A Tale as Old as Time

I

As was typically the case in that beautiful part of the world, the sunrise on this particular morning was a brilliant one; it came creeping over the grassy hills just beyond the village and illuminated them like smaragdine fire, while at the same time causing the sky to gradually turn from pitch to a lovely azuline colour.

It was an especially wondrous sight for an artist that was all but hypnotised by the sight. He wished to capture the memory of this particular moment in a painting, and perhaps give it to the boy he was looking to wake up once he finally had the will to pull himself from the spot where he was standing.

With one last smile at the scene before him, he hurried over to the house beside his own, which was still a fair distance away since they lived in the outskirts of the small village. He never minded the opportunity to walk, as even in the darkest times of winter it seemed there was something to see or something to paint.

And, as per usual, once he stepped foot in the property, a large dog came bounding over and attacked the artist with no shortage of licks and barks.

“I'm sorry, I don't have much time to play with you; I have a commission to work on. Maybe you can go with Matthew; I know you always enjoy those little trips of his,” the artist hummed, pulling a small portion of chicken wrapped in a handkerchief and feeding it to the dog. “Here you are. Watch over your owner today.”

While the dog happily ate the chicken, the artist slipped by and entered the small house. Its occupant, Matthew, was still soundly asleep, which was no surprise at all. The boy could sleep in halfway through the day if it pleased him. It might get him into trouble if one day he didn't have a certain someone watching over him.

“Matthew, it's time for you to wake up,” he whispered as he gently shook the boy, wanting to rouse him as nicely as possible. When all he got in reply was a groan, he shook him a little harder. “Remember, you wanted to go out and pick berries so I can make preserves out of them. I can't do that if you sleep all day.”

“But Francis, I'm tired,” Matthew whined, rolling over so he could cover his face, which Francis, the artist, didn't allow.

“I know you're tired, but you won't be if you get up and get ready for the day. Besides, it's beautiful outside and it may rain later, so get on it before it's too late,” Francis replied, and with that he started to pull the boy out of bed, even if Matthew was slightly taller than him.

It was usually always this way, and Francis had always been the big brother figure towards them. Him, he corrected himself. Back when a seven year old Francis and his parents had taken Matthew in, there was another brother, but such was not the case anymore, and he had to remember that. It especially upset Matthew to bring him up.

“What are you making that face for?” Matthew asked, reaching up and stroking Francis’ cheek. He pulled himself in the older man's lap and hugged him. “Is there something making you sad?”

Francis, however, just smiled and shook his head, then picked Matthew up and carried him to the kitchen so he could enjoy his company while he put breakfast together for the two of them. “No, I was just remembering how cute you were when you were little. Those big violet eyes of yours, and your puffy cheeks, and-”

“He's okay, you know,” Matthew hummed, resting his chin on his wrists while sitting comfortably at the small wooden table just outside the kitchen. “I've been thinking about him too, since we'd be nineteen in a couple of weeks. And trust me, I know that wherever he is now, he's okay.”

Letting out a small sigh and a soft smile, Francis laid out a plate of cheese, assorted fruits that were slightly past their prime, and some stale bread for them to share. They'd never lived extravagant lives, but no matter their predicament, they'd almost always managed to be content with what they had. Even when it was still the three of them, that was the case.