Chapter Text
Pt.1 Or Shall We Kiss
It never occurred to me that I would rattle off my entire life story to Arthur Kirkland after thirty minutes of talking aimlessly on the couch, which was precisely a day after learning his full name. My life story took a mere five minutes to complete, thanks to my failing communication abilities and the dull story itself.
We sat silently, looking out at the drowsy city with a lone skyscraper heaving tiredly into the sky. What a precise picturization of a boring, over-modernized Chinese city. Turbulent clouds roared like a river overhead. Somehow, my mind started to go afloat; it was hard to breathe, let alone concentrate in this kind of weather. The air was too damp for my liking.
"Where does the rain come from?" he inquired.
"Typhoon. Water from the Pacific. East wind coming."
He laughed. Was that supposed to be a joke?
"Sherlock. Eurus—literally the god of the east wind," he air-quoted, his British accent so exaggerated I couldn't tell who he was mimicking.
Obviously, I couldn't.
I raised my eyebrows, thinking I should probably stay stoic to signal my limited appreciation for jokes—and spare myself the awkwardness of enduring even more humor lost in translation. Turning to find that he had raised his eyebrows in unison, I flashed a faint smile in return. God, I just couldn't take my eyes off those elegant lashes.
Still trying to appear civilized—in this case, meaning not blushing crimson in sheer embarrassment—I rolled my eyes in a vague attempt at polite sarcasm. His eyes, a kaleidoscope of emerald and sapphire, slid away at the same moment, suspiciously trained on the mundane city below.
It was a downpour. Rain fell in slow, deliberate sheets, seeping into the grey concrete below—and there had to be a heart in it somewhere, buried under all that density.
"We have abundant time. All afternoon. Mum won't come back after work, and you're surely in no mood to catch up on schoolwork."
He nodded and started typing away furiously on his phone.
"Is there an… internet connection here?"
"I suppose? Why ask? It's your house. Don't you have a phone?"
"Helicopter parents—no underage phone usage in their vicinity. Plus, it's technically my parents' house, not mine." I mumbled.
He wore that amused look again, which made me second-guess my word choice.
To distract myself from the burden of small talk, I took a few peaches from the fridge, collapsed onto the sofa, and mindlessly bit into one.
"The juice," he pointed at my hand.
In my hasty attempt to flick my wrist—pretending to have only just noticed the dripping (which I hadn't)—I only made it worse.
"It looks deliciously ripe."
"No, it isn't. It's sour and tasteless."
"Perhaps it needs… apricating."
He said it so nonchalantly that my heartbeat rattled through my body. What on earth was he saying—or hinting at? I looked sadly down at the disheveled, half-bitten peach and suddenly lost my appetite.
"But this is a peach, not an apricot."
He did not answer. Was it just a passing comment, then? But how could it be? Deciding to let the moment pass, I chanced a look at him.
Arthur was still typing away, but a gorgeous warmth had crept into his cheeks. For a split second, I indulged in picturing Arthur flustered for more physical reasons—and then wanted to crack my skull open and sterilize it immediately, as the scene obligingly continued to unfold.
Shameless.
Still, there is nothing entertaining about a near-stranger making intimate jokes. In this case, it was difficult to tell whether Arthur's behavior was intentional relationship-building or just subconscious flirting.
"Shall we take a walk?"
I stared, bemused—an abrupt change of topic, then. Was this an elaborate joke I couldn't catch? Or yet another double entendre I couldn't interpret? Regardless, would any sane person willingly volunteer to venture out into a city overflowing with warm summer rain?
Plus side: humidity above benchmark, boredom assured.
"It's raining."
"I know. It would be nice to explore the city on foot. Since you have a free afternoon—which, as you said, is a scarce opportunity—why not spend it with me?"
I shrugged, tired of conjuring a counterargument, and quietly relented to Arthur's rainy expedition.
"Umbrella's over there—" I gestured toward a long-forgotten cupboard my mother had neglected to clean, out of spite for my father. "—just bring your phone."
"Hmm, it seems you rarely go outdoors… fits the nerdy description."
"Bravo for the deduction, Arthur Holmes."
He twitched the corner of his mouth, unable to suppress the smile. I pursed my lips into a seldom-used pout, annoyed at his English reserve. He should have laughed outright, considering all that nonsense he'd already dumped in my face.
Instead, Arthur just looked exasperated. Hooking his elbow through mine, he laughed airily and taunted me for sulking.
Never having had a sibling—and therefore no reliable model for measuring emotional reactions against a real human being—I failed to identify the feeling now shivering at the base of my heart. His fleeting smile sent shivers down my spine, tightening my throat with something that felt like anxious energy.
Am I indulging him, or is it vice versa?
In the end, I pinned it down to proper diplomatic behaviour when meeting a foreign friend for the first time.
We left through the door, its hinges screeching and frame banging ungracefully in the rush of wind.
But a part of me—the judgmental, overthinking part—suddenly felt very far away. Could it be that Arthur was dragging me so fast from my home, my prison, my asylum, my coffin, that my demons simply couldn't keep up?