Chapter Text
The trick to the days that change your life is a simple one: you never feel it until it's happened. You don't wake up with a heavy feeling, or anything of the sort. You wake up, smile at your sleepy Skipper, kiss him on the forehead (gently, though, so you don't wake him up quite yet), and carefully get out of bed. At least, that's how it went for Arthur. It was the most ordinary morning in the world, complete with toast and tea and the coffee maker working for Skip.
Arthur's entire life changed at nine o'clock in the morning, on the dot. That's when the phone rang.
He got up from the kitchen table, smiling slightly in preparation to hear his mother tell him to be at the airfield in an hour, ridiculous husband in tow.
"Hello, Crieff-Shappey residence, Arthur speaking," he said, still relishing their names together after three years of marriage.
"Yes, Arthur Crieff-Shappey, son of Gordon Shappey?" a cool female voice asked over the line. Something cold slid down his spine. It felt rather like ice dripping down the middle of his back.
"Yes, this is he."
"Mr Shappey, I—"
"Crieff-Shappey," he corrected quickly. He had been Mr Shappey for far too long. He was the son of Gordon Shappey, but only just.
"Right, Mr Crieff-Shappey. I am very sorry to inform you that your father, Gordon Shappey was admitted here with heart attack this evening. He didn't make it. I'm sorry for your loss."
There was a brief, dizzy moment before it sank in.
"Why did you call me?" he asked. Well, he heard himself ask it, but he didn't recall telling his lips to move. And what a dumb question!
"You're listed as his next-of-kin, sir."
Cold swirled from his spine and into his belly.
"Which hospital are you calling from?"
She gave him the name and address, a medical facility in London. Why he was in London, Arthur would never know. He didn't want to, anyway. His father so near was a cruelty, a danger, a terrible thing that could only be termed as "all right." But now, he was...
"Sir, will you come to claim the body?" Such terrible words, words like arrows and knives and idiot, stupid, you'll never be anything. How awful that Arthur had so few good memories of his father. Perhaps two or three, tempered and watered down by the magic of holidays or something. But now, all he could see was a familiar mask, his face contorted with rage and expensive gin.
Claim the body, claim the body, claim the body.
"No," he said softly down the line. He realised, though, that the word had come out so softly, little more than a choking catch in his breath. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"No, I won't. Thank you, goodbye."
He rang off violently, jabbing his finger against the button. Slowly, as though afraid the phone would break (or that he might), he set the handset on the worktop. His breath hitched again, caught on a jagged sob like a piece of glass.
His muscles gave out slowly, giving him just enough time to slump and slide down the wall to the floor. His vision was crystal clear; there were no tears. Just a quiet ringing in his ears.
Gordon had been significantly less than brilliant, but he had been Arthur's father. The loss of his father was like a punch to the gut, leaving him gasping and choking a little. His hands were shaking.
"Morning, Arthur," Skip said as he walked into the kitchen. The footsteps halted in the doorway, and Arthur could read Martin's confusion blindly. The pause was like braille. "Arthur?"
Arthur took a deep, shaking breath. How would he speak without air in his lungs?
"Over h-here," he stammered. Even with the air sucked into his chest, speaking was difficult.
Martin walked over to where Arthur was. The steward was sprawled a bit, sitting upright only with the help of the wall. Martin crouched down so he was level with Arthur. Concern was written over his face in big, black marker.
"A-arthur, love, are you all right?" Martin asked hesitantly. Arthur licked his lips, surprised that his mouth felt so dry. He had to answer Martin, crouched in front of him with those lovely eyes tilted toward him in worry, fingers so near his hand but afraid to touch. The silence dragged on for a moment too long before Arthur could properly answer. Even then, it was just with a small shake of his head. Martin's fingers skipped past hesitance and brushed against his wrist.
"What happened?"
"I— My dad," was all Arthur could say. Saying that hurt. Oh, it ached. But watching the hot fury wash across Skip's face was like a balm, doing its best to soothe the worst of his wounds. It wasn't enough, but that he tried was blissful.
"What did he do?" Martin fairly growled.
Arthur blinked, the words on the tip of his tongue, hot and coppery and so incredibly sad. It sat in his mouth like thorns. The thorns were sharp and awful and forced tears to his eyes. That was a bit of a shock in itself.
"He... He died," Arthur whispered. He was dimly aware of hot tears tracking their way down his cheeks. He blinked them out of his eyes, to no avail.
"Oh, Arthur," Martin breathed. He shuffled to Arthur's side and sat beside him, pulling him into his arms. "I am so sorry."
Arthur sniffled, leaning into his husband's comfort.
"I don't know how to f-feel," he said, the words clawing themselves up and out of his throat. "H-he was awf-ful to me, but he w-w-was my dad."
"Sshh," Skipper murmured into his hair. How had Arthur's head ended up pillowed on Skip's chest? The heartbeat pulsing through layers of skin and bone and cloth was lovely. "It's all right. He was your dad, of course you'll feel sad about this. You know, I had trouble like this when my dad died."
Another sniffle.
"You did?"
A kiss was pressed to Arthur's hair. "Yes. He and I had fought like cats and dogs near the end, but I couldn't see that it was because he cared, because he didn't want me to get hurt. But even when I was so angry, I felt awful because he was my dad, and he wasn't there anymore."
Arthur nodded against Martin's chest.
"Th-that's it."
And then, the floodgates were thrown wide open. What started as a hiccup ended as a sob. That one sob turned into two, and on and on until he was wracked with them. He was shaking violently with the force of it. This wasn't a little cry, this was a torrent. This was a monsoon, a tsunami, an earthquake. It was a natural disaster, leaving him broken and aching and flattened.
But Martin never wavered. The susurrus sounds of his easy comfort, coupled with his arms and kisses and warmth, was constant and kind.
They sat there on the kitchen floor for hours, the sun slowly getting higher in the sky and eventually throwing its light over their bodies.
Arthur took a few shaky breaths, unaware that he was no longer crying, and let himself be lulled to sleep by the warmth of the sun and his Skipper. While one was fickle, continually giving way to the night, the other was absolutely constant. Skip wasn't his sun, or his moon, or his Jupiter. Martin was the ocean, always salty and alive, no matter where it was. He was the air, forever swirling and dancing and necessary. He was the sky, hanging above their heads from now until eternity.