I didn't understand why people kept dancing even when everything was falling apart. The light cascaded through the glittering glass of the chandelier, illuminating the beautiful faces of the people on the dancefloor each part at a time. A pair of rosy lips, a sharp clean shaven jaw, a rouged cheek. Bits and pieces of human vanity.
There were bits and pieces of humans scattered outside the building and buried under the debris as well. I don't think they were on these people's minds as they twisted and twirled gracefully to the music. Judging by the laughter, the war might have never happened. The only reminder of the grim reality beyond the walls were the bandaged arms and distinct shortage of young men in the crowd.
To be honest, that was probably the main reason I was being approached so often during the night. Young girls in flowing dresses would pause in front of me and offer me shy smiles, asking to be partnered in the next dance.
They all left with a tight smile and mumbles apologies. I was well aware of the fact that I was one of the precious few vital men in the room and that to deny a lady a dance was remarkably rude, but I couldn't summon the will to stand up from my seat and take a stranger's hand to the sound of a jovial tune.
Oh, we might have won a battle, but we haven't won the war. I accepted the free drink just like everyone else, but I wasn't there to dance. A change of scenery, maybe. Even I tire of my room sometimes, especially when it's a borrowed one. My aunt was kind to take us in after the bomb hit our home, but it gets crowded all too often. I dislike being a burden.
The looks I got while sitting with a book didn't bother me. In fact, it was curious how uncomfortable people become when they see someone enjoying themselves in a way other than what the majority are doing to entertain each other. Soon enough they would learn to leave me alone.
Not soon enough for my taste, it appeared. Over the top of the page I could make out a figure slowly approaching me, though I refused to pull my eyes away from the book and look at it properly. Maybe if I made no eye contact, perhaps they would stop in their tracks and reconsider. Maybe I would truly be able to enjoy myself this evening.
"Excuse me. Is this seat taken?"
Damnation. I raised my eyes, an irritated rebuttal at the tip of my tongue fading just as quick as it had come. A soldier stood in front of me- the American dream incarnated. Baby blue eyes framed with a flimsy pair of glasses looked down at me, smiling shyly. A small military cap perched precariously on top of his blond tresses, matching the color of his uniform.
Truly a poster boy if not for the cut on his cheek and his bandaged leg. There were crutches beneath his arms which moved as he shifted slightly, supporting his weight. He saw my eyes lingering and looked down himself, shrugging sheepishly.
"I wanted to dance with you, y'see," he added lightly, glancing towards the couples waltzing in the middle of the hall. "Guess I forgot I could barely walk."
The soldier looked back at me and I realized that he was expecting an answer. It was hard to thread the words together after having been startled so, but I managed to set my book on my lap and pat the chair beside me.
"You should probably sit down before you hurt yourself." It wasn't perhaps the nicest thing to say, but that was the first thing I could think of. I had never been approached by a man and asked to dance, much the less by an American.
I eyed him cautiously as he flashed me a brilliant smile and began the process of seating himself. He pulled away when I made to reach out to help him. Well, if he didn't want any help, I wouldn't be offering it again.
It felt highly uncomfortable to have someone sit so close to me while I read. I couldn't help but pick my book back up and run my eyes over the words without registering a single thing. It was preferable to having to bridge over the awkward silence which filled the air between us. I didn't dare look in the man's direction.
"I don't understand them," I said abruptly, surprising myself. The soldier's brows furrowed quizzically, waiting for me to continue. "How could they dance like that when there's a war out there? How can they sing and laugh when blood is being spilled so freely?"
The soldier's face softened and he looked at me thoughtfully. "Just because there's a war going on doesn't mean that life should come to a hold," he said slowly. "Stopping everything and living in fear would be exactly what our enemies want us to do. When we're happy, we're winning."
"But what about your leg?" I nodded meaningfully at his crutches, which he had leaned against the table behind us. "This is what you were injured for?"
"This is exactly what I got injured for," the soldier insisted. "My leg was hurt so that these people could dance and drink without having to fear for their lives. I would gladly go through that again for it."
I watched his face carefully for the sign of a bluff and was ready to call him out for it, but I could find none. His face was set with the kind of conviction I hadn't seen in a very long time. There was nothing I could say.
I cleared my throat. "Maybe you should try to dance," I offered with a strained smile. "Find some young bird whose heart you can melt with your smile. She'll overlook your injury the moment she sees your uniform."
"Nah, my leg is kind of hurting me," the soldier grimaced and before I could stop him, took my glass and downed the last of my drink. "Besides," he added, smirking at my shock, "I'd much rather spend my time with you."
No one got away with stealing my drink. Not even if they looked ridiculously attractive doing so.
"Well, I'd rather you not," I said shortly, returning my gaze to the frayed pages of The War of the Worlds. "You already robbed me of my drink. My time is not for you to monopolize at your whim."
A hand slid into my field of vision and snatched the book away. I narrowed my eyes and turned in my seat to retrieve it, but the soldier held it back over his head, far out of my reach. I was incensed, true, but not enough to tackle an injured man. I sighed and settled back, pinching the bridge of my nose in exasperation.
"Why must you pester me so?"
The soldier lowered his hand and set my book on the table. "I'm sorry, but I can't leave you alone," he explained seriously. He paused and seemed to consider his words before his mouth stretched in a slightly flustered grin.
"It's just that you have this look in your eyes, the kind that says that you just...like you just gave up. I know it sounds a little odd, but I can't leave my comrades to fend for themselves in battle. I won't allow you to fight alone."
This man. I couldn't determine if I was frustrated or touched. Perhaps both. I shook my head.
"What did you say your name was?"
The soldier looked taken aback before he tapped himself lightly on the forehead and offered me his hand.
"Silly me, I forgot to introduce myself! I'm Alfred. Alfred Jones."
Hesitantly, I took his hand and gave him a small smile. His hand was warm.
"My name is Arthur. It's a pleasure to meet you, Alfred Jones."
.x.
His hand was still warm when he pulled me out of my seat. "C'mon," he coaxed me, pulling as best as he could with a crutch beneath his arm. "Come and dance with me!"
The dancers were long gone. The hall was empty and the light had been turned off, leaving Alfred and I in the dark. That hadn't stopped us from conversing to our hearts' content until the early hours of the morning, swapping stories and exchanging views. As idealistic as the American was, he made a few good points.
I paused. Everything about Alfred from his bright smile to his fingers entwined with mine was cozy and inviting, but even the largest smiles could hide untold pain.
"Didn't you say that your leg was hurting you?" I reminded him, yet kept my hand in his. It felt nice.
Alfred frowned for a moment before chuckling. "I lied," he explained smoothly, backing away and tugging me forward. "I wanted to sit with you. And now, I want to dance."
"But there's no music!" I protested, standing my ground until he was able to pull me away a few paces from the chair. He stopped and looked down at my legs curiously.
"Do you...?" he began, but I cut him off shortly.
"Yes, I have a limp. Ever since my house was bombed. Still keen on dancing?"
Alfred's eyes shifted back up to my face. His surprise was gone, replaced with something I couldn't name. "Of course," he said firmly, tugging at my hand a little more gently this time. "Why wouldn't I? You're still the handsomest man in the room."
I wanted to point out that I was the only other man in the room, but I didn't have the heart, not when Alfred was so excited. I allowed him to lead me at our slow pace to the middle of what had been the dance floor.
Once there, Alfred let go of my hand and turned to stand in front of me, wrapping one arm around my waist and the other grasping my hand back in its hold. It was an awkward fit what with his crutches and my limp, but we managed to sway in time to the ghosts of the band which had been playing hours before.
Somehow, in our misfit, we fit each other perfectly. Time passed and I found myself leaning my head against his chest, which in hindsight mustn't have been very comfortable, but Alfred didn't push me away. Instead, he began humming a soft tune, the words barely audible but very sweet when I managed to make them out.
I'll be seeing you in all the familiar old places... I'll find you in the mornin' sun and when the night is new, I'll be looking at the moon but I'll be seeing you.
The next day, he was gone.
.x.
Alfred hunched forward in his seat, quietly nursing a mug of beer and allowing himself to be engulfed in the noisy crowd. Happy voices called out to one another and laughter could be heard for miles around, accompanied by a breeze of jazz. The streets were buzzing with the special kind of euphoria that which came with winning a war. Catching, all consuming. The relief was tangible.
He was smiling too, Alfred. A wide smile which appeased the men surrounding him and that earned him more than a few pats on the back. His eyes, however, were dull.
War had been a terrible monster that had threatened to destroy everything Alfred had held dear, and just like the valiant knights his mother used to read to him about, he had brandished his sword and charged forth to protect his fair maiden.
The sword had been exchanged for a gun and the maiden had been turned into a metaphor for freedom and justice. Those two words were enough to push Alfred forward to the front of the line, pulling his twin brother Matthew along to enlist with him. He had been idealistic, starry eyed and full of motivation.
His injury was a mere bump in his military career, as far as Alfred was concerned. What did a torn muscle mean in the face of adversity? The fact that next time he may not be as lucky, that he may lose his life while fighting for what he believed in, only served to fuel his conviction. He was willing to pay the price.
Until it wasn't his life on the table.
Alfred couldn't return home. Not when he would be returning alone. Victory meant very little when he couldn't celebrate with his brother. Not when he would have to face his parents' grief and every look in the mirror would be a reminder of what he had lost.
No. Home wasn't an option. Instead, he returned to the second best thing, only to find rubble. The event hall he had met Arthur Kirkland in, the only other place he had felt a connection to, was no more, and with it his hope to fill the hole inside.
He hadn't had the chance to ask Arthur for his address or phone number. They had planned to meet the next day, but Alfred had been relocated. The only place he knew the other man to frequent had been reduced to nothing.
Nightfall found him in a neighborhood pub not too far from the hall, gazing down blankly at his drink. The chances of ever seeing Arthur again were practically null. They had met two years ago- who was to say that the man still lived in the area? People moved constantly during a war.
For all he knew, Arthur was on the other side of the country, happily married to a loving wife. Even if they did manage to meet up, what guarantee did he have that the Englishman still wanted him, broken as he was? An injured soldier he had known for one night?
"You have that look in your eye. Like you just gave up on something important."
Alfred looked up sharply, eyes widening as a familiar pair of green looked back down at him. The man offered him a warm smile.
"I'm terribly sorry, I seem to have forgotten my manners! Excuse me. Is this seat taken?"
This oneshot is based on a comic which has yet to be published by my friend hemvaagen on tumblr. Once she posts it, I will add the link.
This is also my first time experimenting with first person, so I hope it didn't come out too awkward. The title and the song which appears in the fic belong to Bing Crosby.