Homecoming
It's Christmas Day of 1942. The patrons in Arthur's pub are of two kinds – the ones who order pint after pint, until they no longer know whether they are trying to drown their misery or themselves. They are the poor bastards for whom Christmas is the worst time of the year. They sit in the darker areas of the pub. Arthur has often been told that people came together in their sorrow, but these people are very distinct individuals. Not a word passes among them. Their bloodshot eyes only see their own distorted faces reflected in the alcohol.
And then, there are those rowdy, celebratory fools. Loud clinks come from their direction as glasses hit together and merry seasonal songs are butchered by their raucous, slurred voices. Red-faced drunken dolts. They cheer and whoop for no particular reason – does one need a reason to be happy on Christmas Day?
One does. Arthur tries to have a reason to be happy, but his reason has been very quiet for the last few months. It fills him with dread. He almost wants to be sick with the feeling.
"Another pint, my good man!" a man calls to him. His empty glass swings through the air, spattering drops of beer everywhere and colliding with someone's head. At any other time, that simple action would be sure to start a brawl. Today, the pair howl with laughter and exchange clumsy apologies.
Arthur serves him, as asked. He always thought that the gruelling everyday routine is supposed to distract you. Whoever first said that is a big fat liar. Even the fact that it's Christmas doesn't help. The week prior, the pathetic little tree that Arthur had found lying in the street had had an unfortunate run-in with a lamp. Before the accident, it was a scrawny little tree with needles that fell off with a slight gust of wind. Now half of it is singed black and Arthur has no more heart to throw it out than he had to decorate it in the first place.
He misses his Alfred. He misses his brave hero – the man who has gone away to be the hero of thousands of others. They love him, of course they love him. Alfred's enigmatic smile, his eyes that shine with humour and his easy-going personality. Everyone loves Alfred and everything about him. Arthur had said once that Alfred always laughs; you can see it in his eyes. He had laughed some more at that and called him 'cute'.
Arthur loved it when Alfred doted on him like that.
The cheery American that had walked into his pub as a child, hupped up on a stool and demanded a scotch. Arthur's father had been stunned – so had Arthur. Of course, the boy never got his scotch, but Arthur had been intrigued and sought him out on his own.
At first, it was more of a brotherly relationship. In their teens, when Alfred worried that he didn't quite like girls as much as he should have, they found their way. Nobody knew about their relationship but it was perfectly fine with him. Alfred was his, and his alone.
He misses Alfred's company at night. Relations with his family aren't great, especially since his father died, and Arthur has nobody. His brothers are long gone. Fighting, like Alfred. They would be fighting at home, too – they hate Arthur. Customers want beer, not company. Arthur is very lonely.
Of course, Arthur should be in service. He had avoided it in the beginning, thanks to his slowly dying father; in truth, he had been grateful for the man's illness at the time. What kind of son is he? He stayed at home to look after his father because his mother was dead and his brothers had left and they only had each other. He didn't know if that was normally allowed, but he did not question it.
Arthur Kirkland Senior had succumbed to his illness in the early weeks of October, when the life around him was beginning to die. Trees losing their leaves, birds leaving, animals hiding themselves away. People are no longer so lenient with him. They glare at him when he walks through the streets and he hears the whispers of 'coward' behind his back. But he is a coward, so he cares little.
He does everything his country asks of him – planted a vegetable garden, gave in his scrap metal, donated his father's arms collection, joined the Home Brigade – everything but becoming directly involved in the fighting.
How long has the war been going on now? He isn't sure if he can remember. It seems like a lifetime ago that Alfred had last got leave and spent a weekend with him. Though he cannot remember when that time had been, he remembers everything else about it. How he had caved to Alfred's touch and Alfred to his; the way Alfred had gotten a childish satisfaction from feeding the ducks in the nearby park; how Alfred, he and his father had sat down in the pub after closing hours and downed a bottle of scotch; how fine, how handsome he had looked in his uniform that Arthur had spent all morning tidying up. The longer he took, the longer Alfred would be with him. That had been his logic.
All the girls stopped to admire him at the train station – wasn't he brave, wasn't he strong, wasn't he such a such a hero – but Arthur had known he had no need to be jealous. Alfred had brushed off every advance with that easy grace he had, and as he had stepped on the train, he had given Arthur a quick peck on the lips. Though it was more than chaste, to do such a thing in a public place had thrilled him in a different way than Alfred had done before.
But it was so long ago.
He waits every day for the telegram. He sees the others. Young women, some not even married, receiving the news they fear more than anything. Older women, whose husbands had made it through the last war, getting that awful piece of paper that they had been so lucky to escape the last time around.
He hears the screams of others, sees their inexplicable agony and watches their strings snap. He sees many that do not even try to gather the pieces of their lives. He sees some that do try but cannot. He sees those that hurt, but keep it inside and carry on for the sake of others. He knows what would happen to him.
He waits and he waits. It never comes. A day has been known to feel like ten thousand days. Everything stops without his Alfred, and yet, everything goes on. Arthur wants to fall into a deep sleep and only be awoken with the kiss of his beloved, like the stories his brothers had made fun of him for reading when he was younger. But they are only stories. Life is not a fairy tale. If it were, this god awful war would not be taking place and Arthur would be riding around on the back of a unicorn, Alfred by his side.
Night arrives and the men leave. Some leave on a high; others he can see are physically pained to drag themselves through the door. What lies at home is no better than what lies here. Cool air drafts through the open door, refreshing and crisp compared to the dank, stale aura that pollutes the air in the pub.
"People are so messy," he grumbles as he gets on with the nightly clean up. Somebody had very kindly left a puddle of vomit in the corner as a special Christmas gift. Arthur cleans it up but it leaves a stain on the ancient floorboards. That's okay; there are plenty more stains like it.
Alcohol is spilled over tables and there are sticky patches on the ground, but by the time Arthur is finished, everything is perfect. Just so all his hard work can be undone the next day, he thinks with a sigh. He doesn't see the point in it all anymore, but he carries on. Alfred would have wanted that.
The worst part is the not knowing. Alfred is probably dead and gone. One of the many. But he can't be sure; that awful little voice whispers sweet 'maybes' in his ear. Hope; many look to it. When everything falls to shit and nothing seems as if it will ever get better, at least hope remains. Arthur despises hope.
Hope speaks of beautiful futures and gives him something to look forward to, but it is a tree that bears no fruit. In the beginning, hope was a source of comfort. When none of his childish hopes came true, he turned on it. "Alfred is not coming back," he spits. "He is dead and he is gone and he is never coming back."
And it is true, isn't it? He has received no word in months; what else could be the reason? 'Maybe Alfred has found someone else,' he had worried at first. Someone better than him, someone who didn't shy away from what was expected of him, someone who protected Alfred on the front line. Someone who was there to warm Alfred on those dreary, frigid nights that he often complained about in his letters, when Arthur could not be there. But he knows Alfred would have the decency to tell him if that were true, and no longer believes it.
He didn't even entertain the thought that Alfred had forgotten about him. That was next to impossible. After a week or so, he worried that Alfred had been injured and was unable to write. But now, he doesn't believe that to be the case. War injuries either buy you a ticket home, to the nearest place with access to medical treatment or a death sentence.
Dead, dead, he must be dead by now. Dead and gone and not coming back and youwillnotseehimagainever.
"Merry fucking Christmas," he laughs self-depreciatingly as he puts the now clean glasses back in place. Oh yes, he is bitter. He is sour and twisted and hateful. This is who he became when he tried to live without Alfred.
"And a happy New Year!" Someone finishes off for him.
"More like bloody miserable New Year," he scoffs in reply. A glass slips from his hand. "Fuck," he mumbles as he bends down to clean it up.
"I think it'll be a beautiful New Year," Someone says cheerfully. The counter creaks as Someone leans against it and Arthur carries on with picking up shards of glass. "Hey, Artie. Turn around, will ya? I want to see you."
"No," Arthur says firmly. "Because you're not real. I'll turn around and you'll be gone. It's happened before, you know. Perhaps I'm going mad. There are worse fates, though, I suppose."
"You're not going mad, Art! It really is me."
He turns around, even though he is scared to do so. His hesitation makes that clear. But not looking scares him too. He faces towards the door and instantly bursts into tears.
It is Alfred. It is Alfred, Alfred, Alfred. A little worse for wear with a heavily bandaged arm, but he is still his Alfred. The glasses, though one lens is missing and the other is deeply scratched, are there. His prized bomber jacket that now has one arm torn off, is caked with mud and is barely recognisable, is there.
His face has thinned dramatically and glows with a shade of red that tells Arthur that he has recently washed for the first time in months and has practically scrubbed himself raw. When they was younger, some had called Alfred fat, but Arthur can see that any excess weight has been lost. War posters show soldiers as men built like tanks with muscles that strain against their clothes, but Alfred is anything but that. He looks smaller in the tattered uniform that is smeared with dirt and blood and is too big for him.
Those eyes still hold the laughter, even though they must have seen things so awful that Arthur cannot even imagine them. He wonders how many others looked to them as a little piece of the summer sky through those long, hard months.
And Alfred smiles as if none of it had ever happened.
"Don't cry." With his one good hand, he wipes away Arthur's tears as the Brit stands in dumb shock, drinking in the unbelievable sight. "You must have been worried sick; I'm sorry. I got hurt pretty badly – they attacked us, the dirty bastards. Damn middle of the night with no warning. Guess we shoulda seen it coming, though. We were unprepared. A shell exploded and most of the shrapnel ended up in my arm. I was in some hospital in Belgium for the longest time."
Arthur can't stop himself anymore. Loud, ugly sobs force their way up his throat and he chokes them out. "You git!" he screams. "You bloody, damned, fucking wanker! All these months! No letters, no telegrams, no nothing – do you have any idea? Worried sick? That's not even the tip of the iceberg! I thought you were dead, I was so sure that you were dead! Every day, I waited for the telegram, but nothing ever came!"
He clenches his fists and throws half-hearted punches at Alfred's torso. The man doesn't even flinch, just lets him continue until his knuckles are too sore to carry on and he collapses into his chest instead. When Arthur looks up at him again through his hot tears, he can see the ghosts of the past two years etched on his face.
"I wanted to tell you," he says in a low voice. Arthur thinks it is shaking slightly. "So badly. But the nurses… They were so nice, but only a few spoke English. Those that did couldn't write. And I tried, Artie, I did, but they don't know if I'll ever recover full function in this arm again. They sent me home to recover, but they don't know if I'll be of any use in the trenches. Can't throw a shell, can't fire a gun – I'm pretty useless to them now. I guess I don't mind so much."
Arthur is concerned for him, obviously. Concerned that his arm will never get better, and concerned that it will get better and he will have to go back to fighting. With one good arm and one bad arm, he is sure to be more vulnerable. He wants to get a closer look as he pulls back and wipes his tears away, but Alfred holds the arm away and he decides not to bother.
"We're so close to winning, Artie. I don't think they need me anymore, anyway. They'll manage. In the time it takes for me to get better, the war could be won. That'll be real nice, won't it?" Alfred speaks with the same confident tone he used when he marched into the pub and demanded scotch at eight years old and Arthur believes him. He smiles again and Arthur believes that the war really is drawing to a close.
"I'm sorry for yelling," he sniffs. He knows he looks pathetic, weeping like a child, but he can't help himself. The worry that weighed him down for all this time is now gone and Arthur feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. "I missed you so much, love." The tears that fall are now not of anger or shock, but sheer relief. They are happy tears and he knows it's okay for him to cry because he can see Alfred trying not to do the same.
"I don't mind. You always were a grumpy old man." He laughs his high pitched, nasally laugh. Arthur laughs with him, shy chuckles, and pulls him into a kiss that is salty and clumsy. But it doesn't matter because he's kissing Alfred for the first time in months and Alfred is kissing him back. Alfred is okay and he is here and he came back and he can see him again anytime he likes, for now.
It's Christmas Day of 1942. There are two people in Arthur's pub and they both feel so much joy and love for each other. They are together and it as if they have never been apart. In their eyes, they see only the other. Alfred whispers, "Merry Christmas," and Arthur believes him.
Did everyone have a nice day? Or are you still having a nice day? Was Santa good to you? I hope you're having a wonderful day and you enjoy this little thing that I started late last night and finished late this night. I tried something different, so let me know what you think. That would be an awesome present :3
I wish you all a merry Christmas and a happy New Year Xx