Safe and Sound (An APH PruCan Story)

The Road Not Taken

CHAPTER EIGHT: The Road Not Taken

***

Lightning crackled, lighting up the sky.

Thunder boomed like the crash of a hundred kettle drums.

Wind savagely howled and ripped at the trees.

Heavy rain assaulted every exposed surface with the precision and aggression of a nail gun.

The noisy storm was impossible to sleep through.

They feigned it.

In two shelters, two pairs of eyes cracked open at the angry thunder. Two pairs of ears were bitten by the sound of the pelting rain. Two hearts pounded at the fearsome wind.

Lightning found its mark on an innocent maple tree with a crack.

Both heard it.

The tree burst into flames, engulfed in the orange tongues that lapped ruthlessly at its branches. Eventually, the fire was muffled out by the downpour, though the tree was left charred, beautiful red leaves turned a smoky black.

One floated to the ground, where it met the relentless onslaught of rain.

***

"God dammit!" Arthur cursed as the house chose then to to spring another leak right above his head.

As if the previous night's storm hadn't been enough, the rain had carried on into the next day, and the Briton was forced to waste the better part of his afternoon dashing about sticking buckets under uncooperative places in their insufferably weak ceiling.

This was the fourth leak he'd had the displeasure of coming across in the same room, and he was beginning to wonder if it was possible for the house to still be in one piece. Grumbling to himself, he grabbed an empty cup from a nearby coffee table and positioned it under the leak. That would do the job until he found something more suitable.

Heaving a sigh, the Brit slumped heavily on the couch and ran a hand through his unruly hair. He was up to his neck in work, from the house, to the dogs, to his job that hardly paid the hospital bills. Things were overwhelming, to say the very least. He felt the beginnings of a migraine laughing at him from behind his eyes.

The crisis of his leaking ceiling seemed to be temporarily averted. Now he could focus on his other work.

Bloody brilliant.

Squinting slightly against the tingle of pain in his head, he forced himself to his feet and made his way to the study.

The article wasn't going to write itself.

After situating himself in front of the computer, booting it up, and opening the writing software, he began to type. However, he found his hands resting motionless on the keyboard not five minutes later, and his eyes stared unblinkingly at the screen. Words had climbed out of reach once more, and were teasing him from just above his head. He was stuck. Again.

Sometimes, he hated being a writer.

A knock from the doorway behind him broke Arthur from his daze, and he turned to find Francis standing in the hall.

"Matthieu starts chemo in an hour. Alfred and I are going to head over to see him. Are you sure you can't come?"

"If I don't get this in by the deadline, I'm going to be out of a job." The Englishman sent his husband a look as close to apologetic as he could muster. "I can't afford to not work on it. Besides, the house is bloody falling apart." He sighed. "Tell Matthew I'm sorry, and I'll be there to see him as soon as I can."