No matter how much he twisted and turned in his double bed, Arthur found it impossible to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in. He felt like he'd shed every single drop of water in his body, yet his nose still continued to run and forced him to sniff periodically.
Sleep evaded his tired mind. His eyes burned and begged him to let them slip shut. When he did so his mind shrieked at him. It dredged up the events of the last few days, again and again. In the end, he got tired of the scenes projecting within his mind and he gave up and opened his eyes to stare at the dark roof, or the silhouette of the window if he lay on his left side, and wait in silent agony for the process to start again.
Usually, when in these sorts of moods, he wandered the house with bare feet that felt uncomfortable against the wooden floors, he usually wore shoes. With the exception of when he wandered around his house at night. Those times he relished in the fact that Francis was a fan of long rugs that ran through the hallways and ended happily in front of the TV.
They didn't have many mirrors in their house. The idea of one in place of the expensive Jackson Pollock ripoff Francis bought at an art show and placed in their dining room just seemed odd. Arthur didn't want to look up during a Sunday lunch and be met with his own eyes.
Arthur disliked mirrors in general. Something about them made him uneasy as his reflection stared at him, and created a window into another world. As the duplicate followed his actions like a twisted game of Simon Says.
Walking in his house felt odd. He didn't want to normalize calling it his house instead of their home. He doubted that he would get used to it. They had bought the house a few months before Francis proposed.
Even when Francis hadn't been home the house had never felt so empty. It felt as if all the warmth had been leached out of the house and left him with a hollow shell. He turned on the bathroom light and shielded his eyes against the fluorescent light.
The sting at the back of his eyes left and he went to the sink to splash cold water on his face. The cold water felt cold against his puffy eyelids and reddened cheeks. He stood there, hands gripping the edges of the sink hard enough to hurt his hands and stared directly into his bloodshot eyes.
A small flicker at the corner of his eye pulled his attention away from his face. Unsure of what he'd seen, Arthur spun on the balls of his feet. Nothing met his eyes. He crept out of the bathroom with his hands balled into fists. He had no other weapon.
Arthur was tired, achy and still drunk. If someone tried to take his or Francis' possessions, they were in for hell. Arthur was not in the mood for games.
He stopped in the hallway and glanced to either side. To the left were the two bedrooms, doors closed, and hinges unoiled. To his right, the kitchen, lounge, and bathroom. He kept his footsteps light and breathed slowly against his heart that begged for him to breathe at the same rate that it thumped against his chest.
Arthur found nothing. His heart rate calmed and left him lightheaded whilst the world teetered around him.
He felt more tired than he had a few minutes ago. His back ached and he adjusted his pillows and duvet. Arthur rolled onto his side, cocooned himself in the duvet, and hugged one of Francis' pillows tight against his chest. When he breathed deeply enough he could still catch the scent of Francis — a deep earthy scent, like the countryside after a scorching hot day that finally let in on its promise of rain, and later, a thunderstorm.
Morning came along with the sound of his ringtone annoying his half-asleep mind. His hand slapped around the desk until he found the offending item. 'Alfred' the caller ID read. A headache made its presence known and Arthur wince, his retribution for drinking and crying the night away with for more gusto than a teenaged girl would admit to, nevermind a fully grown man.
It took two tries before to slide the green answer button across the screen. He was about to mumble a greeting when Alfred's voice impatiently started to speak on the other side of the line.
"Dude where are you? It's eleven now and I'm starving," he said over the phone, voice high and stringy.
Arthur didn't recall deciding to meet up with Alfred. He racked his brain and let his most recent interactions with Alfred play over. Yesterday, at the funeral, Alfred had come to him and offered a breakfast. All strength left him as he allowed himself to fall into bed and close his eyes.
"I'll be out in a bit." Pain lit up his voice and pushed the volume down to an angry simmer.
Arthur had no intention of leaving his room until he had gotten some more sleep. The headache pounded against his head. It didn't want to abate any time soon. He knew that there was no chance of just a few more moments of sleep, but his sleep addled brain thoroughly convinced him that he would not fall back to sleep.
He just got back to sleep despite the headache when his phone started ringing again. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to fling his phone against the wall and watch in satisfaction as something cracked and the screen turned off, never to display the stupid white apple with a bite out of it ever again.
Instead, he picked it up and slapped it against his ear.
"Yes?" he asked. He jerked violently as ringtone continued to blare in his ear and he nearly did throw his phone out of shock. Arthur looked at the screen and it still showed the caller ID that read 'Alfred' and the picture of Alfred squished up against the glass of a window that Alfred had insisted upon, saying that it would be funny since it looked like he was trapped behind the screen of the phone. Arthur swiped right.
"Hello?" he asked again. Arthur's heart thumped fast and it didn't gel well with his headache. He really should learn to pull back on the drinks, but yesterday could be classed as an exception. He did not drink as a coping mechanism, no sir, he was perfectly fine.
"Come on Artie, I've been messaging and calling you for hours – I haven't even had breakfast yet."
Arthur waited for a moment before answering, "I'm getting up now." His speech still slurred from sleep — or was it the alcohol still skipping happily through his system?
Alfred sounded impatient and definitely more than a tad annoyed now. "And I'm coming in to make sure that you're actually getting ready. Last time you just fell asleep mid-call."
"I did?" Arthur really didn't feel like getting up at the moment. He would much rather spend the rest of his day holed up in bed, tending to his hangover. The damn thing did seem a lot more threatening than an irate Alfred.
Below him, the door slammed shut and the loud thuds of Alfred running up the stairs echoed throughout the house. Alfred was impossible sometimes.
"You're still in bed, man. Time to get up, there's a wonderful burger waiting for you. Greasy food always helps with hangovers." Alfred smiled too widely and ripped open the curtains with more enthusiasm than necessary that early in the morning.
"How'd you even get into my house?" Arthur stared incredulously at Alfred. He didn't know of any way that Alfred could get into the house other than, "Please tell me you didn't pick the lock?" He let himself fall face first into the pillow.
There was a look of contentment that crossed visibly over Alfred's face, "Much better. Only an old man keeps his spare key under the doormat." He moved so that he stood directly between Arthur and the Sun. An angel, the only word for someone that saved from a death as terrible as exposure to sunlight.
Arthur grumbled, "And McDonald's has never been the way to cure a hangover."
"I'll get you a glass of water and some ibuprofen. They're in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, yes?"
"Bottom right corner," Arthur said in affirmation.
"Alrighty, I run and get them for you. So long, uh... do something?" Alfred bounded out of his room and to the bathroom. No angel ran around another man's house like a leashless puppy. As sunlight hit his face once again, he relinquished Alfred from angel status.
Arthur did not feel like doing anything at the moment. He didn't want to get up and empty his overly full bladder, he didn't want to go and eat fast food with Alfred, and he sure as hell didn't want to exist. He just wanted to lie under his blankets in silent agony and pretend that he wasn't human, but rather just a part of the bed, waiting to eventually be smoothed out into something resembling normality.
The time between Alfred leaving his room and then returning with a glass of water and two pills was too short for Arthur's liking. Oh, how he longed to continue to wallow in self-pity and dwell on memories of Francis and all the shit the man got up to.
"Drink up," Alfred said as he passed the glass into Arthur's waiting hand and then dropped the pills in as well.
Arthur took in a deep breath before tipping the two small pills into his mouth and hurriedly drank more than half of the glass to get them down before their hideous taste assaulted his tongue.
"You should really get more ibuprofen, you're nearly out," Alfred commented.
Arthur glared half-heartedly at Alfred, "I'll get them when I next go to the shops. I'm sorry for not keeping a full bottle on my person at all times." Alfred wanted the ibuprofen, without the aspirin, and apparently better for the system. Arthur didn't care about whether it had aspirin or not, he just wanted it to work. Not that the ibuprofen did very well, in his opinion anyways.
Alfred laughed. "Come on, it's time to get your ass out of bed and get ready for the day. It's nearly lunchtime and we agreed on breakfast."
"I didn't agree on breakfast, we just agreed on a time." Despite his objections, Arthur got out of bed and stretched, his muscles felt lethargic and waxy.
"Ten is still breakfast," Alfred smirked.
Arthur was about to unbutton his shirt – it was still the same one he had worn at the funeral, though his jacket and tie had been lost somewhere, same with his left sock. He looked up and met Alfred's eyes.
"Out, I'm getting dressed and would rather not do it in front of an audience thank you very much."
Alfred put his hands up in mock surrender, "Jeez, no need to bite my head off," As he left he called out, "And don't forget deodorant, you stink."
Arthur grimaced as Alfred left the door and closed it behind him. Once he left Arthur leaned onto the wall and inhaled. He wasn't overly shy with his body, but he did not want Alfred to give a running commentary as he got dressed. That and the fact that he had a tattoo on his arse that no one except Francis the tattoo artist had seen it, ever.
A small electric guitar, rendered in red, blue and grey, that rested more on his thigh than his arse, but still well within the area that Arthur would not show to any Tom, Dick or Harry.
After finding suitable clothing – namely jeans and a T-shirt of AC/DC, a band he barely listened to even during his more rebellious days– he left the room and found Alfred in the kitchen, digging through his stuff.
For a few moments he stood there. Then he spoke. "Alfred, what are you doing?"
Alfred turned around quickly before giving a movie star grin. "I was just trying to find some coffee 'cause I thought you were gonna shower and you usually take so long. I really don't want to know what you get up to in that hour." He wrinkled his nose, the action lifting his glasses a smidgen.
Arthur chose to ignore him. "There's no time to make coffee."
"What about the granules? You can make it in a few seconds then." Alfred closed the cupboard and stood.
"Like we're going to keep any of that, it tastes awful." If there was one thing that Arthur knew how to do, that was to make coffee. After about three months of intense instruction from Francis on how to use the grinder without burning anything. It had been an honest mistake, even though highly improbable. Something about the highest setting on anything just called out to him, like paid leave from work with a free bottle of something that would leave him utterly shit-faced. Not that he wanted to drink ever again in his life with how he felt, the mindset never lasted for long though.
"Okay. I guess there's no time for coffee before I leave then?" Alfred asked. He jumped onto the counter and swung his legs against the cupboard.
Arthur growled in annoyance. "Get off the counter, you're not a cat." He ran a hand through his hair and tried to straighten the creases in his shirt using his hands.
"Come on man, don't be a buzzkill." Alfred continued to swing his legs.
As they kept thumping against the cupboard Arthur found himself growing annoyed at the erratic sound, "Just get off the counter. We'll get your McDonald's now."
Alfred sprung off the counter with feline-like agility and landed comfortably on his feet. He made eye contact with Arthur for a second and Arthur froze.
"Let's get going now." Alfred grinned.
Arthur shook his head. He tried so hard to push the fact that Francis wasn't going to join him, he would never going to tag along when he went out for morning lunch with Alfred, or returned some of his books about gardening to the library.
In that moment Alfred had looked into the blue eyes of Alfred and realised that they were eerily similar to Francis'. First, he heard Francis' voice whisper to him in the dead of night, telling him that it was going to be okay. Because it would be okay if one heard the voice of their dead lover and saw shadows in the corner of their vision that looked like a head of blond curls or saw the same eyes in those of another person.
He didn't understand it. Arthur wasn't going crazy, was he? No, of course not. He just needed to recuperate and get used to living by himself. He shouldn't dwell on the past. Arthur puffed himself up and pulled his shoulders back. If he acted like he was confident then he would be confident. At least that's what the 'make yourself a new person by the end of the week' style books said.
Arthur didn't believe it, but hopefully, it would keep him from erupting into sobs at some point throughout the took a deep breath and began to follow Alfred outside of his and Francis' house. Referring to it as his and Francis' house wouldn't work anymore... from now on it was his house. The thought tasted vile and a longed to be able to ignore it.
"And the queen has arrived," Alfred said in a mock jibe. When he noticed Arthur's expression his entire countenance changed. No longer did he grin madly with a sparkle in his eye that seemed to twist and turn with his every move. Now he was just Alfred that looked at the broken down skeleton that Arthur was in this moment.
Arthur felt a jerk of fear run through his veins like fire. He couldn't act his way through all the bullshit that was happening in his life. An unshattered man could achieve that. To try and tape the pieces of a broken mirror together to form a perfect image would be impossible. A mere reflection of himself from weeks ago showed, with shards missing and cracks running up and through his entire body. His breathing shuddered to a halt, his heart accelerated, his shoulders drooped and he met Arthur's eyes once again. The blue tones haunting his very being.
"Dude, are you okay?" Alfred breathed out. The man just witnessed the entire thing, every single thought clearly seen as it flitted across Arthur's face. Alfred had read him like a book and it embarrassed him.
"Y-yes. I am perfectly fine." Arthur let out a practiced smile that was more of a pained grimace than anything that resembled perfectly fine.
Alfred continued to study Arthur. "If you say so. But if you don't want to go out we can always get takeout and eat it at one of our houses — or if you don't want to do anything today I can always come 'round another time."
"It's alright. I'm going with you to Mc Donald's." Arthur forced the corners of his lips to lift. He didn't want to, but getting out of the house to do something would be good for him. The last time he had left the house in the past four days had been to attend Francis' funeral.
He opened the car door and collapsed into the seat., the old car jerked in annoyance. Arthur slammed the door shut thrice before it closed properly. Stupid door.
In his peripheral vision, he saw his and Francis' house. His house. The grass on the front lawn had yellowed and the delicate herbs and flowers that he and Francis had lovingly planted when they moved in looked decidedly wilted. The house itself was quite quaint, only one story high with barely enough space for the both of them. But it was still home and away from the disgusting apartments in the city. Even if it had cost most of their meager savings to pay off the bond.
The brown-stained white walls sped away. McDonald's was only a short drive away— less than five minutes when the traffic lights were in favour. Arthur sighed, his entire world had shifted from the steady train tracks it had been on a few days ago into pure pandemonium.
"I'm always here if you want to talk," Alfred said.
"You told me that yesterday," Arthur pointed out. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger seat window and barely took in the blurred greys and browns of the buildings.
"And yesterday you were filled up with expired buffalo wings and enough alcohol to take down a small elephant."
The buffalo wings terrible, even by Arthur's standards.
"I wasn't that drunk." A brutal headache that felt like twenty construction men jackhammering at his skull kept him from protesting as much as he wanted to.
Alfred laughed then shuddered to a halt, mid-laugh. Arthur stopped trying to send a death threat via eye contact and let the tension run out of his face. One thing was certain, Arthur could easily match the ever-changing English weather, even if it refused to match his own emotions.
"I'm sorry," Arthur mumbled. Not that he felt sorry, he couldn't bring himself to care now, but later down the line he would regret it. He would hate himself if he pushed away one of the few people that actually cared about him.
"We're here Artie, you can take off your — why aren't you wearing a seatbelt?"
Arthur shrugged. Francis rested in his grave knowledgeable about how much Arthur cared for him. He had never truly vocalised his feelings for Francis, choosing to instead believe that actions spoke louder than words.
Mechanically, Arthur exited the car and slammed the door behind him. He may have been a bit too rough, but the door would never understand the maelstrom of emotions that coursed through Arthur's veins and sapped his appetite. The idea of the health hazard called McDonald's made him more nauseous than he already felt.
He swallowed a few times before speaking, "Let's go in shall we?"
Alfred smiled reassuringly and fell into step next to Arthur. The bright red and yellow logo would be forever be burned into Arthur's retina's after he stared at it for the majority of the walk from the car park.
Once inside Alfred turned to Arthur "You in the mood for anything specific?"
He looked at the colourful menu displayed over the counter for a few moments without reading it and said, "Surprise me, I'll go find us a seat."
Arthur wanted a few moments to himself before Alfred descended with three Happy Meals and a diet Coke. Something about Alfred's eternal optimism rubbed him raw and made him want to lash out. The chair he sat in settled when he sat and he leaned his elbows on the table. Bad manners, he knew, his Nana's lectures still held strong in his mind. In Arthur's opinion, fast food restaurants were exempt from good etiquette.
It was a short time before the ever-optimistic Alfred sat and brought food with him.
"I got us a big breakfast each. That should be nice – there's even a muffin or something of the likes, and you're British so you like that stuff?" Alfred tripped over his words sometimes. Arthur couldn't understand how he managed to trip over a simple sentence.
"Sure," he said. His stomach grumbled in agreement, maybe he had made himself out to be less hungry than he actually was.
"I also got a large coke for us each," Alfred added.
Arthur wrinkled his nose. He didn't like Coca-Cola, he felt no disdain towards any other pop. Maybe it's fame, or how it was a couple cents higher in the shops, or even the fact that it was green underneath all the artificial colouring.
"Oh shit! I forgot you hate Coke. I'll go back and change the order to something else. You like Cream Soda, don't you?" Alfred made a move to get up but Arthur interrupted him.
"Don't worry. I don't hate it, I just dislike it." Arthur ran a hand through his hair then put it back on the table, clasped neatly with his other hand. After a few moments, he moved them to his lap and began to play with his thumbs.
"Are you sure?" Alfred asked.
"Of course I'm sure. I'd tell you if I wasn't." Arthur voiced his opinions when he felt it necessary.
Arthur heard their order number being called out after a short wait. Alfred stood after nodding towards Arthur and went to fetch their food.
"It smells good doesn't it?" Alfred asked and set Arthur's food in front of him. Arthur took in a deep breath, the food smelled awful. As if oils that it bathed in and the various other preservatives had decided to wreak havoc on his nose.
Arthur just nodded and picked up his knife and fork. Even if it didn't smell or look as appetising as it did on the photos he would manage to stomach it.
The food tasted like it looked. Bland and with too much salt. The latter was Arthur's fault, he had been too heavy handed with the salt shaker. It did give some interest to the otherwise boring meal. Alfred dug into his own food, his face had a look of pure pleasure on it as he shoveled the food into his mouth.
"This isn't a burger, but, man it's good!" Alfred put another mouthful of what Arthur hoped were scrambled eggs — they seemed to be quite pasty — into his mouth.
Arthur did the same and chewed carefully. He pointedly did not look at the nauseating electronic menu behind Alfred's head and focused on the dull food in front of him. Everything, including the food, felt fuzzy.
Like all the colour had been sapped from his personal world and left him easting pasty, watered down eggs in a McDonald's. He ate another mouthful. What sat on his plate was still food and his stomach had yet to complain. Arthur hadn't bothered with cooking a warm meal since he left the hospital with bloodshot eyes shaking limbs.
Arthur never cooked. Francis had been the one to always try this or that recipe.
And Arthur loved it when Francis did that. He would stand and announce that they would try a different spice combination or a new dessert. Though no matter how many times Francis tried to make beef wellington it didn't work out. It came out far better than anything Arthur would manage if he attempted, but according to Francis it just lacked that something. Though he would usually iterate that with a lot more dramatics and Arthur would be left to laugh as he shook his head, wondering why he even stayed with Francis and his melodramatic ways.
Arthur shook his head and caught the attention of Alfred.
"What's wrong, man?" He asked through a mouthful of the atrocity McDonald's had dared to call a muffin.
He had thought of Francis as alive and had now realised his mistake and had to heave the wave of sadness that threatened to wash over him and throw him on the shore like an abandoned toy away.
"I was just thinking..." Arthur trailed off, his brows furrowed.
"About what? If that's alright with you. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
Arthur finished chewing and swallowed before talking (unlike Alfred), "It's nothing of importance, but if you must know I was reminiscing."
The table below him was a pale brown, speckled with beige and equally as pale yellow. His knife and fork scratched across the plate as he pushed his food around, wanting to eat more and not wanting to eat another mouthful in fear that he succumb to the nausea that still threatened to rise.
"Oh, well don't forget that if you want, I'll always be here to help you," Alfred said this brightly and for a moment Arthur could understand.
Francis and Alfred were also friends. Alfred also mourned Francis, but he has put it aside because Arthur hurt more. It warmed Arthur, like a quick moment of sun on a cloudy day. He would never get used to people putting his well being before themselves sometimes.
Arthur still found it difficult to understand why he found happiness with Francis. There had been a reason for him to get out of bed at God knows what hour and greet the world with a reluctant smile.
"That's the third time you've said that you're here for me if I need you." Arthur managed to put more food in his mouth. His expectations for the food must have been low, as the muffin didn't taste half bad. He didn't mind McDonald's but meals were never consistently good.
Alfred bit his lip and looked away, "I know. But I want to make sure that you know. Your skull is pretty thick and sometimes it takes a few tries to get stuff in there."
"You're one to speak." The retort slid easily off of Arthur's tongue and landed in the open before he had even put proper thought to it.
Alfred hadn't really paid attention to Arthur's reply and continued, "And I know you're going through a tough time, but it's gonna be perfectly good. Time heals all wounds, doesn't it?"
"I actually don't know," he answered. Arthur didn't know if the deep pit inside his heart would ever be filled and he had an inkling that it would take a long, long time to shovel enough dirt into it to stop his eyebrows from creasing and his mouth set in a grim line when he thought of Francis. Arthur's fringe fell over his eyes and made him irritated, but the effort of pushing it back up seemed to be too difficult.
"I'm sure it does. Remember that time I broke an arm trying to lift a tank and the doc told me that it had really been messed up?" To emphasise his point Alfred lifted the arm that had been completely shattered and moved all of his fingers in a wave. The ring and pinky fingers shuddered with the smooth motion of the rest of Alfred's fingers.
The back of Arthur's throat burned and he took a few sips of coke to get the feeling to subside, "That's a physical wound. I'm not quite sure about others."
"Well, we can only hope for the best."Alfred grinned like the Cheshire cat.