We'll Meet Again - USUK

Chapter 7

Arthur very slowly came to the realisation that the surface beneath him was no longer hard and cold, but soft and warm. The world was no longer pitch dark and the room seemed bright on the other side of his eyelids. He finally opened them and quickly realised he was lying in his bed. And that he felt extremely, awfully sick. Turning his head he saw a glass of water on the bedside table and grasped for it greedily. He swiftly finished the whole thing before falling back into the soft nest of pillows.

He could barely remember anything. He had started drinking... Why? Oh. Alfred. He had wanted to get rid of the pain. Well, it seemed to have worked for a while... but now it was flooding him again, and with it came the additional pain of his stomach turning itself in knots and his brain pounding against his skull. Arthur shut his eyes and tried determinedly to fall back asleep. It did not take long.

When Arthur opened his eyes again, the light was not so bright, and his head was not quite so close to exploding. He managed to drag himself to his dresser mirror, but blinked in surprise at the person who stared back at him. He could not remember the last time he had looked in a mirror. His eyes were dark, sunken. His hair was a matted mess. His lips were flakily dry and a large red cut ran across his cheek. He raised a hand hesitantly to his unshaven face, noticing more small cuts beneath the stubble. In short, he looked terrible.

Fragments of images flashed through his memory: glass smashing against a wall, bottles falling empty beside him, the stone floor of the cellar rising up to meet him... Arthur closed his eyes against his reflection, against the memories, and forced himself to get dressed.

Despite his pounding head, Arthur managed to make it downstairs. The first thing he noticed was an empty glass of bourbon on the mantelpiece. But he had left it full... Arthur's stomach flipped. Noticing a note under the glass, he quickly hurried over and grabbed it.

Alfred would not want this.
Matthew.

Matthew. Of course. The last thing he'd seen in that cellar wasn't Alfred's face at all; but apparently it hadn't been a dream, either.

Arthur felt a wave of anger overwhelm him. He glared angrily at the note before ripping it to pieces and throwing it into the fireplace. How dare Matthew? How the hell did he know what Alfred wanted? Alfred was dead. As soon as he thought it, Arthur's knees nearly buckled beneath him. Dead. Dead. Alfred was dead.

"Of course he's bloody dead," Arthur whispered to himself. He knew that. So why was it like a punch to the stomach to finally think the words? Arthur breathed deeply, picked up the glass, and took it over to the sink. Back to work. What else could he do?

.

A week passed in the empty, grey, lifeless existence Arthur had quickly become accustomed to. He was waiting for it to get easier at some point, but at the same time expecting it not to, and somehow also hoping that it wouldn't. As the daily life of the pub went on around him, Arthur remained unmoving and lost in the centre of it. Business had once again slowed down, and today Arthur was left with little to do besides stand behind the bar polishing every glass one by one. It was the kind of mind-numbing task he almost enjoyed doing these days.

"How are you feeling?"

Arthur looked up from polishing the forty-eighth glass to see Matthew standing at the bar, in full dress uniform with his cap in hand. And of course, his polar bear attached to his lapel. Arthur suddenly wondered how he could have ever mistaken him... or anyone... for Alfred. "Better."

"Good. I was worried."

Arthur shrugged. "Why ever should you be worried?"

Matthew fixed him with a slightly disbelieving stare. "You were in that cellar for over a day."