Alfred double checked the address on the slip of paper he carried. Yes, it certainly matched. The ink on the original paper was faded and the edges torn - it had been four years, after all. Four whole years since he'd found it in the field hospital.
He wished he could say the time had flown by. It hadn't.
Carefully, Alfred climbed the front steps of the house. It suited Lieutenant Kirkland, he decided; nothing too fancy, only a black and white townhouse, as intimidating as it was pretty.
Alfred rang the doorbell, stepping back to wait for someone to answer. He wondered if Arthur would have a servant do the job for him; somehow the thought bothered him.
But when the door did open - at first it was only a crack - it was Arthur standing there with a look of mild annoyance and poorly disguised shock. Alfred was just happy that he had found the right place.
"Jones? What are you doing here?"
"Stopping by for a visit, of course." Alfred grinned.
"All this way, for a visit?" Arthur frowned.
"It's a long story. You wouldn't mind if I came in, would you?"
Arthur didn't answer, but he stepped aside, which Alfred took as an invitation to follow him inside.
"Nice place," he commented.
"It was in better shape when the servants were still around," Arthur replied. "The butler was killed in the war, though, and I didn't have the heart to keep the maids employed while I was away, so I dismissed them."
"Does it get lonely around here?" Alfred asked.
"Nothing I can't handle," Arthur answered. "Would you like a bit of tea? I'd make it if you wanted."
Alfred considered asking for coffee instead, but it seemed like a risky choice. He nodded, too afraid to say that in all honesty, he hated the taste of tea.
"I'll be right back, then," Arthur said, disappearing to attend to the unwanted beverage.
Alfred took the opportunity to examine the room he'd been left in. There was numerous portraits on the walls, presumably of family members; the figures all seemed to share Arthur's blonde hair, and to Alfred's amusement, the bushy eyebrows as well. The various artifacts of Arthur's- jars and small sculptures from the Far East - were neatly arranged on the mantelpiece, and nestled behind a small cluster of them was a framed photograph featuring Arthur and three other boys of around the same age.
Cousins, Alfred guessed, if not brothers.
By the time Arthur returned, Alfred felt he knew the man much better. It was unfair, really; there wasn't any way he could give Arthur the same opportunity right now. He could have even learned more, if he'd wanted to - Arthur had left what was clearly a journal or diary next to one of the lamps. But Alfred wasn't rude enough to read it without asking.
"Why are you in London?" Arthur asked, setting a cup of tea on the table next to the chair Alfred had selected for himself.
"I wanted a change," Alfred answered.
"So it isn't because you wanted to see me? Pity." Arthur settled into a chair across from Alfred, miraculously managing to keep the tea in his own cup from spilling everywhere in the process. It was clear that he was fishing for compliments.
Alfred couldn't bring himself to indulge the other man. "How are things here for you?"
"Oh. Fine, if boring." Arthur paused. "This isn't some kind of medical follow-up, is it?"
"Not unless you want it to be," Alfred answered. "I see your arm still works. That's good, isn't it?"
"No, I was perfectly distressed to find I'm fully functional," Arthur replied dryly. "Not that there's been many people around to notice either way."
"Don't people visit you?"
"One of my brothers stopped by last year."
Alfred briefly congratulated himself on his detective work. "Only last year?"
"Last year was only a few months ago," Arthur reminded him.
"That's a few months of you hiding away," Alfred pointed out. "You're not becoming a hermit, are you?"
"So what if I am? People aren't so nice to talk to anymore. You know how it is; no one wants to talk about the war, but what else is there? Everything else seems so … pointless." Arthur said, resting his head in one his hands.
"You think you've got it bad?" Alfred scoffed. "At least people here accept that it happened and know how bad it was. Back home, no one really understands. It's like they think it didn't happen at all because they didn't want to be involved."
"Both terrible excuses," Arthur replied. "So that's why you're here, isn't it?"
Alfred nodded. "I didn't know where else to go, though, other than here. I hope you don't mind."
"It's fine."
There was a pause. Alfred tried to swallow his tea, hoping Arthur didn't see his grimace. He wondered how an entire nation could depend on the stuff when it was so foul.
"I'm assuming you haven't found much to do with your life, since you're here?" Arthur finally said.
"I was a horrible doctor, and I don't know if I could continue with that even if I wasn't," Alfred answered. "What about you?"
"Haven't done much," Arthur admitted. "I've written a couple of rubbish poems and started a novel, but it's all terrible." He paused. "I made an ink drawing as well, but it was awful enough that I had to burn it."
"Could I read some of your stuff?" Alfred asked.
Arthur blushed. "No. They're nothing worth reading, I promise."
"How do you know, if no one's read them?"
"They're not … for reading," Arthur desperately tried to explain. "They're not even about the war, properly…"
Alfred wondered what they actually were about, and why it had caused Arthur's cheeks to turn such a dark red. Clearly he was hiding something. Something embarrassing. Something to be embarrassed about around Alfred…
"They're not about anyone in particular, are they?" Alfred grinned.
"No. Of course not."
Their eyes alighted on the journal next to the window simultaneously. Arthur had the disadvantage of still having his teacup in his hand, and by the time he sprung to his feet, Alfred had already opened the book to a page covered in writing. Alfred half expected an attack from the smaller man, but it never came, perhaps out of respect for the furniture.
"I don't read your personal things," Arthur snapped.
"If I had any with me, I'd let you," Alfred reassured him. "For we can call this a medical review. Mental health, you know; it's a growing field."
"Are you always this insufferable?" Arthur asked.
"Usually," Alfred agreed. "But only towards people I like, if that helps."
"Not really."
"Ah, too bad." Alfred looked down, finding a neatly written passage on the page. "What's this about a heroic pilot?"
"Don't you dare read that. Anything but that."
"Oh, it's poetry too! I like it. Shame this pilot doesn't have a name. Oh, what's this, he has a knowledge of medicine, too?"
"Now you're making it up. I didn't write that. Now stop." Arthur glared.
"If you didn't want me to read it, you wouldn't have left it out," Alfred teased.
"Might I remind you that I wasn't aware you would be visiting?"
"You had time to move it, though."
"I could send you out," Arthur warned. "Or call the police."
"You'd send me out into the streets? Alone?" Alfred added a pout for good measure, but he lowered the journal back to its place next to the lamp. He hadn't read much, but from what he had seen, he could guess the nature of the rest of the content. It was flattering; he wasn't entirely sure that he deserved it.
"You must have somewhere to stay," Arthur sighed.
"Ah. I was wondering if you might help me with that."
"Please tell me you have money."
"I have American money." Alfred hung his head.
"Did you come here counting on the fact that I would be here waiting for you?"
"On the fact that you'd be here, sure, though I never said anything about you waiting for me. I'm happy to hear it though."
"What if I'd died? Or moved? Or simply gone for a walk when you arrived and missed you completely?" Arthur at least looked more exasperated than angry at this point, which Alfred took as a good sign.
"You didn't, though," Alfred pointed out. "I take that to be a good sign. Maybe this was supposed to happen."
"Are you saying I have to put up with an American boarder now?" Arthur crossed his arms over his chest.
"It's not exactly 'boarding,' since I don't have money. Yet," Alfred added. "You might enjoy the company, though. What do you say?"
Arthur considered it for a moment, biting his lower lip. The result made him look more shy than contemplative, and Alfred found it oddly endearing.
"If you promise not to read anything else that I don't want you reading, then fine. But you're going to get a job, and you're not going to bother me or get in my way. Is that clear?"
Alfred nodded. "Thank you, Arthur."
He chose to wait before admitting that he'd left his belongings outside the servants' door, sensing that might be a deal breaker. He didn't want to seem presumptuous, after all.