It's eight in the morning of a normal day in October; the sun is out, streaming dimly through the blinds and the loud sounds of the city downstairs are as loud as ever, polluting the atmosphere like a fog.
The bed beside him is empty, the sheets pulled back, and when he runs his fingers over the slight indent, it's still slightly warm. He can hear the tap's annoying, inconsistent dripping - a testament to Alfred's procrastination on fixing it himself.
Arthur crawls out of bed to wash his face, and when he looks up he smiles as he sees himself reflected in more ways than one. Over the years, the two of them had taped photographs of them on the mirror, leaving only limited amount of it as an actual reflective surface. When he steps into the living room, the smell of coffee is evident in the air and Arthur can't help but break into a small smile as his eyes fall upon the UK mug of latte left out for him the way it was every morning.
He was never much of a coffee fan, but after three years of living with Alfred, anyone could grow a tolerance to the beverage. Every morning, and occasionally the afternoon, the drink would be prevalent in his life. Whether it be the morning wakeup, the afternoon stress relief or simply the sweets that Alfred liked to buy from the Chinese shop, you could always count on the American to be ingesting it somehow.
He brings the cup to his lips – he'll admit, it's good. Alfred always knew exactly how much sugar he likes. He gives an appreciative lick to his lips, and stiffens as a pair of arms snake themselves around his torso.
"Mornin', Artie," comes Alfred's voice, always softer in the morning. Sometimes Arthur wishes for a permanent sunrise, just so he could have that little bit of remote silence.
"Good morning, Alfred," he replies, before glancing at the clock mounted on the wall. "Not heading to work?"
Alfred sighs into the older man's shoulder, "It's only fifteen past, and you're already trying to get rid of me?" he asks. Arthur feels the former's grip on him loosen just a tad.
"No," he muses, "I Just don't want you missing your bus again. My car's in for repairs, so you'll have to walk or wait the forty-five minutes."
He groans, and releases the Brit from his embrace. "You're right. You're always such a mother, Arthur," he says, but leans down and kisses his temple nonetheless. "I'll see you later, okay?"
-x-
It's eight in the morning of a normal day in October; the sun is out, streaming dimly through the blinds and the loud sounds of the city downstairs are as loud as ever, polluting the atmosphere like a fog.
But for Arthur, it's as far from normal as one could get.
The bed beside him is empty, the sheets pulled back, and when he runs his fingers over the slight indent, it's stone cold. He can no longer hear the dripping of the tap – Alfred had hired a plumber to fix the simple ten-minute job. The erratic dripping that he had heard every morning like a rhythm was gone, just like the rhythm of his life.
Arthur crawls out of bed to wash his face, and when he looks up he sees only himself. The photos are gone, violently ripped from their adhesives. Tape remained in places, as well as ripped remanents of the notes and precious photos that were unable to be replaced. When he steps into the living room, the smell of coffee is gone, the UK mug sitting where he last left it, cold and empty.
Just like him.
-x-
A week passes, and when Arthur steps into his living room, the smell of coffee is back. But this isn't the right coffee, the kind that he'd grown accustomed to, but the bland, tasteless type that made him cough and feel sick to his stomach.
Cups of Starbucks and packages of instant powder litter his dining table, but he hasn't the heart to throw them out, even when they start to spoil. After all, it's the only thing of Alfred he has left.
-x-
"Excuse me, miss," Arthur says, giving an unimpressed look towards the barista, "this is horrible." Her face is unchanging as she tells him that she made his coffee exactly to his order and that if he wasn't satisfied, he should just throw it out rather than complain. He gives her a glare, and steps out of the shop. He passes a bin, and lifts it up to throw it out. He pauses for a second, and takes another sip. It's bitter and makes his stomach churn.
It's not even as bad as the time where he accidentally drank Alfred's short black.
But then again, the younger had remedied the situation by pressing his lips to his, and in Arthur's opinion, the beverage tasted considerably better.
When he checks his watch, it's still eight fifteen. The mornings dragged on endlessly, and he begins to wonder what was wrong with him when he'd wished they'd last forever.
Because right now, he wants nothing more than his useless chatter to cheer him up.
-x-
Sharps knocks to the door wake Arthur from the wooden floorboards he'd passed out on. When he answers the door, the postman is obviously taken aback at his physical state – long, shaggy hair and an unkempt face, he must look a sight.
"Delivery for Arthur?" he asks, to which he nods. The postman holds out his hand, in it a cup of coffee.
After a few seconds, Arthur peers out the door in confusion. "I'm sorry, but where's whatever package you're delivering?" he asks.
The postie shakes the cup slightly, "This is it."
He takes it tentatively with both hands, and without thinking takes a sip. He didn't care that it was cold, that he had grown to hate the taste of coffee in the recent weeks or that it'd been given to him by a complete stranger.
And of course, it's good.
Because Alfred always knew exactly how much sugar he likes.
-x-
A/N: I wrote this in class originally for another fandom but it turned out to fit these two losers perfectly OTL;;
unbeta'd, I've read through it but it probably doesn't flow well. any obvious mistakes, leave it in a review & I'll fix it. thanks for reading!