There was supposed to be a party, they'd been planning it for over a year. They'd decorate, and there would be presents, not expensive ones from the store because money was low, but perhaps more precious ones, ones crafted by hand over months of hard work, hand-carved wooden soldiers, a quilt sewn over time with patches of cloth scraped together and collected at every oppurtunity, a slightly messy and clumsy painting, but a painting full of love and memories. There was going to be a cake, even though sugar was rare and hard to get, sweetened with rare fruit jams and that little bit of syrup from the bottom of the bottle, and a feast fit for a king.
Francis would cook a chicken, ones Mathew tended himself in the backyard when he was able to get out of bed, Carrots and potatoes and vegetables from Arthur's tiny garden in the backyard, maybe even flavoured with some butter, real butter, if they could get ahold of some. There wouldn't be any of that watery vegetable soup which was 90% water flavoured with whatever small amount of spices and garden veggies they could scrounge together, nothing from a can at all, just fresh, flavourful food.
Afterwards they'd eat the cake, even if it didn't turn out quite like they wanted, or maybe was a little burnt because the stove had been broken for months but they didn't have the money to fix it, and they'd laugh and tell stories of what life used to be, about that time when Arthur almost burnt down the house baking a cake when Alfred and Mathew turned five, or that time that Alfred had gotten stuck in a tree for almost an hour because he'd climbed up too high and had been to stubborn to call for help, even though Arthur and Mathew had been nearby, or the time Francis cried because he'd spilt tea all over his brand new shirt. After that, they'd talk about all the things they wanted to do in the future though really it didn't matter to them what they did, as long as they did it together.
Naturally, they'd all wear their best clothes, the ones usually saved for fancy events or Sundays, and there'd be only laughter and smiles, and any tears would be happy tears. The scolding and rebukes could wait till the next day, after everyone was well fed and well rested. Then, they'd all pile together into Francis and Arthur's bed, even though it was really barely big enough for two, and they'd sleep together like they did when Alfred and Mathew were very small, bundled under layers of thin fraying blankets and Alfred's brand new quilt, even if it was tight and some of them got elbows to the face or knees to the stomach.
Even Matthew's weak constitution couldn't ruin the day, it didn't matter if he was so dizzy he could barely move or so weak that Francis had to feed him his dinner by spoon, none of them would care because they'd be together again. Not even Arthur's heavy limp or Francis's job as a baker could take this day away from them, even if Alfred came home missing an eye, or a limb, or even his signature brightness and smile, none of that would matter. In fact, they were prepared for that.
They knew he wouldn't come home the same, none of them were naive enough to believe that. They expected hollow eyes and injuries, nightmares and crying at night, any number of things, but that would be okay too, because he'd never be alone through it all, and there'd always be someone at his side to comfort him. They knew that any number of things about their planned party could go wrong, that they might not be able to have a feast or a cake, hey might not be able to decorate, maybe Alfred would be too tired to talk, too shaken too laugh, and that there'd probably be at least a little scolding and a lot more sad tears than expected, but that wouldn't matter either.
They were planning a party for when Alfred got back so that they could get through each day a little easier, so that the wait wasn't as hard. On days when there was no money, even after Francis worked long hours at the bakery, when even Arthur dragged his bad leg out to do whatever jobs he could, but still came back with barely enough money to eat, they talked about the party they planned. On days Mathew was so sick he couldn't even drink water or hold his paintbrush, and layed in bed in a drowsy state of only somewhat awake, they'd talk to him about Alfred's party. When they shivered together in the same bed under thin blankets in the winter, because there was money for heat or food but not both, they talked about the party that was planned when Alfred came home.
It was always "when", not "if". They all knew Alfred would come back. It was the last thing he said when he left.
"Be back soon. I promise."
It was a ludicrous kind of promise, one that he really shouldn't have made, but they believed him regardless. Alfred didn't tell lies, it wasn't in his nature. That's why they believed him, and that's why they planned for "When" and not "if". Alfred's party was the reason they kept going, kept struggling each day, why Arthur and Francis continued to wear the barest clothes to make sure Mathew got his medicine, why even Mathew did work like sewing and repairs on days he was well enough to work.
Everything from their first greeting, to the placements of their seats at the table, to their last words before bed, everything was thought over and revised and replanned day after day, looking forward to the next time they saw Alfred again, knowing he'd certainly come home.
And Alfred did come home.
But there was no laughter, no smiles, no cake or feast and no presents. There was both cheering and sobbing in the streets, parties and funerals all around them, and the carefully thought out first words fell apart and crumbled into nothing but sobbing. Francis curled into the side of the cloth-wrapped figure choking on his own sobs, and Arthur's good knee gave out too and he went crashing down, eyes blank and empty. Tears streamed down Matthew's face silently at first, then he gave way to sobbing desperately and his weak body protested, pulling him into unconsciousness.
Alfred was buried in a star-spangled flag, his coffin lined with a patchworked quilt with awkward hand-done stitches. There were tiny hand carved soldiers tucked into the coffin around him, and a clumsy painting tucked into a fold in the cloth. In the painting, Arthur and Francis stood with their arms around the seven year old twins, and smile on everyone's face, even the stiff and proper Arthur.
As the coffin was lowered, Francis reached out for Mathew, clinging to him for dear life, and Arthur reached around from the other side, his arms closing the gap that should have been another twin and pulling both Mathew and Francis into a hug. Mathew didn't move at all, staring emptily as one by one Alfred's friends and family tossed dirt onto the coffin that held what had once been his twin.
After the funeral, there was a memorial dinner, not just for them, but for hundreds of families who lost their children, siblings, and parents. It was a greater feast than any one family could have put together themselves, much bigger than the one they had planned would have been. There were hams, and rolls, and little cookies and puddings and even a tiny bit of chocolate and some small bits of alcohol. There were a lot of people saying their first greetings and last goodbyes, lots of gifts being laid to rest and stories of the past being shared.
No one told stories of what they wanted to do in the future.
It was a grander party than they ever planned for Alfred, but they'd never wanted to celebrate like this. That night, the three climbed into Arthur and Francis' creaking bed, huddled under thin blankets, cold and broken hearted, but no one had anything to say. There was no more party to plan, no more waiting to welcome Alfred home. It was a cold and empty night together.
Alfred was never coming home again.