A Sleep Without Dreams Were It Not For Your Songs

He would have compared Antonio "to a night without stars were it not for his eyes". Arthur Kirkland wouldn't definitely deny that truth. If one was to tell of his story, it would be something like a different take on the young prince of The Prince and the Pauper. He was born to two proud and well-off English parents, his father being a well-known music producer and boss of a famous company, World Clock Mnemonic; his mother a renowned authoress whose books became bestsellers and a few into theatrical spectacle. His brothers were so good-looking and charming that even celebrities have shook hands with them. Arthur too had his own charm; being the youngest, he had a very unique personality- gentle as a lamb yet sharp as a lion. He was very intelligent and mature; everyone knew his talents, not to mention the princely look. The Kirklands had a huge mansion for a home, what used to be from their also rich ancestors, that was Victorian style and surrounded by foliage, colorfully-painted flowers of roses of variety, and vines of ivies and other plants. Their garden front and back would remind one of The Secret Garden, with a rusted, old gate that guarded it. It seemed like a magical utopia.

But not all that glitters is gold, really. After all, a house divided will itself fall.

In truth, the Kirklands were anything but tied with a three-folded cord. Because of the lucrative careers the parents had, they were often away from home and left the boys to themselves. They, on the other hand, had prickly bonds with each other, particularly Arthur. This because of the fact that blood-wise, they're not related. The first two oldest boys, Alistair and Bryon, came from  their father's first wife, who was half Scottish and Welsh. She unfortunately suffered from a chronic complication of her heart, leaving her frail and weak, and eventually resulting to her end. The next two oldest, Patrick and Aidan, were born from a cheery Irish woman, who hadn't survived an accident on the road when an old double-deck bus made a dangerous wrong turn on the roundabout. Arthur's mother was the only woman who fared better, as she was a very loving, shy English lass whose family was of a simple background unlike the first two wives. Even though to this her stepsons gave her attention, respect, and love back, it didn't apply to her son. To the boy's dismay, he hung out with his friends more as a source of refuge, coming home a bit late than needed. The world inside his home was colder than the frozen nights of winter London. Each touch he made, it was only numbness and fragility.

That would have continued forever until he was no longer, but his grandfather had taken the boys to live with them in the more rustic suburbs. At first Arthur fought with the doubt of being separated from his parents, but simultaneously he agreed that there was not much of a difference if they moved away- most of the day and night, his parents were nothing but a space in the living room sofa and dining seats. Plus, he did not enjoy being accompanied by the fast-paced flow of the heart of the city. So to cut a long story short, the five brothers left with their grandfather while their parents remained in the bustling city. Upon arriving Arthur felt that he would miss the old home and friends he grew up in, and would not enjoy the new change of environment. It would be dull and monotone, he declared to himself, and he would have a hard time fitting in due to his lack of sociability.

Well, as history later proved, he was far from right. That was where the young Arthur met him, and had also lost him.

Eighteen years since then, he counted.
   Arthur quickened his pace, ducking and dodging the hurdles of humans that came his way. Donned in a light argyle sweater over a cotton white shirt, the British strode with scarlet canvas shoes, beads of perspiration forming from his forehead. A small brunette crossed his direction, causing him to completely hold his horses as the child was chased away by another. Exhaling, Arthur frantically turned his head in desperation, pleading for a hint of Antonio's whereabouts to no one in particular. Running again, he recalled a similar situation as a child when he got sidetracked by the psychedelic colors of the flowers that decorated the front yard of their relatives' dull and worn-down Victorian mansion, just like his own previous home. The pale, sullen London morning was something he grew up to, but got helplessly tired of. Upon realizing his family's disappearance from his side, the tot Arthur shook with apparent fear and bewilderment.
  The Arthur now blinked his jade eyes, halting any further reminiscing. He focused on finding Antonio.
   Antonio Carriedo Fernandez. The name itself created a warm feeling of belonging in the Englishman's chest. No, it wasn't exactly like that of a first crush, nor was it due to manners! He thought affirmatively, it was something else...Something more...
   He shook his head again, flaxen hair bouncing from the movement. He paused for a moment.
  Why?
  He recalled Antonio's face upon their chance meeting again after almost eighteen years, in the farmer's market; pale face, wide spring onion eyes painted with fear, frozen composure. It was nothing closest to what he remembered vividly when he first met the Latino.
  Arthur blinked. "Deja vu, huh...?"

"Ah! Lo siento, mi amigo! ¿Estás bien?"
The twelve-year old Arthur grunted as he sat up from the ground after an unexpected collision with another kid, dusting off his pants and rubbing his bottom. A hand offered him up, but this only boiled up the English boy's anger like fuel to the flame.
"WATCH WHERE YOUR GOING, YOU GIT!" he snarled as he smacked the other's helping hand. "And also, I don't speak Spanish, you dope! Speak English! English!"
  Silence. The one thing that Arthur was weak dealing with. The boy stared at him with wide eyes, too stunned to comprehend what had just occurred. Arthur blushed multiple visages of red. He cursed himself for his short fuse, more or less for separating himself with his siblings in the first place! Oh how he just hated his lack of social skills, and his lack of communication skills! If only--
  "Aha-ha! I'm sorry, is that so?"
  If Arthur had been deaf, he would have a reason to ask the boy to repeat what he just said. But he wasn't, and the reaction immediately reached his ears. His anger fell to the lowest point abruptly too much. Jaw dropped as he stared at the boy with confusion, which in turn had given him a full opportunity to see the other's appearance. The Spanish kid had an exotic dark complexion, round glistening emeralds for eyes, and full volume chocolate curls for hair that complemented his physique. Arthur would have admitted that he was the type that would win a girl's heart.
Well, not that he was concerned of it, now was he?
  Before Arthur could have a say, the said boy looked back and called out something in Spanish again before turning to Arthur and smiling. "Sorry, amigo! The others are calling me, so I better head back with them."
  Then the world shattered around Arthur. Of course, it's not like he and the Spaniard were familiar with each other all the way back to childhood or any of that sort, but for a peculiar reason unknown to him he felt a rising wave of anger bubbling forth in his chest...Well, not anger, no, but...
  "--Unless, do you want to come play with us? We're actually playing soccer right now, and there's only nine of us! That's not good since one team has one player missing!" the brunette shook his head in disapproval. "Por lo tanto, se puede jugar con nosotros?"
  Arthur stood, flabbergasted. He stared again at him with disbelief, but he only earned a patient, truthful stare back. Never had anyone treated him with this much attention and time. Bloody hell, even his parents did not give precious time allotted for him when he turned seven like this stranger did! His anger gradually subsided, and a new wave of emotion rose from within him. It was something warm and comforting, and he was willing to do anything to keep it, even if he hadn't have a knack for containing and maintaining his emotions well.
  Light apple green and lively grape green looked at each other for what seemed like ages, in the mid of the twelve-year old Arthur. Finally, he replied with a cough. "W-What's your name?"
  The other grinned. "Mi nombre es Antonio! ¿Y usted?"
  "A-Arthur, my name is Arthur," the Brit coughed. "....Can I really, Antonio?"
  "¡Por supuesto, Arthur!" the Latino eagerly nodded, happy because they have a new playmate. Taking the latter's porcelain hand, the Spanish pulled him towards the field where his friends waited. "¡Vamos! ¡Vamos!"
  As they came closer to the group, Arthur felt the warm hand that reached out to him and could not help but have the corners of his mouth curve upward slightly, if not a lot.
   "Thank you, Antonio."

It was, if the Brit could call it, the alpha of their strong-forged friendship. The two had some things in common: both had a passion for soccer, and even foolishly dreamed of getting in the international teams in their home countries, hoping to participate in the FIFA. That was, of course, erased from the board so to speak when they reached high school, where the teachers had traveled them to the anxieties of life in its preview. The two also have some potential for the fine arts. The British boy had aesthetic hands, and once they touched any medium for  painting and whatnot, colors would definitely pour over; once and thrice, Arthur's art pieces were chosen to be displayed in the local library near their school, and even critics couldn't deny his knack. In Antonio's case, it was the world of music that he stepped with ease to. His melodic, rich tenor voice captured the hearts of those who listened by chance, and complimenting it was his calloused fingers that strummed his guitar. Not only a note-reader, but the Spanish boy was a widow- a person who could play by ear. It was he who taught Arthur the guitar until the British found comfort in playing the electric guitar. They both loved literature, Arthur the classics and romances, Antonio more on poetry and novels.

It was meant to be a lasting bond. It was meant to be....

A single tear fell from his eye. Arthur wiped that off with his wrist, stopped running for a bit. He panted, the energy he once consumed as a child no longer eminent. He sighed upon realizing that he was in some unknown corner of the street. He glanced about, seeing warm, stone houses and plants that decorated each one. There he noticed an old lady taking a siesta on her front porch, sitting casually with a book on her fragile lap as she gently rocked her chair to and fro. A cat crossed his path and daintily ran towards the old lady, finding its place beside her chair. It was indeed such a lovely afternoon, if the azure sky with its golden penny blowing a cool breeze were to go by.
  "How ironic..." he mumbled in a low voice. He took a slower pace than before, as he was beat from the efforts to catch up with his dear Latin friend. So this was where Antonio lived, was in the mind of the Brit, whilst he sighed with half relief. Really, who wouldn't be after all the disconnection with the Spaniard that lasted! One could say that he was a anxious mother, if he didn't get offended by the comment, that is.
  He looked skyward, frowning now. "....Where are you, Antonio?"

  "Hey! Cut that barbaric act now, or else I'll have you suspended by the principle!"
Arthur casually glanced at Roderich the piano prodigy as he fended off yet again another student who intently spilled tomato juice on Antonio's hair, which trailed down his white shirt and tanned skin, as if blood was dripping down on him. Everyone else either giggled at the matter as a cruel, sick joke, or decided to remain silent, being lukewarm than one of the extremities.
  More profanities and ranting played while the British teen sipped his iced tea until Francis and Gilbert strode to his table and sat down with their trays; one with baked potato and spaghetti, the other with a simple Vietnamese sandwich.
  A yelling ensued, most likely from Roderich if one was to note Gilbert clicking his tongue. But to the trio's surprise, the Austrian halted.
  "Antonio," the boiling Roderich exclaimed defiantly, until he realized who Antonio was to him. "What in the world are you doing?"
  The Spaniard shook his head, decorating his face with a very composed smile. He held the Austrian's slender wrist down, a grandmotherly way to reprimand him.
  "Roderich, it's okay...It's my fault anyway since I didn't watch where I was going. Please don't argue with the others anymore."
  Arthur scrutinized the Spaniard. A dazzling, white smile like his usual, despite the dirt on him. To this the Austrian became further displeased until Elizaveta came to their side and led them off out the cafeteria. When the weren't in sight, Arthur turned to his companions. Gilbert had a blank expression, apparently lost in thought as he played with his food using his fork.
   "That person,..." Francis noted, "that person" referring to none other than Antonio, "Has such a warm, pleasant smile...It's amazing how something so beautiful and majestic can easily hide something grotesque and somber."
   Arthur looked at the same spot where the scene occurred again. Though he hated to admit it, he whole-heartedly agreed with the French wanker. But simultaneously, he also recalled Antonio laughing along with the Austrian and Hungarian a while back in Math class, and could not help but have that same "anger" bubble forth within him. Still, he could not determine it as anger, but then if so, what?
   
A click could be heard out of the man's tongue. He didn't need to remember the rest of that story, nor would he like to remember it at all. It was, truth to be told, the worst that he had experienced. Sure, he had caused some mischief before stepping down into being a "gentleman", or so how he put it; but this deed he had done to a dear friend was the most rotten execution. The same man who had welcomed him in the town he now called his home. That same beam that showered him with genuine care when he ended in sore traits, and with comfort when he had been bullied by his brothers again. Now, he and Antonio were stationed on opposite sides of a chessboard- one black, one white. And it did not matter if he tried to avoid moving a pawn that stood near Antonio's, because either Antonio would strike, which was quite unlikely of him, or no game. In Arthur's eyes, and maybe Antonio's, one triumphs and the other falls.
  Then as if on cue, Antonio's hand appeared before him, the same twelve-year old hand, but once he reached his pale, slender one out to take it, it evanesced.
  
He felt warm, stinging tears pour onto his pale cheeks, clouding his crystal vision. His throat burned intensely, and hiccups issued forth from it. Legs weakened and gave way, causing him to stumble to the ground. He trembled. He didn't want this game, nor did he want to lose Antonio any longer. He didn't wish for a sinking boat, for goodness' sake! He only saw the Latino's family records by chance, and promised not to have the information spread except to  their close friends. The rest were the offspring of those who coincidentally were at the same place where he reported to Francis and Gilbert, and had no respect for dear Antonio. He dealt with them already, but it was too late to clean up the mess they created! The next thing he knew, the Spaniard was ostracized, and had harbored feelings of distrust and maybe hate due to a misunderstanding. The feelings of hate and resentment from student and teacher alike grew to a boiling point that Arthur could only helplessly watch his friend suffer and fall, praying that he would be okay in the aftermath.
  He sobbed forlornly. Chest tightened and was as if thorns constricted it. It was heavy, as if something like the weight of a milestone pulled it down. If only he could turn back the clock, he wouldn't have ignored his best friend, nor gave him a cold shoulder when he was in need! He wouldn't have told Francis and Gilbert about Antonio's family in school! He wouldn't have entered that certain part of the library that held records! If only--

A scream. A blood curdling screech. Before Arthur could utter a sound the disturbing scream woke him abruptly and pierced his eardrums. He knew the unfortunate source of that noise, and prayed that he wasn't right into thinking so. Without hesitation, he ran with desperation and anxiety. It was now or never-

He had to and will sew back what he was given a gift.

The sun shone brightly, and it was a beautiful day.

I would liken you
To a sleep without dreams
Were it not for your songs.