This happens every year.
Every. Single. Year.
He will shut down, practically turning into a hermit. He will drink until he passes out, sobbing into my shoulder like a child, if he's allowed me to come that close.
Every. Single. Year.
You would think that I would be sick of it by now, but no. I know how much this day ruins him, and how much he needs someone to endure it with him. Empathy and self-forgetfulness were never my forte, but I know how much he needs me at this time.
He doesn't realize that I'm mourning, too. Although on a lesser scale than him, I'm nursing broken heart on that day as well. I hardly notice, though. I need to comfort Arthur, and that's all that matters. I have time to mourn after that day.
"Arthur, mon ange? Please wake up," is what I'll say to him on that morning, every year. He won't get up, though. Of course he won't. He'll lie there, curled up into the fetal position as he pushes me away. I keep trying, though.
He'll scream and throw things to tell me that he wants to be alone, but I know he's only hurting. He says things. Things that cut me deeply, as if he were shoving a rapier into my chest, but I simply take it. It would only make him worse for me to yell.
"Artie, mon ange, don't you want breakfast?" I'll always forget. Every year, I'll call him 'Artie' on accident. I'll take ten steps backwards for it, every year. He simply hates it when I call him that.
He will stay in bed, clutching a pillow to his chest, saying that I hate him. I don't. I'll try to convince him of it, but then to get rid of me, he will say that he hates me.
He will eventually get out of bed. Hunger is a stubborn evil that will eat away ferociously at your stomach until you give in to it. He'll eat breakfast, although by then it would be considered lunch.
I won't allow him to go back to bed, so he will roam the house with a haunted look in his eyes, bursting into tears as certain spots. I know that this house holds painful memories for him, and I try to convince him to move, but he's too stubborn to leave his family home. The British are like that, apparently, although it may simply be Arthur.
He will go to that room at the end of the hall, pull out an old, ratty Teddy bear and sob into it, dampening it with his tears. He'll cry out into the bear, and although it's muffled, I know who he's calling out for. There are entire photo albums with tear-stained photos filling them, all hidden from sight until that day, every single year.
No matter how hard I try to hide the liquor, he always manages to find a bottle of alcohol. How he does it, I'll never know. I don't ask. I simply try to keep him away from a second bottle, which also fails.
After two bottles, he'll spend hours sobbing into my shoulder uncontrollably, muttering 'why?' guiltily to himself through his tears.
"Je suis tellement désolé," I will hold him, pull him into my lap, try to comfort him, but he's too drunk to notice anything outside his own agony.
He will go into a short comatose state after that, as if he's drowning in his memories. I hate it when he does that. He'll reach out, only half conscious, for his child.
"Alfred, I'm sorry," he'll sob into my shoulder, muttering the phrase like a mantra, over and over. I will pick him up and carry him, like a small child, back up to his bed. He'll have passed out by that time, sleeping fitfully in my arms.
He'll usually have gotten himself sick with all that drinking and will have a fever, so I'll place icepacks on his forehead while he sleeps. I'll keep watch, brushing sweat-dampened, dirty blond hair out of his face through the night. He will wake up at least once every few hours to empty the contents of his stomach. I can usually hear him from the bedroom, and make sure to have a glass of water and some Advil waiting for him.
After he's gone through that a few times, he'll finally fall asleep, leaving me exhausted and sore. I'll feel relieved, though, because I'll look at the clock and see that it's no longer the fourth. I'll sigh softly, attacked by my own memories.
...
"Higher, Daddy, higher!" Alfred had squealed happily, clutching the chains of the swing happily. He was smiling ecstatically, his blue eyes the same color as the sky above them. Arthur pushed him contently, laughing along with the child.
It was a perfect day, albeit my memory of it hazy. I was sitting on a nearby bench, simply watching the father and son moment. Alfred would occasionally glance over in my direction, to make sure that his step-father was still there. I was. I would smile back at him, and he'd give me his signature charming yet goofy little smile in that fraction of a second. He'd quickly turn his attention back to Arthur, and I'd continue watching.
He was seven then, I think. Even back then he had managed to play Arthur, so we'd all been eating ice cream until we couldn't feel our tongues. Then we'd eat more ice cream, although it made Arthur feel sick.
We all laughed that day, and even though I spent it at the park in a park full of children and a sick Arthur, it was one of the best days I'd spent with my famille.
...
Arthur leaned against the doorframe, one corner of his lips quirked up in a slight smirk. He didn't notice me until my arms were wrapped around his waist. His smile vanished, replaced by an embarrassed frown. He was flushed red, avoiding my gaze.
"We did a good job, mon ange," I whispered as not to wake them.
Alfred was thirteen, and although he was supposed to be in that awkward phase, he seemed even more confident than before. He'd had about six other boys over for a sleepover who were all strewn around the living room haphazardly. Alfred had forgotten to take off his glasses, and his mouth was open, surprisingly quiet snores coming from him.
"We?" Arthur snorted softly, smirking up at me. I brushed a stray lock of blonde out of his eyes, just to see him blush. He did, but it was accompanied by an embarrassed scowl. He batted my hand away, stalking back up to our bedroom.
I smiled as I watched him go, possibly because I may or may not have been checking out his backside.
I glanced back over at Alfred. His glasses were half off his face, his arms and legs were splayed out awkwardly, and usual smirk was gone. I smiled once more at Arthur's—our—little boy before heading tiredly after Arthur.
...
"I'm nineteen, you can't keep controlling me!"
"I am your father, and while you live in this house, I can!"
"Then I'm leaving!" Alfred had stormed out of the house and started the car Arthur and I had gotten him for his seventeenth birthday. Arthur was an enraged red shade, breathing heavily as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Don't worry, Arthur, it's just a phase. You know he loves you, mon ange." I rub Arthur's back soothingly, trying to comfort him. When Arthur and I fought, he'd always bounce back quickly. Whenever he and Arthur fought, his heart may as well have been torn out.
"Sometimes, I'm not sure, Francis," he mutters, the anger in him fading into a deep sadness. I can see how hard he tries to be a good father, but Alfred is going through his rebellious phase.
"Don't worry. Everything will work out," I'd murmured softly into his hair, my arms tightly around him. He'd closed his eyes, probably trying to forget everything that had just occurred, when a sound like the Eiffel tower falling over startled us, making Arthur pale fearfully. Shouts ensued, and my heart dropped into my stomach.
We both rushed outside, fearful for our child, although he was technically an adult by that time. He pushed pash me, only to stop dead in his tracks about a foot from the road.
"Alfred..." he whispered, staring at a spot on the road almost a block away. I reached him a moment later, only to discover the most horrible sight I'd ever had the displeasure of seeing.
Alfred's car, his precious car, was in the middle of the road, the entire front half destroyed. The back had some damage, too, but not as much as the front. Where the driver would sit.
It sat there. A black pile of twisted, obliterated metal, completely upside-down. There were skid marks on the road where it seems the front part did most of it's scraping before it flipped over. Behind it was a relatively undamaged car, the driver coming out with a guilty and fearful expression.
I took Arthur into my arms to shield him from all of it, but it was too late. He had seen everything. I cradled him close, murmuring softly to him in French to comfort him, but it was too late. He was already gone.
...
"Je suis tellement désolé. Cela n'aurait jamais dû arriver. Pas à votre bébé. Je suis désolé, mon ange, je suis désolé. Il vous aimait, mon ange, il l'a fait. Je vous le promets." I'll kiss his forehead and sigh softly.
"J'espère, pour toi, que Alfred est en paix." I'll wake up again, and run my fingers through Arthur's hair.
"Je suis tellement désolé," I will say once more, before drifting into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, completely drained from trying to comfort mon ange.
Since I'm sure not many of you speak French, here are the translations. Three translation websites went into this, so here we go. On the off chance that any of these translations are inaccurate, I apologize.
'Mon ange': my angel
'Je suis tellement désolé': I'm so sorry
'Famille': family
'Je suis tellement désolé. Cela n'aurait jamais dû arriver. Pas à votre bébé. Je suis désolé, mon ange, je suis désolé. Il vous aimait, mon ange, il l'a fait. Je vous le promets.': This should never have happened. Not to your baby. I'm so sorry, my angel, I'm sorry. He loved you, my angel, he did. I promise you.
'J'espère, pour toi, que Alfred est en paix.': I hope, for your sake, that Alfred is at peace.