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He remembers it all quite clearly: his heart pounding, colours vivid, shadows too dark, and his vision suddenly blurry. That kind of feeling, you know? When you know things are bad bad but you don't really wanna admit it, not even to yourself.
The kind of moment when, if he hadn’t been seated, he would have collapsed to the floor. Really. No exaggeration.
There was how his coworker with whom he carpooled had stopped him mid-joke to comment on the increasing smell of smoke as he rolled up his window a bit and urged Alfred to do the same on the passenger side if he wasn’t bothered.
Alfred’s head blared with distress as he nodded wordlessly, his silence unbecoming of him, his stillness odd and abrupt.
Not this shit again.
And then, almost at the same instant, he felt bad for even thinking about it. No way this was a recurring situation. How could he accuse anyone of anything, when there was no way this was happening again... obviously, surely? How vile of him to have even thought about it.
They drove past the curve and into the street, where his home sat at the very end of the little cul-de-sac. Rows of familiar houses rolled by the windowpane, and the horizon, with its setting sun, seemed increasingly tainted by a thick, dark cloud hanging in the air.
Alfred swallowed hard, thinking of all the possible things that could be happening, because this was clearly not happening. Gilbert had grown quiet as they drove down the road, the tapping of Alfred’s foot, nervous and offbeat, interrupting the silence. Smoke particles irritated their throats until they forced a cough out of his coworker.
“Uh… Let’s roll up the window for real, that shit’s nasty, man.”
The closer they got to Alfred’s final destination, the stronger the scent seemed to get.
Alfred’s hand was already on his temple as Gilbert’s car got closer to his house, and it was impossible now to pretend the smoke billowing was not coming from his property. He buried his face in his hands, groaning. In his head, and just in his head, because he had not fully lost his composure, he screamed a bit… a bit long, a bit loud. Too loud.
“Man… really? No fucking way.” Gil shook his head in utter disbelief.
“Yep. I told you so.” Alfred replied like a man whose will to live had completely evaporated.
“You weren’t kidding, man, you weren’t.”
He didn’t doubt Arthur had made it out alive this time, like he had done the previous billion times, okay, fine; he was exaggerating: the twenty-fucking-two times he set the kitchen on fire, when Arthur had sent him a cheery selfie recently, looking all adorable, posing by their newly refurbished kitchen (repaired by A. F. Jones, of course), emojis dotting his message, mostly happy smiles and food ones, but the one that Alfred seemed to remember the most now… was the... the... fire one.
“Trying a new recipe I saw on TikTok! Hope youʼre home soon luv 😊😊🍲🔥🥕🥔😍🏡❤️”
Arthur had sent that about forty-five minutes ago, and Alfred took his phone out of his pocket to look at it again.
He really didn’t have the heart to tell Arthur he should try some other hobby. Hell, maybe Arthur could try... making sushi? You don’t need to cook with heat that much, right?
But while Alfred didn’t have the heart to hurt Arthur, he didn’t know what would happen to his own heart if Arthur actually hurt himself for real one day.
The bright splotches of the fire truck lights danced across the window, and from the passenger seat he could see a fuzzy figure sitting by the curb, undefined. Perhaps with his head hanging low? It tugged at Alfred’s heart in all the wrong ways.
Seeing that Gilbert had parked where he normally got off, Alfred thanked him quickly.
“Thanks for the ride, Gil!”
“You sure you don’t want me to—” Gilbert tried, he usually did, but Alfred interrupted him.
“No, no. Thanks, dude. See ya next Monday.” He threw him a smile as he got off, and Alfred wondered if it looked as shaky as he had felt it.
He hung tightly onto his briefcase, pressing it to his chest like a warrior to his shield. Out here in the street, the darkened air was bitter and foul.
As Alfred approached, he saw the firefighters climbing back into the truck to do their paperwork, less paper and more tablet now. The crew greeted him with a casual “Mr. Jones.”
It happened often enough that they were on a surname basis by now.
Getting closer, Alfred’s heart ached as if he might drop dead right there, but at least he didn’t see Arthur wrapped in any bandages or anything. At least there was no ambulance this time around. The universe had been merciful enough not to let his baby get all wounded up.
He slumped down wordlessly to the curb at Arthur’s side, and bumped shoulders with him, placing a kiss on the top of his head.
First things first.
“Are you hurt?” Alfred drilled him in a soft voice.
“…No.”
Arthur answered him, utterly dejected; he was all sniffly and hoarse as he rubbed the hem of his shirt over his eyes. And Alfred was damn glad he was safe and sound, but he had to ask the question, however much he hated doing it.
“How much got burnt, honey?”
At that, Arthur glanced up, looking at him with red eyes, then to the street, then to the sky as his eyes darted everywhere, his face contorted a bit wildly.
“Not as much as last time! It was just. So, so strange. Everything was going just right, and I had written down the recipe on a piece of paper to not be constantly distracted, and I had set the kitchen timer by the counter, and I had my phone set up with an alarm too… And then suddenly… I just don’t know. It was all burning, charred. Even the tiles were coming off! And the smoke, it was like... an explosion. I had never seen something like that,”
“It’s like I’m cursed! I was just trying to cook something nice for you!” he complained, voice raising louder and looking completely perplexed.
Alfred had heard this story so many times before.
“Oh, it’s not that serious, baby.” Alfred tried to comfort him, dropping an arm around his waist and mused:
“I’ll repair it this weekend. It won’t take much. Didn’t the smoke alarm go off? Maybe I should get another one installed.”
Hopefully the insurance would cover the repair? Fuck, the paperwork... Alfred would need to get a little creative. Again.
“—I swear I was right over there, and suddenly the whole stove had caught on fire, and then...” Arthur had started rambling again, edgy and tense, and Alfred had trouble following.
Arthur’s eyes looked sad, and he wished he could wipe the bad feelings away from them.
“Did you talk with the guys? What did they say?” Alfred cut him off.
“Umm… ah… that after it cools off, there is no risk because it was a small fire. The firefighter told me the stove was a little bit charred, but it still works. I mean, I panicked and called— it wasn’t the neighbours this time,” he admitted, like the entire street wasn’t aware by now of his cooking experiments gone wrong.
And in a tinier voice: “But that it would be best to sleep somewhere else tonight…”
So that settled it.
It would be another Friday at the motel. Deal with the mess tomorrow. Time for Arthur and Alfred to fuck the stress away.