"Goodness gracious, this piano is actually really heavy."
Arthur and Matthew, along with the Brit's father, finally took all essential items from the brothers' house with them, and were now carrying them to the car - which also included Alfred's electric piano that they were painfully trying to place over the seats and to the trunk. It barely fit, but after some time they did it with a long exhale out of pure relief.
"I agree with you on that one", Matthew nodded and sat himself in the back seat next to the instrument which took away almost all the space of the vehicle.
"So, what do we do about Alfred? Should I talk to him about the thing we just read or do I just let it be? Maybe he would appreciate a conversation." Arthur asked as the first thing he did after getting in the car and closing the door. He was still extremely worried about that songbook he found, not daring to read another page of it. It was like finding dark pages of someone's diary, but Alfred's thoughts were all in the shape of songs. Creative, at least.
"Talk to him. You should do it. I think he wouldn't want to tell anything to Matthew because he's younger and Alfred doesn't want to hurt him with the terrible truth. But you on the other hand... Go for it." His father gave an immediate response. A good one, too.
Arthur decided that he really would do it as advised.
Alfred is in need of help. Immediately, before he does something really stupid.
Like hurting himself.
Or worse.
"I... I'll do that. Thanks for the advice, dad." The Brit let out a long breath, looking through the car window and examining the moody English weather again. Why did it always have to be cloudy? Arthur could swear he hadn't seen the sun in years.
Matthew stayed silent in the back seat, surrounded by his own troubled thoughts.
Was there really something that terrible his older brother wouldn't tell him about himself? He prayed to whatever god he didn't believe in that Alfred would be fine, and that he didn't do such things to himself like it was stated in the last verse of the song.
To him, it was only important that they got away from dad. But on the other side, the younger boy wasn't in such a devastatingly bad mental state as Alfred - in general, he was fine. Lately just stressed about the situation they were in, worried about Alfred, thinking about school stuff he needed to finish and nothing else that had the ability to bring him down. Especially now. He had to stay strong for his brother the best he could do that.
In a couple of minutes only, the car parked in the driveway in front of the Kirkland family house, Arthur's father stepping out before the two boys. "First, bring in the piano. Then we'll get the other things." He ordered, helping the two who just began working on taking out the big instrument from the car without dropping it.
"I think Alfred will be glad we brought this thing here." Arthur smiled lightly at the thought of him being happy on at least a second, and he himself couldn't wait to hear Alfred play.
But first, they needed to have a very, very serious conversation.
- - -
Alfred was laying down on the guest room bed, and at first sight looked really peaceful. On the inside, he was extremely troubled, both physically and mentally tired out by life.
He spent twenty minutes in the bathroom, drowning the miserable feelings in his own blood and tears, deep down feeling thankful that Arthur's mother Alice didn't try to unlock the door and get him out, but instead thought that he just needed to cry it out by himself.
Little did any of them realize, it was more than simple tears.
His breathing was shallow and there was obvious tension surrounding him, and all he could do was lay and stare at the ceiling aimlessly, the numbing pain in his arm taking his mind of other things at least on a minute. He wasn't crying, no, but there was a worse feeling clouding his entire mind, difficult to describe in words...
His thoughts were irrational, borderline delirious and insane, all focusing on only one thing - disappearing from this world.
I used to care so much. Things used to matter to me.
Less than a month ago, despite my sadness, I tried to work and do my best. Seems like my best just isn't enough.
I wanted to be a musician. Maybe that way my mother would be proud of me and I could do what I love.
But what was I even thinking?
She's dead! My mother is dead, and she cannot ever be proud of my music.
She's dead. And I might just join her soon.
Perhaps I'll spill all my blood cut by cut until I just vanish into thin air.
I wish there was a spell that could erase a person from existence entirely.
My dad is right. I'm just... Useless. Stupid. Annoying. A waste of space.
The last thought made him break completely, and he couldn't help but silently cry, burying his face in the pillow and curling up to the blanket. There was just so much pain in store for him to last for years, and it was just a matter of time when the last moment of his remaining, small bit of sanity would simply disappear.
The three Kirkland brothers felt extremely guilty for asking such probing, sensitive questions that broke the boy down, and as advised by their mother, they didn't go an apologize to Alfred immediately but instead let him recover first.
Soon enough, a loud ring echoed through the house reaching Alice's ears, and she immediately ran over to the door to open them, awaiting her husband, son and Matthew. Exactly the people who were at the doorstep, carrying waht seemed to be an electric piano.
"Oh, come in, come in", she quickly said, closing the entrance door after the three walked in with the heavy instrument, swiftly placing it on the long couch that nobody was sitting on at the moment.
"We have more things in the car." Arthur stated, sighing and biting back a yawn. This was not the time for being tired, it was time to help.
"Oh, that's alright, Arthur, I'll go get the school books and stuff." Matthew offered himself, and the help was gladly accepted from both the English boy and his father.
Just... That meant he needed to go talk to Alfred about earlier found things right away... And he felt as if he wasn't ready.
But with only a slight bit of hesitation that he didn't show on the outside, he made his quick way to the guest room - or should he rather say, Alfred's and Matthew's room - and gently opened the door.
Once entering, he saw the sight he last wanted to see.
Alfred was in tears.
It was obvious he was crying by the painful sounds coming from the bed, but as soon as Arthur got in, Alfred slowly turned around to face him, wiping his face with his sleeves a bit and taking a shaky breath. He didn't say a single word, didn't know what to say...
"Alfred, what's wrong?"
Oh, how he didn't want to hear that question. If only he could avoid it somehow. But now he found himself staring at Arthur wordlessly, his body present but his mind somewhere else, gaze focused on something unknown and invisible in the distance. "N-nothing." He muttered, stumbling across the syllables, unable to form a proper sentence.
"Listen... We need to talk about something very serious. I'm sorry, but we just... Have to." The Brit sat on the other side of the bed and shifted closer to Alfred after taking off his shoes in two second long movements, softly taking the boy's hand into his.
The American was not in the mood for serious conversations, but he was only able to listen, trying to lose himself in the warmth which he shared with Arthur.
"While we were at your place... I found something."
Oh, no. Oh my god, no. What did he find?
Please don't let it be--
"Your songbook." The Brit spoke with caution, scared to say the wrong thing to Alfred who looked so broken - hair messy, eyes tired and red from crying, body slightly shaking.
I'm in trouble, aren't I?
I am such a goddamn idiot! Why didn't I hide that fucking thing a little bit better?
"O-oh."
Immediately, the tension in the air got much quicker, and Alfred clenched Arthur's hand a little bit too tightly, making the boy flinch a little, but he didn't complain with words.
"I only read one song, a-and it got me extremely worried..." He continued, taking just one deep breath before saying the next line. "Are you hurting yourself, Alfred?"
Why? Why did he have to ask that?! Why can't I just fucking die already?
I'm just a burden. I make everyone worried, instead of happy.
"Uh... N-no."
"That doesn't sound convincing to me. Alfred, you can tell me anything! But I don't want you doing things like that to yourself, you don't deserve it. I know it's difficult, b-but you need help. I'm here to help." Arthur's voice was soft and caring, and his green eyes glistened with worry as they met two lifeless blue ones that once used to be so shiny and bright, so full of life. "You can tell me anything." He repeated.
Yet the American was far too scared and ashamed of himself to confess. "It's just a song." He whispered almost incoherently, looking down and not allowing himself to make eye contact.
"Yes, just a song, but I'm so bloody worried! I-if it's really how you feel, just say it. It helps to say things out loud, you know... Don't be embarrassed to say."
Alfred didn't reply, but continued his mindless game of staring at his hands and absently playing with his sleeves.
"I will ask one more time. Alfred Jones...Do you deliberately hurt yourself?"
"...Yes."
- - -
A/N
Oh boy oh boy Alex, what have you done to your poor readers?
Foreshadowing? Cliffhangers?
Sounds like the Alex Tomaja we all know. :)
Thank you for reading!