He used to believe in the good in people. Human nature, in his opinion, was inherently pure and kind, but war has made him cynical, and it's hard to think there is goodness in the world when he has seen so much pointless death and madness. The things people will do to each other over differences in creed, race, or ideology continues to horrify him.
And the worst part is that he's no exception. He looks in the mirror and struggles to find the good as well. He is a stark shadow of what he used to be. He is darker, colder, and angrier. He has dealt senseless pain. He has killed people.
They could have been people with families and bright futures, but they were caught up in the crossfire of politics at work. They raised guns, and he raised one back.
But it didn't feel like self-defense.
Alfred translates this internal monologue to Arthur during their first therapy session because he needs to get his thoughts out into the open for once, and he wants to see and hear how the man will respond.
Not unexpectedly, Arthur doesn't say much. He listens and gives occasional nods of the head or hums of understanding to let Alfred know he's still following along to everything, but other than that, he doesn't question any of Alfred's actions or respond with his own viewpoint.
Alfred considers outright asking for Arthur's sentiments on whether what he did was justifiable or not, but he already has a hunch he won't get much of a response. He's learning that psychiatrists seldom say what they think because they're supposed to be impartial, but Alfred's not pleased with it. He wants to hear either validation or criticism. It'll help dig him out of the hole in the ground he's been trapped in, for better or for worse.
"I get it now, you know," he says once he can take Arthur's silence no longer. He purposefully drags the man into the conversation. "You were trying to protect me. You didn't want me to go to war, and you had your reasons. Still, you didn't have to give me the cold shoulder like you did."
Arthur clears his throat and frowns. He struggles to respond, but he does eventually come up with a satisfactory reply when Alfred gives him a pressing look. "I was upset. We both were. I didn't think you realized the life-changing decision you were making. Originally, I distanced myself from you because I couldn't stand to watch you leave. I later recognized it was a foolish decision on my part, and I tried to contact you, but you wouldn't respond to any of my letters. For a while, I feared the worst—that you had..."
Arthur pauses and shakes his head, letting the thought trail away in order to pivot to another subject. "I reached out to Matthew because I thought he might at least know if you were all right. I called him incessantly for updates on your whereabouts and wellbeing, and he was understandably tired of my constant barrage of questions. I implored him to reason with you—to convince you to try to get into contact with me, only so I could hear your voice..."
He stops again, fighting to keep his composure because this is such delicate ground they're treading over. "I missed you terribly, and I was sorry for not being there when I was most needed. The fault is mine. Regardless of my feelings toward the situation, and how I didn't want to see you in that uniform, I should have seen you off, and I'm sorry. I spent nearly a year wondering, worrying, and praying to a God I no longer believed in that you would come home safe and sound. I told myself I was prepared for the worst, which, of course, wasn't true. When I heard from Matthew that you were finally returning, I advised him to extend an invitation to you to come here. I presumed… I knew you would need someone to guide you back into daily life."
Alfred looks away from those green eyes staring back at him, feeling their honesty and pain. He didn't want to believe he could ever forgive Arthur for being callous, but he knows that if their positions were reversed, he'd have likely done the same. If Matthew announced tomorrow he was being deployed, Alfred would probably fight tooth and nail to keep him from leaving. He'd be terrified out of his mind, thinking about all of the things Matthew would have to go through and all of the occasions where his life would be at risk.
In that regard, he is no different from Arthur.
And now he knows he owes Arthur an apology as well, and it hurts to have to admit he was wrong on some level. All this time, he has been running away from the man, and now it's as though he's running back toward him with only half of his heart. The other half stubbornly wants to hang onto its grudge.
He bites his tongue hard enough that it hurts, swallows his darned pride, and says, "I forgive you, and I'm sorry… I didn't see where you were coming from until recently. I thought you just didn't care about me and wanted me to get hurt in the war, so I could learn my lesson, but I know now that you were worried, and I would've been worried, too. I know how hard it is to say goodbye to people and wonder if it's the last time you'll ever see them. It's one of the hardest things in the world, so I know you weren't ready to do it. You knew I could've died out there. I was young and thought I was invincible—I still am that way sometimes, so I didn't realize…"
With heavyhearted sluggishness, Alfred forces himself to get up, steps closer to where Arthur is sitting in an armchair at the other end of the coffee table, and smiles dismally at him, overwhelmed with sadness at how broken they have both become. "I… I've missed you, too," he murmurs, reaching out a hand to touch the man's shoulder.
Arthur is so surprised he flinches from the contact, but relaxes a second later. His head is slightly bowed and his eyes are glimmering with what Alfred swears are well-hidden tears.
"So, can I call you my big bro again?" Alfred asks, leaning down for a hug as butterflies fill his chest. It feels good to be making things right again.
In a rare display of playfulness, Arthur smirks and ruffles Alfred's hair, making it stand up in a dozen opposing directions. "Idiot… You don't have to ask."
Ahh, it feels awesome to be called an idiot again.
The therapy sessions continue, and slowly but surely, Alfred makes a significant amount of progress. He can make it through most nights without so much as a single nightmare, and his eating habits begin to show improvements as well, although now that he's eating regularly again, he's perpetually bloated—one of the trade-offs that comes with recovery from starving yourself for months.
It's uncomfortable and frankly fairly painful to constantly feel like he's full of gallons of hot air, but Arthur is good-humored about it, and so, whenever the man catches Alfred rubbing his bloated stomach and walking about like he's six-months pregnant, he merely smiles and makes light remarks like, "Have you decided on a name?" and "Is it a boy or a girl?", which always manages to distract Alfred from the pain long enough to smack Arthur over the head for his poor taste in jokes.
It's as though his stomach will erupt like a volcano. He's constantly belching, feeling nauseous and, oh god—talk about embarrassing. His body becomes a loud choir of rumbling bowel sounds, and he wants to die from the embarrassment.
Arthur promises him it'll stop in due time. He says it's a sign of recovery, but Alfred has yet to be convinced.
It is, admittedly, funny at times. Once in particular, even Alfred bursts out laughing when he lets out a loud burp on the couch, and Winston gets so scared he doesn't come out from under Arthur's bed for two entire days.
But there are other times when it's not funny at all, and Alfred is left agonizing over his sore, balloon-like stomach while curled up in bed. Arthur makes him swallow a whole bunch of apple cider vinegar to help with the pain, and it works to a certain extent. Thankfully, Winston isn't around to get scared again.
Sure enough, the infamous "bloat" does go away after another week, and Alfred can finally relish in the relief that comes with being able to eat normally. He's still on a strict diet 'round the clock to make sure he doesn't relapse, but the worst of the pain is a thing of the past.
There is, however, another stumbling block in the way of his goal toward becoming himself again.
Panic attacks.
Their frequency lessens over time thanks to the talk-therapy sessions, but they pop up sporadically, usually when he's out and about. Arthur takes him to London's Natural History Museum one morning for some fresh air and some "cultural exposure," as the man calls it. The visit starts off well, but in the barrier reef exhibit, something sets him off—he isn't sure exactly what. It might have been the perfume one woman was wearing because it was remarkably similar to something Alfred swears he's smelled before in an Iraqi bazaar.
Before he knows what's happening to him, he doubles over from the sudden discomfort of a series of heart palpitations and his breathing becomes erratic.
Almost instantly, Arthur has a hand on his back and leads him out of the exhibit and to a more open and quieter space.
"You're okay. I'm right here," Arthur comforts him, and Alfred lets himself believe his brother's words.
He tries to do the breathing exercises Arthur has taught him, but it's not as easy as he thinks it'll be. Arthur stands in front him to block any inquiring onlookers and keeps very calm as though panic attacks are completely normal fits to have.
"Inhale… Exhale," Arthur says, looking off into the distance as to avoid making Alfred even more uneasy by unintentionally gaping at him. "Oh, look at that lovely watercolor. Is that a flamingo? How exquisite," he mutters, peering over at the entrance to another exhibit.
Had he not been slightly hyperventilating, Alfred definitely would've rolled his eyes at that. He takes some slow breaths, grips Arthur's left forearm for moral support, and waits for the feeling of doom and anxiety to pass.
It lasts another minute or so, and then, Alfred is all right again. Arthur offers him a bottle of water, and they sit in the food court for a little while to collect themselves.
"Thanks," Alfred rasps when he's ready to continue with their exploration through the museum. "Let's get going."
"Are you sure? We can leave if you're not feeling up for this. Besides, I imagine this great deal of walking is taking a toll on your leg."
"Nah, I'm fine. Come on. You're not tired are ya, old man?"
Arthur scoffs derisively but gets up and follows Alfred's lead through a corridor containing the history of a number of tropical birds.
All in all, it's a pleasant experience despite the hiccup in fun, and the following morning, they call Matthew and relay the details of all of the interesting things they saw.
From what he recalls, Alfred only has one more major panic attack shortly after that event, and it just so happens to occur while Arthur is at work—on call at the hospital, specifically. This panic attack, unlike the others, proves to be the most dangerous.
This time, a helicopter passing by sends him struggling to breathe. He's on the stairs when it happens, and he is filled with an irrational need to escape.
Airstrike. Friendly fire.
He rushes down the steps, hobbling along, but it feels like he'll never reach the bottom.
Going to die. A screaming mother shields her child from a blast of debris.
One of his crutches gets snagged on something and he pitches forward. He snaps out a hand to catch the railing, but his extended fingers miss it by an inch. He somersaults down to the base of the staircase, and his leg flares up with a burning pain that's so strong and sudden that he lets out a startled cry.
Winston comes rushing up to him with eyes the size of saucers and his ears pushed forward, ready to attack and tear apart whatever is causing Alfred distress, but he's unable to find an enemy.
The horrific pain causes the panic attack to stop, but now Alfred's lying in a heap on the wooden floor with no one around. His crutches are scattered on the stairs above him, and he's too incapacitated to even try crawling up to get them.
Thankfully, he has his cellphone in his pocket, and he calls Arthur, feeling bad for having to disturb him and undoubtedly stress him out at work, but he isn't left with any other option. The phone rings and rings, but the man doesn't pick up. Presumably, he's busy.
He's just beginning to persuade himself to call 999 when Arthur finally calls him back, and he lets out a massive sigh of relief.
"Alfred? Is everything all right?" the man immediately asks when he picks up.
"Umm… Not exactly, but don't freak out."
Voice becoming higher in pitch with worry, Arthur follows up with, "What do you mean 'don't freak out?' What happened? Are you hurt?"
"Just a little," Alfred admits, biting his lower lip and squeezing his eyes shut as he waits for his brother to go into a full nervous breakdown.
"Are you in the house?"
"Yes."
"Did you fall down the stairs?"
Alfred blinks with astonishment. "How did you know?"
"I had a sinking feeling you would fall down those stairs before your visit was over," Arthur says humorlessly, and Alfred can hear shuffling movement on the other line. "Are you bleeding? Did you break any bones? Did you hit your head? How's the leg?"
"One question at a time, bro," Alfred sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "I don't think I'm bleeding. I kinda hit the front of my head on the way down, and I don't think I have any other broken bones aside from possibly screwing up my leg even more."
"Can you stand up?"
"I'd rather not. I might fall again," he says with a growing sense of humiliation.
"Okay, stay put. I'll call an ambulance for you."
"No, please—!"
"Alfred, by the time I get someone to cover for me and make it to the house, you could be in a bit of trouble. I'll have them bring you to my hospital, all right? I'll meet you in the ER."
"But I—!"
"Relax, and don't move. Everything will be fine," Arthur insists. "Help is on the way."
The man hangs up on him, and Alfred lets out a long exhale of frustration. He's really not looking forward to being found in this position by people he doesn't know.
Ten minutes pass, and he blushes furiously when he hears the sirens of the promised ambulance followed by some pounding knocks on the front door.
"There's a spare key under the flower pot!" Alfred shouts, and they must hear him because the door is unlocked and two EMTs walk in—a young man and a woman in their mid-twenties.
"Hello," the man says cheerfully, crouching down right next to Alfred's head. "Quite the pickle you've got yourself in, huh?"
Alfred groans. How did he get so unlucky to be stuck with two of the corniest people in the entirety of the British Isles? "I could use a hand, man."
"Oh, you're American! Love the accent," the guy says, suddenly very amused. "I've heard Americans are clumsy."
"George, stop pestering him," the woman suddenly interrupts, pushing the man out of the way. "Here, love, let me see. This oaf has had one too many energy drinks today," she says softly, feeling Alfred's head for any obvious bumps or welts. "Okay, darling. Does your neck hurt?"
Alfred decides he prefers this kind woman instead and answers her questions, minding his language and his manners. "No."
"How about your spine?"
"Nope. That's fine, too, I think."
"Okay, great. George and I are going to try to move you onto a stretcher now," the woman announces before procuring a collapsible stretcher with foam padding on it.
She grabs him by the shoulders and George lifts him under his legs, trying to be careful around his cast. Within seconds, he's dropped onto the stretcher and feels a bit better now that he's lying flat and resting on a softer surface.
"I'm Mary, by the way," the woman says warmly before covering him with a blanket. "It gets chilly in the ambulance. Can you tell me your name?"
"Alfred."
"Okay, Alfred, let's get going. George will lock the door behind us."
Winston gives a meow of derision and hisses at the EMTs for trying to take his companion away, but Alfred waves him off and tells him to settle down.
"Sorry about that. That's my brother's crazy cat," Alfred explains sheepishly as he's carted outside and into the back of the ambulance.
"Not a problem, dear," Mary assures, rearranging a few supplies. She pulls out a penlight, checks both of Alfred's eyes, and asks, "Can you follow my finger, please?"
Alfred does as he's asked, but Mary doesn't seem satisfied because she makes a small humming noise and peels back his eyelids with gloved hands. "You definitely have a concussion."
Great. What other good news is he going to get today?
George closes the doors to the back of the ambulance and walks around to get into the driver's seat, and then, they're off. It's a short ride, but there's traffic. Nonetheless, they make it to the hospital within fifteen minutes, and Mary and George wheel him into the ER, trying in vain to keep his spirits up.
"Hey, spell 'aluminium' for me," George jokes, and Mary shoots him a warning glare. "What? I'm checking the patient's responsiveness, Mary. By the way, it is aluminium, not aluminum, as you silly Americans call it."
"Don't pay him any mind," Mary whispers before patting Alfred's shoulder soothingly.
He gets transferred to a bed immediately, and then, there's nothing left to do but wait for a doctor to see him and determine if he's going to get out of this relatively unharmed.
Mary and George say their goodbyes because they need to head back to the ambulance, and Alfred waves to them lightheartedly, allowing himself a smile. They're an odd bunch, but they were his odd bunch.
"There you are."
Alfred blinks rapidly to clear the blurriness out of his eyes and is both relieved and not to see Arthur. "Hey, there."
"I was bracing myself for something worse," Arthur says, shoulders sagging. "I'm glad to see you're mostly intact," he finishes with a short laugh.
"Yeah, it's not too bad."
"I've asked for the best physician on the unit to have a look at you. He should be here soon."
"Ooh, I get the VIP treatment?" Alfred chuckles, wincing when his head throbs in complaint.
"Yes, it's one of the perks of having connections," Arthur says before taking a look at Alfred's leg and glowering. "How did you fall?"
"Panic attack on the steps."
"Ahh, that explains it."
"It stopped the panic attack though."
"So there was a silver-lining after all," Arthur smirks. "Matthew is going to be very displeased with me when he finds out."
At the end of the day, Alfred gets discharged with a new cast on his leg because it ends up needing to be set again and strict instructions to rest and refrain from strenuous activity until his concussion goes away. Other than that, he's deemed perfectly fine and escapes without any new injuries.
He spends that same evening sprawled out on Arthur's couch, munching on some scones and watching T.V. for the better part of the night. When Matthew finds out about the incident in the morning, he books a flight to England for the next day and says he wants to see Alfred for himself before he injures himself further. Arthur knows better than to argue with the young man when he's so keen on doing something, but Alfred groans about how he's going to have two mother hens clucking over him now instead of one.
"Cluck, cluck," Arthur jokes cheekily, and Alfred launches a throw pillow at him, biting back his own laugh at how ridiculous the situation is.
That said, he hasn't seen Matthew in almost a year. His twin is well overdue for some brotherly love, and Alfred intends to smother him with it when he gets here.