White Condolence
Arthur honestly wonders whether it's worth the expended effort to open another envelope. He toys with the paper thing absentmindedly, looking right through the names and the return address. They mean next to nothing to him.
He sags in his (Alfred's) armchair and drops the white paper back in its pile. The stack is for Alfred, not for him. Rightfully, he shouldn't even have touched it, for he had nothing to do with the events that took place. But Alfred won't be coming back to read them anyway, he's been told, so what can the harm be? He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling them begin to burn with tears.
The envelopes came in white at first, then in many colors, red green yellow pink bright baby blue. Some contained cards, most contained money, and the best of wishes alongside. He recognizes none of the printed initials, but then again, he hasn't tried to. After a few days, he stopped reading them, or even opening them altogether, and they now lie in a guilty rainbow stack by the cold fireplace, next to his (Alfred's) armchair in reminder.
Tomorrow will be their third anniversary. Arthur remembers this, though Alfred doubtlessly hadn't, being Alfred. Sometimes, Arthur has wondered how the blonde gained the credibility to become a teacher in the first place, as absent-minded as he is. But he knows the great intelligence harbored behind the silliness in those cerulean eyes, and doesn't doubt it. It had been what drew him close, like a compass needle to the pole, that very first time.
He remembers being very, very drunk. It was during Francis's annual Christmas party, the miserable event that his parents refused to let him skip year after year after horrible year, even after he'd graduated high school. But karma won out in the end, when a blonde boy he recognized vaguely from class sat down across from him and started light conversation, claiming that "being a los- loner" would get him kicked out of the party. That night, they'd ended up with their shirts off, making out in a storage closet, with Arthur never even learning his name.
But just after dawn, when the hungover partygoers were just beginning to stir, he'd donned his bomber jacket and nodded at Arthur once before turning to leave the mess.
"I'm Alfred," he'd said.
And now Alfred, at age 22, is six feet under.
Arthur wonders when he'll stop struggling and just accept the fact. That for him, for them, it's over now. He clenches his fists in his lap and feels his whole body tense in bottled rage. He wants to scream, because it's Christmas Eve and he's alone with a stack of unopened envelopes and Alfred isn't coming home.
"He was the image of unselfish," say the letters, the neighbors, the friends, the media. "He saved the children. Because he was there, they can live to see the Christmas and open their presents and make their mothers and fathers happy." And Arthur supposes he is grateful for it, unless that's just the pressure telling him what to think. The sweet life of the kindergarteners puts a little more color into his cheeks and lips every time he rises in the morning.
Alfred had always wanted to be the hero. He would repeat it over and over again around a mouthful of hamburger sometimes, reading his Marvel in the living room. In a way, this is what he's always wanted. He went out with a bang, in one explosive gunshot that rocked the nation, and now he'll be remembered by all. He has honor now.
All Arthur has is condolence money.
And sometimes, in the darkest, coldest hours of night, when he reaches across the bed, half-asleep, looking for his own space heater to cuddle and finding nothing, he just wishes Alfred had been a little less foolhardy, a little more selfish. Then the wintry ice would only be outside the window, not in his bed, his covers, his heart. He could have his face on someone's chest right now, sitting on a rug in front of a blazing hearth, with said someone stroking his hair. He wouldn't have to be curled in a shaking ball on his (Alfred's) armchair, listening to the sound of his own hitched breathing.
His watch beeps, discarded, from atop the pile of envelopes. Midnight, Christmas Day. Any second, Alfred will run down the stairs and skid across the floor to dive at the presents underneath the tree, shredding wrappers faster than an eye can blink. Arthur will only watch and smile softly, sipping on the tea that has gone cold on the nearby counter. But as the seconds pass, the temperature in the room falls and Arthur suddenly finds it hard to breathe again.
For the sake of memory, he straightens up and goes to kneel in front of a tree, dragging towards himself the largest present of all. "To: Arthur. From: Santa, of course!" He carefully peels off the gold wrapping paper, folding it when he finishes and holding it to his chest. He closes his eyes, opens them, then pushes the smooth leaf aside.
When he opens the box, he finds a note, and a similar tiny gold-wrapped box beneath it. Almost desperately, he lunges for the paper, tearing the envelope apart as he'd been reluctant to do with all of the others. The message inside is a single, messily-scrawled sentence: "The gift, I hope, explains itself. -Alfred." He bites his lip and pauses, suddenly nervous, but curiosity stabs at his chest. He unwraps the second box, more quickly this time.
Underneath the gold, the gift is plain, white and pure like the snow that's practically failed to fall this year. It is a soft, velvety case, with one side hinged, three sides free. His eyes widen, and dread starts to rise in his throat like vomit.
But when he opens the case, all he can do is close his eyes again.
It's a white diamond, an engagement ring.
(A/N:) Look, I don't care if you believe in God, Jesus, Christmas, anything, or even if you liked the fic, but every last one of you has to pray for the victims of the Sandy Hook shooting. Look at every present you're opening now, and imagine the children that aren't, the families that are grieving because of it. You can't offer much besides a solemn word, but please, at least spare a minute to give that. Sorry to depress on Christmas.