"Last Christmas," was playing for the hundredth time that evening, but the firm's Christmas party was still going strong. Laughter, dancing, gossip, eggnog. Arthur Kirkland was sitting by himself. Santa hats, holiday ties with messed up knots, a couple of colleagues who had never spoken before shared a kiss under a mistletoe with laughter from the people around them. He was feeling bitter and empty.
Christmas was coming nearer with fast steps, and Arthur Kirkland would have to spend it alone for the first time. He had been dumped just days earlier. Not with words, but by finding out … That the relationship had been long dead … As he had found the man he thought was the love of his life … On top of someone else.
It had been a completely regular day, except for the fact that he has been lucky to be off work early. The Englishman had thought to himself that maybe this was the perfect time to surprise his boyfriend, and he had rushed home with snowflakes in his hair.
Alfred had always been the romantic - well, frankly cheesy one of the two. He had asked Arthur out first when they met. Repeatedly. Not taking no for an answer. And quickly after they had started dating, Alfred had found out that he had to upgrade his dates from fast food restaurants and cinema trips to something that fit the pretentious tastes of the Briton. Alfred had watched Arthur shed lonely, sincere tears at the opera, and watched how the rare smiles lit up the room far more than the candles at the fancy restaurants Arthur had recommended.
Life had been good. For four years they had been doing so well. Arthur had so many sweet memories of Alfred falling asleep in his arms while the Brit insisted to stay up late reading. Memories of Alfred grabbing onto him and turning him around when Arthur tried to run from his personal problems or lie about them - Alfred had kept on pushing until Arthur accepted defeat let himself give in to the sweet relief of having someone who cared enough to listen.
Last year they had even, for a short time, talked about maybe getting married. Well, at least Alfred had talked about it. Arthur had laughed in that tone of voice that meant he did not think Alfred was being quite serious. That tone he used without realising it, when his voice became high-pitched and Alfred could hear him going "Are you completely off your rocker?" without Arthur having to say anything out loud.
The tone of voice that always felt like Alfred had received a kick to his ribcage and a hand was strangling him so hard speaking became painful. He had not mentioned marriage again after that.
Now, sitting all alone at the table with his God-knew-what-number glass of some alcohol he no longer could distinguish from dirty bath water. This was it, he told himself. He had drunk himself numb. He laid his head down on the table, staring into the air without registering what was going on in the side of the room he was looking at. The music pumping in his ear and drowning out the talk around him so he could almost pretend to be alone.
Until his eyes fell on a man more beautiful than he had ever seen, and slowly he raised his head again. This man, with blonde hair pulled back from his shoulders and into a ponytail, was standing with a glass, leaning against the wall and laughing as he talked to a taller, red-haired man. He knew the redhead. He worked here. But he did not recognise the blonde. He got to his feet.
He had needed to grab onto the dresser next to him when he walked into the bedroom, or the shock would have made his legs collapse under him. He did not remember that he had yelled out in shock, but he must have, because Alfred's "best friend" Matthew had gasped very loudly and pushed Alfred off him, trying desperately to cover himself in one of the blankets on the bed while Alfred had jumped out of bed to put on his trousers again quickly enough to at least not feel totally exposed.
"Arthur, I can expla- " He had started, but Arthur had lifted a hand to stop him. Staring slowly from one to the other, he then straightened his back, took a deep breath and said in a clear, thin voice. "I want you out of here by noon tomorrow." And he had turned around. And left the house. He did however stop in the doorframe when Alfred cried out "You can't just throw me out! Christmas is next week! I have nowhere to go!"
Arthur put on his scarf with hands that refused to shake, and he felt a hole in his chest. And no matter how he wished he could scream back that Alfred could go to Matthew or go to hell, his throat had closed so tightly, he wasn't even able to answer.
How he got through the party and reached the wall where the blonde beauty was leaning against the wall with that carefree smile, he didn't exactly remember. He just stood there so suddenly and softly poked the man's shoulder, asking if he hadn't seen him somewhere before. He was about to use the same stupid pick-up like Alfred had used on him when they first met. "No? I'm sure I recognise you from my dream last night." The alcohol in his blood making him believe that to be a good idea, but he didn't get that far; because the sweet, French voice immediately answered him 'yes'. And Arthur stared at him confused, unable to place the face. He could not be that drunk! He could not be too drunk to not recognise this handsome man - he would never have forgotten eyes like these! Well, to be perfectly fair he was drunk enough for the other's eyes to seem a little blurry and he could not figure out if they were blue or grey.
"Last sunday," the French accent was dulled by the music it had to speak over. "Outside the book shop," he finished, after seeing how confused the English man seemed. The long haired man gave a soft, worried smile, which at first baffled Arthur.
Sunday … He had been drinking … Actually he had not been sober at all that weekend, between his discovery and late Sunday evening. He had stopped drinking sometime Sunday and woken Monday morning thinking he could not let drinking consume him, no matter how much he wished to numb this hideous pain. He did not remember what had scared him from doing that, however. Since during the weekend he had been more than prepared to lie a few nights in the gutter without any recollection thereof. But he had gotten out of bed and arrived at work, even with his hangover.
If he had remembered this beautiful face, he would have remembered what had made him pick himself up. Arthur had sat in front of a bookshop with a bottle in a paper bag. With no memory of when he had arrived, how he had arrived, and later would not remember how he left. But … oh, he remembered that face now. Just for a moment. Just the image of this face, and nothing else. There was not the slightest memory of this man having a worried wrinkle in his forehead when he leant down to speak to the Englishman. He did not remember that this man had introduced himself as Francis, or asked if he was okay and if he had somewhere to go. This was the man who had sat down next to him while Arthur had drunkenly told everything that had happened between himself and his boyfriend through four years, and this was the man who had gently taken the empty bottle from his hand and helped him home in the dark.
Just like Francis reached out and took the glass from Arthur's hand now, and put both Arthur's and his own glass down on the nearest table. "What about a dance?" He asked, and reached out for Arthur's hands, determined to not let this man drink anymore sorrows away while he was around. And for the first time in the last few days, Arthur Smiled. And Francis laughed happily as they both stepped out on the dance floor - Arthur proved himself to be decently sober. And he did not feel so alone anymore. This evening would not be one he would have forgotten in the morning.