally. It was getting creepy, man.”
He nods with a curt smile. He walks south as his phone beeps his outgoing call.
He breathes in sunlight. All scars are closed. All light comes back.
“Hello?”
The End
REPRISE
He lives with Matthias now. He calls himself Niels. He doesn’t give a fuck about failed independence or whatever the opposite is—Norway is in good hands, now he’s in Copenhagen, and everything seems fine.
He wakes up late and finds a note from Matthias.
Business to solve with Berwald. Some idiots threw themselves into the Oresund, looks big enough to make the news.
Niels shakes his head, sad for a second.
Why would anyone kill themselves?
He has breakfast and a shower, and seeing as he’s still alone, he cleans the house. First the attic, a brief sweeping, then the first floor, then the ground floor, then the basement.
In a corner, there’s a bright red axe.
Niels walks towards it. He lets his broom fall to the side carelessly.
His eyes are trembling. His hands are not. He presses the soft side of his wrist to the waxed and well-cared for blade.
Something drips onto the carpet.
Norway smiles while he chants a curse in Old Norse, and feels an ancient creature sprouting from the floor behind him.
“You called, my master?”
With one sharp swing of Denmark’s axe, the creature’s head lies severed on the floor. He takes his wrist to his mouth and sucks, frowning at the pain, and whispers into his slit skin, “I can summon powers greater than yours without blood”.
A small army of nisse gathers the corpse. Magic dances around the house, trolls and huldras and fairies greet him with warm smiles.
He locks them all up in the basement, knowing they won’t have trouble coming out, and cooks a meal for two. He wonders when Denmark will come.
First one to guess what the bad interpretation of this ending is gets a cookie :D The good interpretation is the literal one. I'm sorry for sucking big time in recognizing what you wanted with the prompt, OP.
He lives with Matthias now. He calls himself Niels. He doesn’t give a fuck about failed independence or whatever the opposite is—Norway is in good hands, now he’s in Copenhagen, and everything seems fine.
He wakes up late and finds a note from Matthias.
Business to solve with Berwald. Some idiots threw themselves into the Oresund, looks big enough to make the news.
Niels shakes his head, sad for a second.
Why would anyone kill themselves?
He has breakfast and a shower, and seeing as he’s still alone, he cleans the house. First the attic, a brief sweeping, then the first floor, then the ground floor, then the basement.
In a corner, there’s a bright red axe.
Niels walks towards it. He lets his broom fall to the side carelessly.
His eyes are trembling. His hands are not. He presses the soft side of his wrist to the waxed and well-cared for blade.
Something drips onto the carpet.
Norway smiles while he chants a curse in Old Norse, and feels an ancient creature sprouting from the floor behind him.
“You called, my master?”
With one sharp swing of Denmark’s axe, the creature’s head lies severed on the floor. He takes his wrist to his mouth and sucks, frowning at the pain, and whispers into his slit skin, “I can summon powers greater than yours without blood”.
A small army of nisse gathers the corpse. Magic dances around the house, trolls and huldras and fairies greet him with warm smiles.
He locks them all up in the basement, knowing they won’t have trouble coming out, and cooks a meal for two. He wonders when Denmark will come.
First one to guess what the bad interpretation of this ending is gets a cookie :D The good interpretation is the literal one. I'm sorry for sucking big time in recognizing what you wanted with the prompt, OP.
Read it. Read it. It's free: http://www.baenebooks.com/p-379-1632.aspx
(The first two books are free, but then you might be prepared to sell your soul for the other not-free books in the series...You may curse me later)
Look, I'm not from Europe, I knew the barest amount about the Thirty Year War. I'm told there are better, factual history books I should have read instead of this alternative history story. But's fun and I learned a lot and nothing is wildly incorrect. It may irritate you. But I think anyone who reads Hetalia would love it (Tell your friends, spread the world, get me more hetalia/ring of fire fans to talk to).
The Fins are represented as complete terrors on the battlefield, making battler hardened mercs wet themselves. How could I leave Finland out of the fun, even if he's still adorable?
I'm glad you like the fic, there shall be more.
(The first two books are free, but then you might be prepared to sell your soul for the other not-free books in the series...You may curse me later)
Look, I'm not from Europe, I knew the barest amount about the Thirty Year War. I'm told there are better, factual history books I should have read instead of this alternative history story. But's fun and I learned a lot and nothing is wildly incorrect. It may irritate you. But I think anyone who reads Hetalia would love it (Tell your friends, spread the world, get me more hetalia/ring of fire fans to talk to).
The Fins are represented as complete terrors on the battlefield, making battler hardened mercs wet themselves. How could I leave Finland out of the fun, even if he's still adorable?
I'm glad you like the fic, there shall be more.
Why, recpatcha? Now you've got my brain ticking over. Egypt would be an amazing fill for this. I'd write it myself, if I could (my muse has taken a vacation).
Thirded.
Thirded.
Seconded. Because Egypt needs more love, seriously.
Anon.
This.
Was fantastic.
The interplay of pain and magic and blood and loss throughout was beautifully done, so that it felt dark and a little bleak without ever feeling hopeless, somehow, and the transformation of the injuries from tool to self-hatred was excellent. Denmark's involvement was fantastic, and "Are you going to rape me?" and Denmark's reaction ... just showing how far Norway has fallen. Kudos, A!A!
This.
Was fantastic.
The interplay of pain and magic and blood and loss throughout was beautifully done, so that it felt dark and a little bleak without ever feeling hopeless, somehow, and the transformation of the injuries from tool to self-hatred was excellent. Denmark's involvement was fantastic, and "Are you going to rape me?" and Denmark's reaction ... just showing how far Norway has fallen. Kudos, A!A!
She led him upstairs with her tie binding his hands like a leash. He took the steps carefully, swaying a little without his hands to balance him. He had to look down to find the steps, but he couldn’t resist glancing up a few times at the tall line of her back, the assurance with which she carried herself. Even half-naked, with the hem of her open shirt brushing the top of her thighs, Miss Monaco moved like a queen.
“In here,” Monaco said, pushing open a door and tugging lightly on the tie. Seborga swallowed and followed her through.
Monaco’s bedroom was bright after the darkness of the stairs. The afternoon sun poured in through large windows, gleaming off the varnish on the floorboards. There were paintings on the walls, vague swirls of bright colour that suggested images without actually depicting anything, and patterned rugs on the floor by the bed and in front of the window. The furniture was like everything else in Monaco’s house – sturdy and elegant. The bedframe was elaborately curved wrought iron, and the tall posts at each corner were topped by metal swept and twisted so that it looked like the flame of a torch.
“Come on, then!” Miss Monaco tugged him towards the bed, a little bounce appearing in her steps despite her high heels, and Seborga almost stumbled before he matched her pace. She sat down on the edge of the bed and gave him a smile that somehow blended excitement with regal approval, and Seborga’s heart thudded in his chest.
He wanted…he didn’t know exactly what he wanted, beyond that he wanted whatever she wanted. And he couldn’t tell exactly what she wanted, beyond that she wanted him to obey her, so Seborga bowed his head a little, enough to show respect while allowing his eyes to catch her face, to watch for her desires.
Miss Monaco’s back straightened. The hand that held the end of the tie still binding his wrists flicked minutely, and Seborga felt the corresponding twitch in the knot beneath his palms.
“Kneel,” she said, and oh.
Seborga knelt. It wasn’t graceful, without his hands, but Miss Monaco’s smile turned approving and Seborga couldn’t look away from it, from her pleasure in his submission. The blue silk of her tie hung between them, wrapped loosely around her clever fingers, and if Seborga flexed his wrists a little he could feel it start to dig in. Maybe it wasn’t something he’d ever expected to like so much, to kneel with his hands bound in another’s service, but – how could he not want to obey her?
The thick pile of the rug was soft and a little prickly under his bare shins, but Seborga barely noticed. He kept his wrists up in front of him, not pulling on the tie, and dipped his head low.
He couldn’t see her face, but he could see her leg – the pale lace twining over pale skin, the arch of her foot and the line of her calf above the red leather of her shoe – and he could see the way her knees shifted just slightly apart. He felt the tie twitch again as she moved her hand.
“Kiss my feet,” she said. Her voice was calm, and Seborga couldn’t tell if there was a little excitement under it or not.
He bowed his head lower and pressed his lips to the toe of her right shoe. It smelled of dust and polish, and the red leather was smooth and still a little warm from the sun. He parted his lips, let his breath brush across her foot the way he wanted it to brush across her skin. Raised his head just a fraction, enough to shift his weight sideways, and kissed her left foot. His tongue wanted to flick out, to taste the leather. Seborga kept it in.
He stayed there, bowed over her foot, waiting for the sound of her voice. He heard Miss Monaco sigh, and then the shoe beneath his lips slid forward, the toe nudging under his chin and tipping his head back, and Seborga felt a thousand tiny shivers go through him.
“In here,” Monaco said, pushing open a door and tugging lightly on the tie. Seborga swallowed and followed her through.
Monaco’s bedroom was bright after the darkness of the stairs. The afternoon sun poured in through large windows, gleaming off the varnish on the floorboards. There were paintings on the walls, vague swirls of bright colour that suggested images without actually depicting anything, and patterned rugs on the floor by the bed and in front of the window. The furniture was like everything else in Monaco’s house – sturdy and elegant. The bedframe was elaborately curved wrought iron, and the tall posts at each corner were topped by metal swept and twisted so that it looked like the flame of a torch.
“Come on, then!” Miss Monaco tugged him towards the bed, a little bounce appearing in her steps despite her high heels, and Seborga almost stumbled before he matched her pace. She sat down on the edge of the bed and gave him a smile that somehow blended excitement with regal approval, and Seborga’s heart thudded in his chest.
He wanted…he didn’t know exactly what he wanted, beyond that he wanted whatever she wanted. And he couldn’t tell exactly what she wanted, beyond that she wanted him to obey her, so Seborga bowed his head a little, enough to show respect while allowing his eyes to catch her face, to watch for her desires.
Miss Monaco’s back straightened. The hand that held the end of the tie still binding his wrists flicked minutely, and Seborga felt the corresponding twitch in the knot beneath his palms.
“Kneel,” she said, and oh.
Seborga knelt. It wasn’t graceful, without his hands, but Miss Monaco’s smile turned approving and Seborga couldn’t look away from it, from her pleasure in his submission. The blue silk of her tie hung between them, wrapped loosely around her clever fingers, and if Seborga flexed his wrists a little he could feel it start to dig in. Maybe it wasn’t something he’d ever expected to like so much, to kneel with his hands bound in another’s service, but – how could he not want to obey her?
The thick pile of the rug was soft and a little prickly under his bare shins, but Seborga barely noticed. He kept his wrists up in front of him, not pulling on the tie, and dipped his head low.
He couldn’t see her face, but he could see her leg – the pale lace twining over pale skin, the arch of her foot and the line of her calf above the red leather of her shoe – and he could see the way her knees shifted just slightly apart. He felt the tie twitch again as she moved her hand.
“Kiss my feet,” she said. Her voice was calm, and Seborga couldn’t tell if there was a little excitement under it or not.
He bowed his head lower and pressed his lips to the toe of her right shoe. It smelled of dust and polish, and the red leather was smooth and still a little warm from the sun. He parted his lips, let his breath brush across her foot the way he wanted it to brush across her skin. Raised his head just a fraction, enough to shift his weight sideways, and kissed her left foot. His tongue wanted to flick out, to taste the leather. Seborga kept it in.
He stayed there, bowed over her foot, waiting for the sound of her voice. He heard Miss Monaco sigh, and then the shoe beneath his lips slid forward, the toe nudging under his chin and tipping his head back, and Seborga felt a thousand tiny shivers go through him.
Seborga had looked nice tied to the chair. He looked even better on his knees.
On his knees and eager. She could see the colour in his skin, and the light in his eyes.
“Good boy,” she murmured. She’d have stroked his hair again, but he was too close to the floor for her to reach. She tugged lightly on the tie. “Come here.”
He straightened up, and Monaco watched the little ripple of muscle across his back as he pulled his body up. She parted her knees, and Seborga shuffled in between them with only a little twitch of the tie. She did let her left hand rest on his hair this time, rubbing the soft strands between thumb and forefinger, and Seborga’s eyelids fluttered under the contact.
He was still smiling – a small, wondering curve of his mouth.
He was still watching her as though his world contained nothing else.
She could almost have wondered at how warm it made her feel.
“Do you know what to do?” she inquired, cupping her left hand over the back of his head.
“Yes, Miss Monaco,” Seborga whispered, and Monaco smiled, and pulled him to her.
He kissed the inside of her thigh above the stockings – once on the left, once on the right – brief butterfly kisses, his lips brushing lightly and almost reverently over her skin with little puffs of breath, before he opened his mouth.
She felt his tongue lave against her, and mmm, that was nice. Monaco allowed her head to fall back for just a moment, and took a deep breath, and then she pulled herself together once again. She wasn’t about to lose control.
The sun was warm on her shoulders and back, and Seborga’s mouth was warm on her flesh, and Monaco’s body was warming all through. She eyed the slope of his back and his neck, the strong curve of his shoulders, while her hand toyed idly in his hair. Seborga trembled, and his tongue did something very pleasant indeed, something that sent a little bolt through her. Monaco’s breath hitched, and after a moment Seborga did it again.
He was better at this than she’d expected. More firm, steady pressure than fancy tricks, but he caught on fast to what she liked, and he was so eager to please that it made everything even better.
It was very pleasant, actually. She was getting close. Maybe she shouldn’t –
But then, she was the one who decided that, wasn’t she? And if she wanted to pull Seborga’s mouth a little closer, then she could do that, and he would let her and enjoy it –
Monaco tightened her fingers in Seborga’s hair, throwing her head back as the wave crested and broke inside her.
On his knees and eager. She could see the colour in his skin, and the light in his eyes.
“Good boy,” she murmured. She’d have stroked his hair again, but he was too close to the floor for her to reach. She tugged lightly on the tie. “Come here.”
He straightened up, and Monaco watched the little ripple of muscle across his back as he pulled his body up. She parted her knees, and Seborga shuffled in between them with only a little twitch of the tie. She did let her left hand rest on his hair this time, rubbing the soft strands between thumb and forefinger, and Seborga’s eyelids fluttered under the contact.
He was still smiling – a small, wondering curve of his mouth.
He was still watching her as though his world contained nothing else.
She could almost have wondered at how warm it made her feel.
“Do you know what to do?” she inquired, cupping her left hand over the back of his head.
“Yes, Miss Monaco,” Seborga whispered, and Monaco smiled, and pulled him to her.
He kissed the inside of her thigh above the stockings – once on the left, once on the right – brief butterfly kisses, his lips brushing lightly and almost reverently over her skin with little puffs of breath, before he opened his mouth.
She felt his tongue lave against her, and mmm, that was nice. Monaco allowed her head to fall back for just a moment, and took a deep breath, and then she pulled herself together once again. She wasn’t about to lose control.
The sun was warm on her shoulders and back, and Seborga’s mouth was warm on her flesh, and Monaco’s body was warming all through. She eyed the slope of his back and his neck, the strong curve of his shoulders, while her hand toyed idly in his hair. Seborga trembled, and his tongue did something very pleasant indeed, something that sent a little bolt through her. Monaco’s breath hitched, and after a moment Seborga did it again.
He was better at this than she’d expected. More firm, steady pressure than fancy tricks, but he caught on fast to what she liked, and he was so eager to please that it made everything even better.
It was very pleasant, actually. She was getting close. Maybe she shouldn’t –
But then, she was the one who decided that, wasn’t she? And if she wanted to pull Seborga’s mouth a little closer, then she could do that, and he would let her and enjoy it –
Monaco tightened her fingers in Seborga’s hair, throwing her head back as the wave crested and broke inside her.
(Author’s notes at end, except for a warning: I did again slightly change a couple of side-character names.)
***
This time Arthur couldn't -- and thus didn't -- even pretend that everything was fine, just fine here, thanks. He moped.
He hurt Portia's feelings when she called Sunday to wax poetic about her Korean carpenter, with whom she'd finally gone on a date. He was totally cute, she said, and he was goofy and smart and had a liberal arts degree from Northwestern but he made better money at contracting and it was love at first sight for both of them and she was seeing him again and so on and so on and Arthur mumbled "yes, how nice for you" and Portia went silent and asked what was wrong. "Nothing, why would you ask that," Arthur said, and Portia gave up, apparently disgusted with the nastiness of his tone.
He arose late for work for several days in a row. He glowered and caused his office staff to avoid him, which suited him fine.
He put on false smiles for his clients and listened to their problems. He didn't want to be in love with Alfred Jones, though he could think of no other reason for the turmoil in his head and heart. He was hurt and angry, and at the same time he wished it were not so and that he could see Alfred again and listen to his silly chatter and kiss him silent and then ... He'd already been imagining himself in Alfred's life, for fuck's sake.
He didn't want to feel like a-- a thing. A thing that had experienced something wonderful and intimate and exceptionally arousing to remember, but still, a Thing.
The other Arthur in his brain reminded him that, well, he hadn't expressed any deeper feelings, either, at least not really. But surely his emotions had been plain? Of course they had. Everyone could read him.
Unless they were as clueless as Alfred was. You are emotionally distant, Mariel Jones had written to her husband. Well, Arthur had thought then, it took one to know one.
Alfred called once and Arthur's heart stopped as he felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and then thumped hard against his ribs when he saw who it was. He didn't answer. Alfred spoke to Arthur's voicemail. "Hey. I still wanted to try and talk, but if you're not going to answer ... It's hard to explain what's in my head, and I'm definitely not gonna do it over voicemail. Can we meet for drinks, or coffee, or something? Call me if you want to. Bye."
No, Arthur thought, ignoring the shiver the mere sound of Alfred's voice produced in his belly. He deleted the message. He needed to move on, to learn to be normal again. To not think about the taste of Alfred's sweat, or the way he gasped when Arthur touched his ridiculous nipple-ring. That way lay madness, obviously, or Bella and Monaca wouldn't duck and shuffle off every time they spotted him.
He holed himself in his office and worked harder. He asked his trainer for extra workouts, to occupy his mind and wear himself out.
Once he'd had a few days of moping, however, things only got worse. In addition to the pain of his unrequited love, a sense of guilt began to trickle into his already roiling mess of emotions. When he held the stage of their entire acquaintance in his mind's eye and replayed their scenes together in that way his brain liked to do, that guilt shone a spotlight on things Arthur had missed or ignored in his haze of lust and betrayal.
Expected betrayal, if he were honest -- he'd just been waiting for it, hadn't he? And ever since the beginning, Alfred had been trying to pretend, very badly, that he didn't care about his divorce. Being emotionally distant. Arthur's heart began to ache even more, not only for himself but for Alfred: his wife had left him for another man.
That last night, Alfred had been clearly upset. Yes, he'd said some rather rude things -- not like you didn't get anything -- but then, so had Arthur.
It was a lovely fuck, thank you, he'd said. Arthur cringed inwardly every time he remembered saying that, and the tone of voice he'd used. Once while driving he cringed outwardly, actually winced in traffic, causing him to swerve. A taxi screeched past him, the driver blaring the horn and waving his middle finger out the window. Arthur had been so distracted he hadn't even made a return rude gesture.
***
This time Arthur couldn't -- and thus didn't -- even pretend that everything was fine, just fine here, thanks. He moped.
He hurt Portia's feelings when she called Sunday to wax poetic about her Korean carpenter, with whom she'd finally gone on a date. He was totally cute, she said, and he was goofy and smart and had a liberal arts degree from Northwestern but he made better money at contracting and it was love at first sight for both of them and she was seeing him again and so on and so on and Arthur mumbled "yes, how nice for you" and Portia went silent and asked what was wrong. "Nothing, why would you ask that," Arthur said, and Portia gave up, apparently disgusted with the nastiness of his tone.
He arose late for work for several days in a row. He glowered and caused his office staff to avoid him, which suited him fine.
He put on false smiles for his clients and listened to their problems. He didn't want to be in love with Alfred Jones, though he could think of no other reason for the turmoil in his head and heart. He was hurt and angry, and at the same time he wished it were not so and that he could see Alfred again and listen to his silly chatter and kiss him silent and then ... He'd already been imagining himself in Alfred's life, for fuck's sake.
He didn't want to feel like a-- a thing. A thing that had experienced something wonderful and intimate and exceptionally arousing to remember, but still, a Thing.
The other Arthur in his brain reminded him that, well, he hadn't expressed any deeper feelings, either, at least not really. But surely his emotions had been plain? Of course they had. Everyone could read him.
Unless they were as clueless as Alfred was. You are emotionally distant, Mariel Jones had written to her husband. Well, Arthur had thought then, it took one to know one.
Alfred called once and Arthur's heart stopped as he felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and then thumped hard against his ribs when he saw who it was. He didn't answer. Alfred spoke to Arthur's voicemail. "Hey. I still wanted to try and talk, but if you're not going to answer ... It's hard to explain what's in my head, and I'm definitely not gonna do it over voicemail. Can we meet for drinks, or coffee, or something? Call me if you want to. Bye."
No, Arthur thought, ignoring the shiver the mere sound of Alfred's voice produced in his belly. He deleted the message. He needed to move on, to learn to be normal again. To not think about the taste of Alfred's sweat, or the way he gasped when Arthur touched his ridiculous nipple-ring. That way lay madness, obviously, or Bella and Monaca wouldn't duck and shuffle off every time they spotted him.
He holed himself in his office and worked harder. He asked his trainer for extra workouts, to occupy his mind and wear himself out.
Once he'd had a few days of moping, however, things only got worse. In addition to the pain of his unrequited love, a sense of guilt began to trickle into his already roiling mess of emotions. When he held the stage of their entire acquaintance in his mind's eye and replayed their scenes together in that way his brain liked to do, that guilt shone a spotlight on things Arthur had missed or ignored in his haze of lust and betrayal.
Expected betrayal, if he were honest -- he'd just been waiting for it, hadn't he? And ever since the beginning, Alfred had been trying to pretend, very badly, that he didn't care about his divorce. Being emotionally distant. Arthur's heart began to ache even more, not only for himself but for Alfred: his wife had left him for another man.
That last night, Alfred had been clearly upset. Yes, he'd said some rather rude things -- not like you didn't get anything -- but then, so had Arthur.
It was a lovely fuck, thank you, he'd said. Arthur cringed inwardly every time he remembered saying that, and the tone of voice he'd used. Once while driving he cringed outwardly, actually winced in traffic, causing him to swerve. A taxi screeched past him, the driver blaring the horn and waving his middle finger out the window. Arthur had been so distracted he hadn't even made a return rude gesture.
Perhaps pain was actually making him a better person? Probably not.
By Friday Portia had gotten tired of his radio silence and demanded to come over. She showed up directly after work, asked for tea instead of wine, and sat on his couch with crossed arms.
"I was going to drive up to Milwaukee tonight, but I decided to wait until tomorrow because I was worried about you," she accused in a voice that carried all the way into the kitchen, where Arthur was setting the electric kettle to boiling.
"Why ever would you worry?" Arthur called back, that time making sure his tone was as guileless as possible.
"Something's wrong with you. When I called to tell you about Yong, you didn't even tell me how love at first sight doesn't exist. You always tell me that."
"Should I have?" he said. He'd never used to believe in love at first sight. Well, he'd never believed in love. Had it been first sight for him? Yes, he decided, because he felt like he'd been foolish for ever.
"No, because you're always wrong when you say it. Still, it wasn't like you?"
"Oh." Perhaps he was transparent only to those who knew him best and longest? Or perhaps he'd made for himself a reputation for cynicism and it was expected of him? Perhaps ... he was being exceedingly self-centered, wasn't he? There was another point off his score, joining the points he'd already lost with the guilt and the cringing.
The kettle boiled. He poured the water into the teapot and put the teapot on the tea tray. He loaded the tray and carried it into the front room. "Thank you for worrying," he said. "Are those new boots?"
Portia stretched out one leg. "Oh my gosh, yes! Aren't they adorable?" Arthur would more have called them dangerous, to both the wearer and any unwary passersby, with those skyscraping, pointy heels and the silver spikes scattered about the cuffs. "I got them on sale at Nordstrom, and -- hey, you're distracting me, aren't you? Did you go to the cocktail party at Mister Glasses's place?"
Arthur set the tea tray on the table. "Yes."
"What happened?"
"Things," Arthur said, pouring a cup for Portia and then one for himself.
"Sexy things?"
Arthur sighed. "Yes."
Portia raised her eyebrows. "You don't seem very happy about it."
Arthur sighed again. "I'm not. We had ... a disagreement." He gave her a very edited version, which basically said that they'd had sex and Alfred had moped over his absent wife and thus Arthur had gotten mortified and left.
Portia blew on her tea and sipped it. "Well, he was right to be guilty about her, though he probably shouldn't have taken it out on you. I'm indignant on your behalf, because he shouldn't have seduced you if all he wanted to do was try and forget his wife. Jerk."
Arthur had started to pour milk into his tea but paused. "Well, I wouldn't say it was he who'd started-- who was ... doing all the seducing."
Portia sighed and set her teacup in its saucer. "Oh, Arthur. So what's the real problem?"
"I feel stupid. I can't even say it aloud," Arthur said. And then thought about what he'd just said, and wondered if the same situation had applied to Alfred. He'd said he was trying to get better at stuff. When he'd said stuff, he'd meant communicting, hadn't he?
God, I am such an idiot, Arthur thought. Well, Alfred was an idiot, too, but Arthur was a bigger one. For getting involved in the first place, for falling in love with someone who (a) was a client or ex-client, (b) was married, and (c) couldn't express himself any better than Arthur could.
"That sounds terrible. It also sounds like something you should make yourself tell me, because it'll be good for you and I'll die of curiosity if you don't," Portia was saying.
No, I think you should tell me. Arthur felt his cheeks warm. He took a deep breath. "Fine. I'm in love with him. But he's in love with his wife, not me. That makes me sad and foolish and ... jealous."
"Oh, you can't help who you love," Portia moaned. She gave him a quick hug, making him nearly spill the milk, but he was glad for the sympathy. He poured a few drops of milk into his tea and stirred it to cover the tightness in his throat and, probably, his expression.
By Friday Portia had gotten tired of his radio silence and demanded to come over. She showed up directly after work, asked for tea instead of wine, and sat on his couch with crossed arms.
"I was going to drive up to Milwaukee tonight, but I decided to wait until tomorrow because I was worried about you," she accused in a voice that carried all the way into the kitchen, where Arthur was setting the electric kettle to boiling.
"Why ever would you worry?" Arthur called back, that time making sure his tone was as guileless as possible.
"Something's wrong with you. When I called to tell you about Yong, you didn't even tell me how love at first sight doesn't exist. You always tell me that."
"Should I have?" he said. He'd never used to believe in love at first sight. Well, he'd never believed in love. Had it been first sight for him? Yes, he decided, because he felt like he'd been foolish for ever.
"No, because you're always wrong when you say it. Still, it wasn't like you?"
"Oh." Perhaps he was transparent only to those who knew him best and longest? Or perhaps he'd made for himself a reputation for cynicism and it was expected of him? Perhaps ... he was being exceedingly self-centered, wasn't he? There was another point off his score, joining the points he'd already lost with the guilt and the cringing.
The kettle boiled. He poured the water into the teapot and put the teapot on the tea tray. He loaded the tray and carried it into the front room. "Thank you for worrying," he said. "Are those new boots?"
Portia stretched out one leg. "Oh my gosh, yes! Aren't they adorable?" Arthur would more have called them dangerous, to both the wearer and any unwary passersby, with those skyscraping, pointy heels and the silver spikes scattered about the cuffs. "I got them on sale at Nordstrom, and -- hey, you're distracting me, aren't you? Did you go to the cocktail party at Mister Glasses's place?"
Arthur set the tea tray on the table. "Yes."
"What happened?"
"Things," Arthur said, pouring a cup for Portia and then one for himself.
"Sexy things?"
Arthur sighed. "Yes."
Portia raised her eyebrows. "You don't seem very happy about it."
Arthur sighed again. "I'm not. We had ... a disagreement." He gave her a very edited version, which basically said that they'd had sex and Alfred had moped over his absent wife and thus Arthur had gotten mortified and left.
Portia blew on her tea and sipped it. "Well, he was right to be guilty about her, though he probably shouldn't have taken it out on you. I'm indignant on your behalf, because he shouldn't have seduced you if all he wanted to do was try and forget his wife. Jerk."
Arthur had started to pour milk into his tea but paused. "Well, I wouldn't say it was he who'd started-- who was ... doing all the seducing."
Portia sighed and set her teacup in its saucer. "Oh, Arthur. So what's the real problem?"
"I feel stupid. I can't even say it aloud," Arthur said. And then thought about what he'd just said, and wondered if the same situation had applied to Alfred. He'd said he was trying to get better at stuff. When he'd said stuff, he'd meant communicting, hadn't he?
God, I am such an idiot, Arthur thought. Well, Alfred was an idiot, too, but Arthur was a bigger one. For getting involved in the first place, for falling in love with someone who (a) was a client or ex-client, (b) was married, and (c) couldn't express himself any better than Arthur could.
"That sounds terrible. It also sounds like something you should make yourself tell me, because it'll be good for you and I'll die of curiosity if you don't," Portia was saying.
No, I think you should tell me. Arthur felt his cheeks warm. He took a deep breath. "Fine. I'm in love with him. But he's in love with his wife, not me. That makes me sad and foolish and ... jealous."
"Oh, you can't help who you love," Portia moaned. She gave him a quick hug, making him nearly spill the milk, but he was glad for the sympathy. He poured a few drops of milk into his tea and stirred it to cover the tightness in his throat and, probably, his expression.
"Tell me about your carpenter," Arthur said. That time it was definitely a distraction.
"Well, I sort of did. But of course there's tons more." Portia grinned. She told him how they talked every night, and how Yong had said he'd consider moving to Chicago, because he could find work anywhere he was happy. He loved sushi and traveling to Japan -- he had family there -- and he'd love to take Portia there for some sushi at the source. She looked joyful, moreso than Arthur had ever seen her when talking about a man, and Portia had talked about a lot of men.
"I want you to meet him," Portia added. "Can I bring him by next weekend? Saturday?"
"Yes, of course," Arthur said.
"But what will you do?" Portia asked. She finished the last of her tea and held her cup out for more. Arthur plucked off the cozy and poured.
"Probably nothing," he said, not even pretending to misunderstand her.
She raised an eyebrow at him and over-sugared her tea as usual. "Do you want to give it a chance? When things have had time to settle down? I mean, he's obviously interested, at least. Was the sex good?"
Arthur definitely blushed at that. "Yes. Very good. Very, very good."
"Gosh, you're red. So what's the problem?"
Arthur sighed. Yes, he had nosy friends, but damned if talking about it aloud didn't clear his head. "I don't wish to set myself up for more heartache, because I've discovered that when it's real, it's awful." He actually choked a little on the last.
Portia frowned in sympathy and patted his arm. She let him sip his tea before continuing in a gentle voice. "It might be worth the gamble. I've seen you in Las Vegas. You aren't a wussie, Arthur."
"No, but I'm not usually such a cock-up, either. I just don't know how to properly behave around the man." He sipped his tea. "Maybe. I'll see, when I'm ready."
"Just call him! You won't get anything or know anything just sitting around."
"I'll think about it."
"Nnnngh, Arthur, you are driving me nuts. Fine." She waved at him, signaling her surrender. "When you're ready."
Arthur nodded. He didn't hold high hopes for ever reaching that point, but one never knew.
***
Calling would have been the right thing to do. Alfred had made the gesture, and so it was up to Arthur, who was hardly blameless in the whole situation, to do the same in return.
But by Monday Arthur still hadn't called Alfred. At that point it had been an entire week; what would he say? "Er, sorry it took me so long. I've been too busy with ill-feeling and self-recrimination?"
The Portia in his head -- or the other Arthur, perhaps, since it was his voice -- told him to just do it. We could clear up this misunderstanding, or at least clear the air and get everything out, with one phone call, it said. Make the call!
Still, Arthur didn't do it. He did stop glaring around the office, and the staff began to cautiously creep back into his orbit.
By Tuesday the timing was no better. And Andersen had worse in store for him. He buzzed Arthur at nine fifty-five, just as Arthur was getting ready for his department review with Lili, and asked him to come to his office to talk.
Lars looked dreadful. His hair lay flat and lank upon his head, which it never did, and the skin around his eyes was pink and puffy.
"Did you just get in? Are you ill?" Arthur said, as soon as he saw him.
"Yes, and no. I have -- I have a family emergency and need to leave early today. I'll be out tomorrow, and probably Thursday as well."
Arthur sat and leaned forward. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?"
Lars swiped a hand across his forehead. "Just keep things going. I've cleared my schedule, except for -- can you cover my hearing tomorrow? Jones? There won't be a problem with the court, any more than when we switched the first time. I can call and clear it with Al. Francis Bonnefoy will be there -- nice fellow -- but my appearance is not something I can trust to an associate, no matter how excellent."
"Well, I sort of did. But of course there's tons more." Portia grinned. She told him how they talked every night, and how Yong had said he'd consider moving to Chicago, because he could find work anywhere he was happy. He loved sushi and traveling to Japan -- he had family there -- and he'd love to take Portia there for some sushi at the source. She looked joyful, moreso than Arthur had ever seen her when talking about a man, and Portia had talked about a lot of men.
"I want you to meet him," Portia added. "Can I bring him by next weekend? Saturday?"
"Yes, of course," Arthur said.
"But what will you do?" Portia asked. She finished the last of her tea and held her cup out for more. Arthur plucked off the cozy and poured.
"Probably nothing," he said, not even pretending to misunderstand her.
She raised an eyebrow at him and over-sugared her tea as usual. "Do you want to give it a chance? When things have had time to settle down? I mean, he's obviously interested, at least. Was the sex good?"
Arthur definitely blushed at that. "Yes. Very good. Very, very good."
"Gosh, you're red. So what's the problem?"
Arthur sighed. Yes, he had nosy friends, but damned if talking about it aloud didn't clear his head. "I don't wish to set myself up for more heartache, because I've discovered that when it's real, it's awful." He actually choked a little on the last.
Portia frowned in sympathy and patted his arm. She let him sip his tea before continuing in a gentle voice. "It might be worth the gamble. I've seen you in Las Vegas. You aren't a wussie, Arthur."
"No, but I'm not usually such a cock-up, either. I just don't know how to properly behave around the man." He sipped his tea. "Maybe. I'll see, when I'm ready."
"Just call him! You won't get anything or know anything just sitting around."
"I'll think about it."
"Nnnngh, Arthur, you are driving me nuts. Fine." She waved at him, signaling her surrender. "When you're ready."
Arthur nodded. He didn't hold high hopes for ever reaching that point, but one never knew.
***
Calling would have been the right thing to do. Alfred had made the gesture, and so it was up to Arthur, who was hardly blameless in the whole situation, to do the same in return.
But by Monday Arthur still hadn't called Alfred. At that point it had been an entire week; what would he say? "Er, sorry it took me so long. I've been too busy with ill-feeling and self-recrimination?"
The Portia in his head -- or the other Arthur, perhaps, since it was his voice -- told him to just do it. We could clear up this misunderstanding, or at least clear the air and get everything out, with one phone call, it said. Make the call!
Still, Arthur didn't do it. He did stop glaring around the office, and the staff began to cautiously creep back into his orbit.
By Tuesday the timing was no better. And Andersen had worse in store for him. He buzzed Arthur at nine fifty-five, just as Arthur was getting ready for his department review with Lili, and asked him to come to his office to talk.
Lars looked dreadful. His hair lay flat and lank upon his head, which it never did, and the skin around his eyes was pink and puffy.
"Did you just get in? Are you ill?" Arthur said, as soon as he saw him.
"Yes, and no. I have -- I have a family emergency and need to leave early today. I'll be out tomorrow, and probably Thursday as well."
Arthur sat and leaned forward. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?"
Lars swiped a hand across his forehead. "Just keep things going. I've cleared my schedule, except for -- can you cover my hearing tomorrow? Jones? There won't be a problem with the court, any more than when we switched the first time. I can call and clear it with Al. Francis Bonnefoy will be there -- nice fellow -- but my appearance is not something I can trust to an associate, no matter how excellent."
Arthur sat back and forced his jaw closed, else it would have hung open. Yes, this would be that week, wouldn't it? He could hardly have avoided hearing about it, even if he'd actually been trying to avoid it. "Can you not continue the hearing?"
Lars shook his head. "I agreed to the date and Ludwig finagled it with the court. I'm not sure how he managed to get such an early hearing date, but I don't want us to be at fault for messing with it. Plus we busted our asses getting everything ready and signed and agreed and notarized in time."
"Er," Arthur said again. "I would, except ..." He daren't continue.
Lars leaned forward and clasped his hands. Rather, he wrung them. "Can you please tell me, Arthur, why you dropped the case?
Arthur took a deep breath. "Lars, Alfred Jones and I had ... we had an attraction, and a disagreement over that, thus my transfer of representation to you. And since then we have had certain relations, which, while they do not continue, should preclude me ethically from working on his case." He winced inwardly, waiting for Lars to express shock and disappointment at the very idea of Arthur doing such a thing.
Astonishingly, Lars only shrugged. "Well, if it's not still going on, then there shouldn't be a problem. Unless you don't think the two of you can deal together for the length of time the hearing will take?"
Arthur's jaw did drop at that. "No, civility is not the issue, of course."
Lars leaned back in his chair and cupped his chin in his hand. "Then as long as Al is amenable, I'll notify the court." Arthur started to say something else, but then Lars's face crumpled like a piece of tissue in his fingers. "God, I think my marriage is failing. I think my wife wants to leave me. I need the time off to -- to see if we can't work things out--"
"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that--" Arthur began.
Lars hiccupped and waved, asking for a moment to compose himself. He did, somewhat, and continued. "You know, we see it every day, but don't know how it feels until it happens. I'll never take a client's feelings lightly again. But I'm also going to do what I can to stop it. Amy agreed to go down to French Lick with me for a couple of days ..."
Arthur's chest tightened with emotion, for Lars, for himself, for Alfred. Selfishness and empathy went together quite easily, he was discovering.
"Of course I'll attend the hearing, if Alfred Jones does not disagree," Arthur said, though his stomach did a flip-flop at saying it.
"Thank you, thank you," Lars said. He gave a weak laugh. "You know, I can't say that romance has made you any fun. You've been a holy terror for weeks."
"What?" Arthur cried, and then he sighed, past embarrassment. "I have," he admitted. "Sorry about that."
"No problem. Some people, when they go, do it kicking and screaming. Love is like death in a lot of ways. But as long as you're okay." At Arthur's nod, he swung forward in his chair. "I'll have Veni get you the file."
Lars arranged it all, and then he was gone. Arthur resolved to not stress himself overly about the situation, and to not even look at the file until the following morning. Kicking and screaming, indeed. He had strange dreams that night.
Though he did sleep. The next day he was on time again. He did his other necessary work, and when he deemed it the necessary moment, he laid the file squarely on his desk and plucked it open with two fingers -- almost like Alfred had treated the dissolution pleading at lunch that day. They were more alike than Arthur had thought, weren't they? He ignored the now-familiar heartache and guilt that churned in his stomach and forced himself to read the file.
It was complete and ready to go: the terms he'd hashed out with Alfred and H.F. weeks ago had been accepted with only very minor edits. All that remained was to meet everyone at the courthouse at two in the afternoon.
Lars shook his head. "I agreed to the date and Ludwig finagled it with the court. I'm not sure how he managed to get such an early hearing date, but I don't want us to be at fault for messing with it. Plus we busted our asses getting everything ready and signed and agreed and notarized in time."
"Er," Arthur said again. "I would, except ..." He daren't continue.
Lars leaned forward and clasped his hands. Rather, he wrung them. "Can you please tell me, Arthur, why you dropped the case?
Arthur took a deep breath. "Lars, Alfred Jones and I had ... we had an attraction, and a disagreement over that, thus my transfer of representation to you. And since then we have had certain relations, which, while they do not continue, should preclude me ethically from working on his case." He winced inwardly, waiting for Lars to express shock and disappointment at the very idea of Arthur doing such a thing.
Astonishingly, Lars only shrugged. "Well, if it's not still going on, then there shouldn't be a problem. Unless you don't think the two of you can deal together for the length of time the hearing will take?"
Arthur's jaw did drop at that. "No, civility is not the issue, of course."
Lars leaned back in his chair and cupped his chin in his hand. "Then as long as Al is amenable, I'll notify the court." Arthur started to say something else, but then Lars's face crumpled like a piece of tissue in his fingers. "God, I think my marriage is failing. I think my wife wants to leave me. I need the time off to -- to see if we can't work things out--"
"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that--" Arthur began.
Lars hiccupped and waved, asking for a moment to compose himself. He did, somewhat, and continued. "You know, we see it every day, but don't know how it feels until it happens. I'll never take a client's feelings lightly again. But I'm also going to do what I can to stop it. Amy agreed to go down to French Lick with me for a couple of days ..."
Arthur's chest tightened with emotion, for Lars, for himself, for Alfred. Selfishness and empathy went together quite easily, he was discovering.
"Of course I'll attend the hearing, if Alfred Jones does not disagree," Arthur said, though his stomach did a flip-flop at saying it.
"Thank you, thank you," Lars said. He gave a weak laugh. "You know, I can't say that romance has made you any fun. You've been a holy terror for weeks."
"What?" Arthur cried, and then he sighed, past embarrassment. "I have," he admitted. "Sorry about that."
"No problem. Some people, when they go, do it kicking and screaming. Love is like death in a lot of ways. But as long as you're okay." At Arthur's nod, he swung forward in his chair. "I'll have Veni get you the file."
Lars arranged it all, and then he was gone. Arthur resolved to not stress himself overly about the situation, and to not even look at the file until the following morning. Kicking and screaming, indeed. He had strange dreams that night.
Though he did sleep. The next day he was on time again. He did his other necessary work, and when he deemed it the necessary moment, he laid the file squarely on his desk and plucked it open with two fingers -- almost like Alfred had treated the dissolution pleading at lunch that day. They were more alike than Arthur had thought, weren't they? He ignored the now-familiar heartache and guilt that churned in his stomach and forced himself to read the file.
It was complete and ready to go: the terms he'd hashed out with Alfred and H.F. weeks ago had been accepted with only very minor edits. All that remained was to meet everyone at the courthouse at two in the afternoon.
Arthur walked over to the court, leaving in time to arrive fifteen minutes early. There was a crushing breeze, as befitted the Windy City in March, but the sun was shining and the temperature fair enough to put springtime smiles on the faces of the pedestrians around him. Arthur couldn't say for sure if the weather lifted his own mood, but at least he wasn't openly shivering when he arrived at the courthouse and took the elevator up to their assigned courtroom.
Alfred was already there. Of course he was, because Arthur had been one-quarter hoping he would be and that they could talk, but three-quarters hoping he would arrive late and save Arthur the need to say ... whatever it was he needed to say.
Alfred looked tired, but no number of undereye circles could keep him from looking wonderful to Arthur's besotted eyes. When he spotted Arthur it seemed he smiled brilliantly, but by the time Arthur blinked the smile was gone as if it had never been there. A sober expression had taken its place.
"Well, here we are again," Alfred said. "Hello, Arthur."
"Hello, Mis-- Hello, Alfred," Arthur amended, knowing it was far to late to resume Mister Jonesing him. They shook hands, those warm, wonderful hands. "I hope you are well?"
"Not fantastic, but I'm present," Alfred said. He pushed his glasses up his nose with a finger. "Is Lars okay? He said he had a family emergency ..."
"I hope so. I haven't heard from him," Arthur admitted. He fiddled with the file to keep from staring at Alfred, from trying to read his every minute change in expression.
Alfred hmmed, as if clearing his throat. "You know, your partner's a nice guy, but I wish I'd kept you as my attorney all along." Arthur glanced up at that but Alfred was looking away, seeming to fidget some himself.
Arthur thus wasn't sure how to read that statement. Did he wish he'd never been so moronic as to fire Arthur, or that they'd never acted on their attraction in the first place? And there, once again Arthur had already managed to start second-guessing everything to do with the two of them.
He cleared his throat as Alfred had -- peas in a pod, they were. "Listen. I would like to say that I am--"
"Aaaaaah, Alfred. And Arthur! Together. All of us together again."
Of course that loud voice had come from Bonnefoy, who'd just stepped off the elevator. He was slicked back, shaven and professional for the occasion, and wearing a black suit like he was going to a funeral.
"Hi, Frannie," Alfred called.
Arthur glared at Bonnefoy out of habit, then swallowed over the lump in his throat. "Perhaps we can talk later?"
Alfred nodded. "Yeah, sure. That would be good."
Bonnefoy hugged Alfred and stuck out a hand at Arthur with a very white and very sly grin. "I hope I didn't interrupt you two?"
"By no means," Arthur said, shaking Bonnefoy's hand. He let the you ass hang there unsaid, but present in his tone.
They chatted generally and compared notes about the case for a minute or two. The elevator dinged again and disgorged more passengers.
Arthur stared: it was Ludwig Schmidt, another, shorter man he did not know, and an exceptionally stunning and noticeably pregnant woman. This, then, must be Mariel Jones. Arthur realized he'd never seen her photo, because he'd never looked for it. He didn't know what he'd expected -- he'd always imagined some vaguely blondish, faceless woman -- but she was neither of those things. She was tall and had glowing, medium-dark skin and a profusion of chestnut, corkscrew curls tumbling from a knot at the back of her head. Her brown suit was nearly the exact color of the one Arthur owned, but of course the color looked much better on her.
Alfred had gone stock-still. He stared at nothing, at a point just past the newcomers. His hand gripped the back of Arthur's sleeve and Arthur nearly jumped.
Alfred was already there. Of course he was, because Arthur had been one-quarter hoping he would be and that they could talk, but three-quarters hoping he would arrive late and save Arthur the need to say ... whatever it was he needed to say.
Alfred looked tired, but no number of undereye circles could keep him from looking wonderful to Arthur's besotted eyes. When he spotted Arthur it seemed he smiled brilliantly, but by the time Arthur blinked the smile was gone as if it had never been there. A sober expression had taken its place.
"Well, here we are again," Alfred said. "Hello, Arthur."
"Hello, Mis-- Hello, Alfred," Arthur amended, knowing it was far to late to resume Mister Jonesing him. They shook hands, those warm, wonderful hands. "I hope you are well?"
"Not fantastic, but I'm present," Alfred said. He pushed his glasses up his nose with a finger. "Is Lars okay? He said he had a family emergency ..."
"I hope so. I haven't heard from him," Arthur admitted. He fiddled with the file to keep from staring at Alfred, from trying to read his every minute change in expression.
Alfred hmmed, as if clearing his throat. "You know, your partner's a nice guy, but I wish I'd kept you as my attorney all along." Arthur glanced up at that but Alfred was looking away, seeming to fidget some himself.
Arthur thus wasn't sure how to read that statement. Did he wish he'd never been so moronic as to fire Arthur, or that they'd never acted on their attraction in the first place? And there, once again Arthur had already managed to start second-guessing everything to do with the two of them.
He cleared his throat as Alfred had -- peas in a pod, they were. "Listen. I would like to say that I am--"
"Aaaaaah, Alfred. And Arthur! Together. All of us together again."
Of course that loud voice had come from Bonnefoy, who'd just stepped off the elevator. He was slicked back, shaven and professional for the occasion, and wearing a black suit like he was going to a funeral.
"Hi, Frannie," Alfred called.
Arthur glared at Bonnefoy out of habit, then swallowed over the lump in his throat. "Perhaps we can talk later?"
Alfred nodded. "Yeah, sure. That would be good."
Bonnefoy hugged Alfred and stuck out a hand at Arthur with a very white and very sly grin. "I hope I didn't interrupt you two?"
"By no means," Arthur said, shaking Bonnefoy's hand. He let the you ass hang there unsaid, but present in his tone.
They chatted generally and compared notes about the case for a minute or two. The elevator dinged again and disgorged more passengers.
Arthur stared: it was Ludwig Schmidt, another, shorter man he did not know, and an exceptionally stunning and noticeably pregnant woman. This, then, must be Mariel Jones. Arthur realized he'd never seen her photo, because he'd never looked for it. He didn't know what he'd expected -- he'd always imagined some vaguely blondish, faceless woman -- but she was neither of those things. She was tall and had glowing, medium-dark skin and a profusion of chestnut, corkscrew curls tumbling from a knot at the back of her head. Her brown suit was nearly the exact color of the one Arthur owned, but of course the color looked much better on her.
Alfred had gone stock-still. He stared at nothing, at a point just past the newcomers. His hand gripped the back of Arthur's sleeve and Arthur nearly jumped.
"That's Mariel. And Felix," Alfred said through a rictus smile.
"Ah," Arthur said, and glanced back at the group. So the other man was Felix: unlike Mrs. Jones he was indeed vaguely blondish, with shoulder-length hair. He also looked vaguely surfer-ish. He was chewing bubble-gum. "The tall gentleman is Ludwig Schmidt."
"He looks like a bodybuilder," Alfred grated out. Still he held onto Arthur's sleeve, but his grip had relaxed somewhat. "So, Arthur. If I tried to kick someone's ass in the courtroom, do you think they'd arrest me?"
Alfred's tone had taken on a dreamy quality. Surely he wasn't thinking about taking on Sch-- oh, right. Well, best to nip that in the bud. "Much as I might wish to root you on, yes," Arthur said firmly. "For assault and battery. And most likely fine you for contempt."
"That's too bad," Alfred said. He breathed out long and slow, and released his grip on Arthur's clothing. "And thank you for saying that."
Bonnefoy had gone over to greet the newcomers. Of course: he and Mrs. Jones were acquainted. He hugged her and smiled at Schmidt's obvious frown, and the more Schmidt scowled, the more Bonnefoy fussed. "I'm sorry we have to see other again like this," he was saying.
"Me, too," Mrs. Jones said. She glanced past Bonnefoy towards where Alfred stood with Arthur. She bit her lip and waved at Alfred, mouthing hello. Her dark eyes were wide and sad-looking.
"Hi," Alfred said in a low voice. The scary smile was back.
The door to the courtroom opened. Several people exited, followed by the bailiff. "The state will hear Mariel Jones versus Alfred Jones," called the bailiff. "The Honorable Elizaveta Hardesty, presiding."
They filed into the courtroom. Arthur had worked with Judge Hardesty before. She was firm but fair, and though the description was perhaps cliched, you could say no better thing about a judge.
Everyone was entered into the record and settled, and the judge got straight to business. "I have a full docket today but I hear this one is supposed to be easy. Mr. Jones? Mrs. Jones?"
Alfred and Mrs. Jones both nodded and mumbled yes, your honor.
The judge put on reading glasses and looked at the files before her. "You two must really want to be divorced. It's exceptionally rare to see a dissolution with this much property go as quickly and smoothly as this."
Yes, your honor, their replies echoed.
"There is a pregnancy involved, your honor," Schmidt added.
"Yes, I see that. Here are the affidavits of paternity, and Mr. Jones's release of paternal rights. The marital agreement has been notarized and properly entered?"
"Yes, your honor," Arthur said. He felt a little pedantic. "I have a file-stamped copy if you need one."
The judge waved him off. "No thank you, Mr. Kirkland. The court keeps very good records."
She had very few questions overall; her full docket was obviously on her mind. Once or twice Arthur or Schmidt had to clarify a point of property, but otherwise the hearing proceeded more routinely than Arthur might ever have suspected when he'd initially taken the case. He glanced now and then at Alfred, to see how he was holding up. He appeared relaxed if attentive, and perhaps only Arthur noticed how white his knuckles were, and how he kept catching himself from biting off the end of the ballpoint pen he was rolling between his fingers.
Arthur also noticed how Mrs. Jones kept shifting in her seat. Such might have been attributable to gestational discomfort, but then she often glanced their way.
With a speed that might have been unanticipated in even a lesser case, the judge soon pronounced their dissolution equitable and complete. She signed the order and handed it to the bailiff. Everyone stood.
Everyone, that was, except for Alfred. Arthur tapped his shoulder to get his attention, and Alfred looked almost shocked to see everyone watching him. He scraped back his chair and jumped to his feet.
"Is this it?" he whispered to Arthur.
It was a question Arthur had heard from him before. His finger itched to caress Alfred's cheeks, to rub some color back into them. "This time, yes. As soon as the decree is entered, anyway."
"Ah," Arthur said, and glanced back at the group. So the other man was Felix: unlike Mrs. Jones he was indeed vaguely blondish, with shoulder-length hair. He also looked vaguely surfer-ish. He was chewing bubble-gum. "The tall gentleman is Ludwig Schmidt."
"He looks like a bodybuilder," Alfred grated out. Still he held onto Arthur's sleeve, but his grip had relaxed somewhat. "So, Arthur. If I tried to kick someone's ass in the courtroom, do you think they'd arrest me?"
Alfred's tone had taken on a dreamy quality. Surely he wasn't thinking about taking on Sch-- oh, right. Well, best to nip that in the bud. "Much as I might wish to root you on, yes," Arthur said firmly. "For assault and battery. And most likely fine you for contempt."
"That's too bad," Alfred said. He breathed out long and slow, and released his grip on Arthur's clothing. "And thank you for saying that."
Bonnefoy had gone over to greet the newcomers. Of course: he and Mrs. Jones were acquainted. He hugged her and smiled at Schmidt's obvious frown, and the more Schmidt scowled, the more Bonnefoy fussed. "I'm sorry we have to see other again like this," he was saying.
"Me, too," Mrs. Jones said. She glanced past Bonnefoy towards where Alfred stood with Arthur. She bit her lip and waved at Alfred, mouthing hello. Her dark eyes were wide and sad-looking.
"Hi," Alfred said in a low voice. The scary smile was back.
The door to the courtroom opened. Several people exited, followed by the bailiff. "The state will hear Mariel Jones versus Alfred Jones," called the bailiff. "The Honorable Elizaveta Hardesty, presiding."
They filed into the courtroom. Arthur had worked with Judge Hardesty before. She was firm but fair, and though the description was perhaps cliched, you could say no better thing about a judge.
Everyone was entered into the record and settled, and the judge got straight to business. "I have a full docket today but I hear this one is supposed to be easy. Mr. Jones? Mrs. Jones?"
Alfred and Mrs. Jones both nodded and mumbled yes, your honor.
The judge put on reading glasses and looked at the files before her. "You two must really want to be divorced. It's exceptionally rare to see a dissolution with this much property go as quickly and smoothly as this."
Yes, your honor, their replies echoed.
"There is a pregnancy involved, your honor," Schmidt added.
"Yes, I see that. Here are the affidavits of paternity, and Mr. Jones's release of paternal rights. The marital agreement has been notarized and properly entered?"
"Yes, your honor," Arthur said. He felt a little pedantic. "I have a file-stamped copy if you need one."
The judge waved him off. "No thank you, Mr. Kirkland. The court keeps very good records."
She had very few questions overall; her full docket was obviously on her mind. Once or twice Arthur or Schmidt had to clarify a point of property, but otherwise the hearing proceeded more routinely than Arthur might ever have suspected when he'd initially taken the case. He glanced now and then at Alfred, to see how he was holding up. He appeared relaxed if attentive, and perhaps only Arthur noticed how white his knuckles were, and how he kept catching himself from biting off the end of the ballpoint pen he was rolling between his fingers.
Arthur also noticed how Mrs. Jones kept shifting in her seat. Such might have been attributable to gestational discomfort, but then she often glanced their way.
With a speed that might have been unanticipated in even a lesser case, the judge soon pronounced their dissolution equitable and complete. She signed the order and handed it to the bailiff. Everyone stood.
Everyone, that was, except for Alfred. Arthur tapped his shoulder to get his attention, and Alfred looked almost shocked to see everyone watching him. He scraped back his chair and jumped to his feet.
"Is this it?" he whispered to Arthur.
It was a question Arthur had heard from him before. His finger itched to caress Alfred's cheeks, to rub some color back into them. "This time, yes. As soon as the decree is entered, anyway."
They were dismissed by the bailiff and everyone exited the courtroom as quietly as they'd entered. They stood in the hallway, and Arthur supposed this was the time he should tell Alfred what he wanted to say. As soon as he got rid of Bonnefoy. And as soon as he thought of exactly what it was that he wanted to say.
"Why don't you go outside for a few minutes? Please? I don't care, just go," Mariel Jones was saying. She was talking to Felix, who did not look happy to be ordered away. Wearing a sulky expression, he joined Ludwig Schmidt in the elevator. When the elevator doors closed, Mariel Jones walked over to where Arthur stood with Alfred and Bonnefoy.
"Hey, Mare," Alfred said.
"Hi." She nodded at Arthur and Bonnefoy with a shy smile and then looked at Alfred. "Al? Will you please sit with me for a few minutes?" She nodded at some sofas in a small waiting area down the all.
"I guess. Sure," Alfred said with a suspicious-sounding sniff.
Mariel sagged visibly and took both his hands in hers. "Thank you, baby. God, I just want to say ... I don't even know what I want to say but I'll try."
"Me, too," Alfred said. They walked down the hall and sat, holding hands and leaning close, talking in low voices.
Bonnefoy tapped Arthur's shoulder and jerked his head in a "let's go" motion. Arthur nodded and followed him into the elevators. His stomach turned with queasiness, though he'd eaten nothing for lunch. He'd missed his chance. But then, Alfred absolutely needed to talk with his wife -- ex-wife, now -- more than he needed to listen to Arthur.
"Good luck, Arthur," Bonnefoy said as the elevator descended. Arthur prepared a glare but Bonnefoy wasn't even looking at him, was looking at himself and fussing with his hair in the mirrored elevator wall.
"With what do I need luck, H.F.?" Arthur said.
Bonnefoy shrugged. "Just politely wishing you luck. See you later. I'll call you when we're having a party, oui?"
He nipped out through the elevator doors as they opened. Arthur was left with only Bonnefoy's yellow ponytail and black-clad back to glare at as he sauntered out the courthouse turnstiles.
Arthur shook his head. He stood there in the lobby for a few moments, wondering what he should do. Should he wait? Should he --
No, to stand around waiting for Alfred to finish talking to the woman with whom he'd spent eight years would only look foolish and desperate. His original idea, to leave Alfred in peace to deal with his life as he needed and to deal with his own life in return, was still the best idea.
He left the courthouse. As he went down the steps he noticed that man, Felix, lighting up a cigarette directly under a "No Smoking Within Fifty Yards of the Entrance" sign. Arthur had always used to hate those signs with a bloody-minded passion.
Arthur kept walking. He did, however, tap a security guard on the shoulder and point Felix out to him as he passed.
***
Arthur went back to work. He managed to only wonder what and how Alfred was doing every half hour or so, which was an improvement over the previous week.
Lars came back at the end of the week. Things were better, he said. Not perfect, but better. They were taking life day by day. Moment by moment.
Christian, of all people, called and asked Arthur to go out on Friday. Arthur turned him down. He had a painful and bittersweet wank Friday night. Saturday he tidied and made scones for Portia's visit with her Yong. They arrived around two. It was always five o'clock somewhere so Arthur had made wine available, but they started with tea.
Yong was different from what Arthur had expected; he was polite but boisterous and friendly, and like Portia looked younger than his years. He wore his hair in a long ponytail and carried a smartphone with a bejeweled Hello Kitty cover on it. He protested to see Portia dip her scone -- so they'd turned out a little hard -- into her tea. He seemed a fitting counterpart for Portia, who had been known to overwhelm quieter men.
"Why don't you go outside for a few minutes? Please? I don't care, just go," Mariel Jones was saying. She was talking to Felix, who did not look happy to be ordered away. Wearing a sulky expression, he joined Ludwig Schmidt in the elevator. When the elevator doors closed, Mariel Jones walked over to where Arthur stood with Alfred and Bonnefoy.
"Hey, Mare," Alfred said.
"Hi." She nodded at Arthur and Bonnefoy with a shy smile and then looked at Alfred. "Al? Will you please sit with me for a few minutes?" She nodded at some sofas in a small waiting area down the all.
"I guess. Sure," Alfred said with a suspicious-sounding sniff.
Mariel sagged visibly and took both his hands in hers. "Thank you, baby. God, I just want to say ... I don't even know what I want to say but I'll try."
"Me, too," Alfred said. They walked down the hall and sat, holding hands and leaning close, talking in low voices.
Bonnefoy tapped Arthur's shoulder and jerked his head in a "let's go" motion. Arthur nodded and followed him into the elevators. His stomach turned with queasiness, though he'd eaten nothing for lunch. He'd missed his chance. But then, Alfred absolutely needed to talk with his wife -- ex-wife, now -- more than he needed to listen to Arthur.
"Good luck, Arthur," Bonnefoy said as the elevator descended. Arthur prepared a glare but Bonnefoy wasn't even looking at him, was looking at himself and fussing with his hair in the mirrored elevator wall.
"With what do I need luck, H.F.?" Arthur said.
Bonnefoy shrugged. "Just politely wishing you luck. See you later. I'll call you when we're having a party, oui?"
He nipped out through the elevator doors as they opened. Arthur was left with only Bonnefoy's yellow ponytail and black-clad back to glare at as he sauntered out the courthouse turnstiles.
Arthur shook his head. He stood there in the lobby for a few moments, wondering what he should do. Should he wait? Should he --
No, to stand around waiting for Alfred to finish talking to the woman with whom he'd spent eight years would only look foolish and desperate. His original idea, to leave Alfred in peace to deal with his life as he needed and to deal with his own life in return, was still the best idea.
He left the courthouse. As he went down the steps he noticed that man, Felix, lighting up a cigarette directly under a "No Smoking Within Fifty Yards of the Entrance" sign. Arthur had always used to hate those signs with a bloody-minded passion.
Arthur kept walking. He did, however, tap a security guard on the shoulder and point Felix out to him as he passed.
***
Arthur went back to work. He managed to only wonder what and how Alfred was doing every half hour or so, which was an improvement over the previous week.
Lars came back at the end of the week. Things were better, he said. Not perfect, but better. They were taking life day by day. Moment by moment.
Christian, of all people, called and asked Arthur to go out on Friday. Arthur turned him down. He had a painful and bittersweet wank Friday night. Saturday he tidied and made scones for Portia's visit with her Yong. They arrived around two. It was always five o'clock somewhere so Arthur had made wine available, but they started with tea.
Yong was different from what Arthur had expected; he was polite but boisterous and friendly, and like Portia looked younger than his years. He wore his hair in a long ponytail and carried a smartphone with a bejeweled Hello Kitty cover on it. He protested to see Portia dip her scone -- so they'd turned out a little hard -- into her tea. He seemed a fitting counterpart for Portia, who had been known to overwhelm quieter men.
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