Chapter 4
It had been nearly a week since Arthur and Alfred first had done what was certainly not their first dysfunctional dance. The two had been bickering and fighting, physically and verbally, nonstop since Arthur had become a part of Alfred's ship. "First mate", Alfred called him. Of course, this disgruntled Arthur to no end and just made his new found dream of mounting Alfred's head on his wall all the more realistic. Not a moment could pass without one man making a snide remark to the other. Insults were hurled back and forth like a ship on the most turbulent seas.
Arthur's only escape now from the hellhole he currently resided in was getting so drunk he couldn't see straight. Alfred kept barrels of rum in the cellar, kitty-corner from the rooms, and Arthur had made a game of it; sneaking out of his room (or, as he called it, his cell) late at night, after Alfred had retired to his quarters, and cracking open a barrel of alcohol. He'd get completely plastered. He'd barely be able to walk, think, or form coherent sentences. During one romp in the cellar, he'd been informed the next day that he'd encountered one of Alfred's shipmen, had tried to convince him that he was being held captive by a raving lunatic named Horatio, and then had passed out on the floor. The man had been kind enough to toss Arthur back in his room, but not kind enough to keep the story to himself. The next day, everyone on the ship knew about Arthur's late night one-man parties, except for Alfred.
It was late at night, probably around two or three in the morning, and Arthur was still awake. He'd been trying to fall asleep, as he hadn't been feeling his best that day, but he just couldn't seem to do it. A painful knot had formed in his stomach, one he couldn't get rid of. He'd previously collapsed onto his cot, and was now lying on his side, desperately clutching at his abdomen in some hope that he could make the pain vanish. He knew why it was there. Oh, did he know. He just didn't want to accept it, and he'd do absolutely anything to make it go away. It felt like he was being run through the stomach with a lead pipe. He groaned aloud, nails digging painfully into his sides.
Against his better judgment, he sat up. The pain flared up again, shooting from his abdomen up to his chest. He growled, angry at his body for causing him pain and angry at himself for allowing it to happen. He swung his feet over the side of the cot and planted them on the floor, and promptly stood up, ignoring the flaming pain that this induced. His knees buckled inadvertently, but he pushed his way through and began making his way to the storage room where the rum was kept.
Arthur slunk out of his room, shutting the large door behind him with a quiet click. He tiptoed past Alfred's room, and saw him asleep on his worn cot with a troubled look on his face, as if he was having a bad dream. The pain in Arthur's stomach instantly doubled. He shook his head and sprinted the rest of the way to his destination. He slammed the door behind him without thinking of what loud a noise it would make, but it seemed to disturb no one. Smiling to himself, he turned and beheld the rum barrels stacked up to the ceiling. He selected one close to the ground and moved it towards where he now sat, and cracked the top off. The cold liquid inside rippled slightly when the top was removed, and even more when Arthur dipped his hand into it. He'd forgotten to bring anything to drink with, as he usually had a cup, but he didn't care. Having a sticky hand when the rum dried was the least of his current worries.
After several minutes, Arthur was lying on the floor, drunk off his ass. He'd drank enough to make a man nearly twice his size lose conscienceless, but Arthur had long since discovered that he had a very high tolerance for things like alcohol. Arthur wasn't a particularly happy drunk, but for some reason the situation of him getting himself so drunk that he could barely sit up was just too hilarious. He cackled loudly, not even caring about making too much noise. Suddenly, he was hit with a revelation. Now, he thought, would be an absolute perfect time to go give Alfred a piece of his mind. Though he'd been doing it all week, he'd been saving his nastiest insults for a later time. Now was the time.
Arthur quietly giggled to himself as he tiptoed over to Alfred's cabin. He inched the door open and crept inside mischievously. Once inside, he pressed his back to the cool wood of the door. Despite the arguably cold weather, Alfred slept shirtless, which was surprising to Arthur. Alfred didn't seem like the kind of person who would so freely reveal himself, even in his own private quarters. As there were no candles lit, the only light in the room was from the moon, which shone though the small circular window directly above the headboard of Alfred's cot. Arthur noted how pale Alfred looked with the moonlight dancing over his bare skin, when in reality he was quite tan from the sun beating down on him daily. Arthur staggered over to the side of Alfred's bed.
"Hey, wake up." Arthur whispered, giggling. Alfred slowly opened his eyes, surveying his environment, which looked normal, until he noticed Arthur's grinning face leaning over him, which caused him to nearly jump out of his skin.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Alfred shouted, pushing Arthur away from him. He sat up quickly, his dog tag necklace jingling quietly. Arthur staggered back clumsily, hitting the door once more.
"I came to talk to you." Arthur slurred. It was obvious that he had been drinking. "I came to tell you that you," he drunkenly pointed a finger at Alfred, "are a bad captain and a bad friend. I thought we were friends." The two men had never been friends, but Arthur didn't care. He'd just needed something to say to give him any kind of leverage. He took a shaky step forward, then another, until he was again at Alfred's bedside. He leaned close enough that Alfred could smell the bitterness of the alcohol on Arthur's breath.
"You've been drinking, I see." Alfred's face was solemn, yet his voice radiated nothing but pure anger. "And we are certainly not friends. Alliances, I'd say." Arthur slammed his fist on Alfred's shoulder, not hard enough to actually hurt him, but hard enough to get a point across.
"No. We're friends!" Arthur retaliated, and then, without a single thought or consequence in his mind, leaned forward and crashed his lips hastily into Alfred's. Roughly, he kissed him, clenching his eyes shut and leaning into the kiss. He would have noticed that Alfred didn't pull away, had he been able to think at all.
Of course, the whole thing took Alfred by surprise. He never would have thought that Arthur would be this bold. Never would he have done this if he was sober. Never, and Alfred knew it.
After a moment, Arthur slowly pulled away, noticing that Alfred's warm lips lingered slightly. Both men looked at each other in a mix of confusion and surprise, before the sudden realization of what he had just done sunk in to Arthur. Suddenly he turned and ran from the room, slamming the door, and leaving Alfred sitting up in his cot, wide awake and extremely perplexed.