After their very first Christmas together had erupted into an argument at 7 in the morning with Arthur telling him to go back to bed and stop acting like a child, Alfred had… done his best to sleep in on Christmas day, or at least wake up quietly and wait around to bug Artie around 10 or so. It was always pretty agonizing, really, sitting around and staring at the tree all huge and lit in sparkling white lights and only filled halfway on the bottom with presents, waiting for his boyfriend to arrive with a bag stuffed with the rest, but Alfred managed the wait, every year.
This was their fifth, and Arthur was way later than usual. Probably just sleeping in, since he hadn't been replying to Al's texts. Not that that had stopped him from trying! It was already noon; he had the right to send off, um, ten texts and three voicemails. Whatever. It was worth it to get Arthur over, even if he showed up all huffy and whiny. It was cute! And Alfred could make it better, anyway, he'd baked some Christmas cookies and his gifts were totally fucking thoughtful and he'd always thought Christmas nookie was pretty romantic.
Just as he'd finally given up on the phone thing and flicked the TV on — to a yule log channel, ironically, although maybe lighting the real fireplace tonight and cuddling up to it would be a good idea — his ringtone went off. Alfred scrabbled to grab his cell, cutting off the Mission Impossible theme as his thumb pressed the green call button. He noticed the number wasn't recognized. Maybe Arthur was lost somewhere?
Alfred dropped his phone around halfway through the fifth sentence. The battery clattered out, ending the call. He didn't notice, and if he had, he wouldn't have cared.
Arthur was dead.
—-
He'd completely forgotten to buy his boyfriend that stupid game he wanted. Arthur normally wouldn't have cared; he'd pick it up next week sometime, but… well, he had been out anyway, as he'd needed to buy bread and milk for himself. There was a small strip mall only a couple miles' drive from the supermarket, one with a game store, and he made the trip of five extra minutes to pick up the — one of those shooting games, he didn't know. He'd had Alfred write the name down on some piece of paper months back. No doubt the man had forgotten that ages ago; the gift would hopefully be a bit of a pleasant surprise.
As he found the game and rifled his wallet out to collect the money for it, a man in a ratty overcoat stumbled up. Oh, christ, it was a beggar, wasn't it? Starving and probably homeless but no doubt the money'd go directly to beer and cocaine. Arthur sneered and turned away and
and then man grabbed his elbow, and
spun him back around and—
Arthur felt the need to be ill. He was literally going to sick right on the carpet, it felt like. The man was holding tight to his arm, still, no doubt to keep him in place as he held the barrel of his handgun against Arthur's temple.
"I-I'm robbing you!" the man yelled. Arthur made a high-pitched noise somewhere in his throat, not daring to look up to judge anyone's reaction. These stores had silent alarms, yeah? He knew convenience shops did. Did game stores? Oh fuck he hoped so. He hoped someone was watching. Stupid. He should have gone home, forget Alfred's bloody video game addiction, should have done so many things, should have — said he loved him more. Been less of a cock.
Arthur wanted to swear, but he was too afraid for his life.
God, he'd do it better this time around, he swore. He'd be the… the nicest boyfriend anyone could ask for. He'd work in soup kitchens, he'd tip 25% no matter what, he just wanted to be alive; his head was swimming and, oh.
Oh, when had he started bleeding?
—-
He wasn't homeless, or an alcoholic, or a drug addict. He was unemployed but trying harder than anything to find a job, anything that would work. He was desperate. He had two sons and one little girl. He only wanted to be able to feed them a proper Christmas dinner.
He'd only shot Arthur in the leg, they told Alfred. Only the leg.
—-
Alfred hated him anyway.
—-
"An ambulance pulled up not too long after he'd been shot," someone explained. Deep voice, sounded old, detached. Like he'd done this before. Alfred wasn't really looking, or paying much attention. Arthur was dead. Why did the details matter? "Meant to bring him here."
Alfred played with his fingernails. They were getting too long, too ragged and stress-bitten. He laughed a little at that — at thinking that they'd only get worse.
The man paused, uncomfortably, and fuck it… Let him be uncomfortable, Alfred decided, let this get to him; let someone hurt as much as I do.
It was a bitter, angry thought.
But Christmas was over. Yesterday. Alfred had lost the spirit, really.
"Right, erm… as I was saying. The ambulance was driving slower than usual because of the season, but there was a patch of black ice…"
—-
It took Alfred a week and five days to fully put away his decorations. He strung the lights back into the box they'd come in. Put the Christmas tree, fake, in its box and put both those boxes into the basement, then took them back upstairs and outside and left them at the end of the driveway for trash collection. On second thought he carried all the gifts out there, too.
One of Arthur's brothers had brought his gifts, that little bag stuffed full of colorful festive wrapping, to Al's house. It was sitting on the front step one day as he got home.
He took it inside.
There were no gifts on the fifth Christmas he'd spent as Arthur's boyfriend; just a gun, and a crash, and a phone call.
But, he'd decided, there would be a gift on the sixth.
And the seventh, and the eighth, and — well, the bag had eleven wrapped presents altogether. That added up to… enough. And one gift a year might not be a lot, but…
He could manage the wait.
He would always manage the wait.