Something to be thankful for
Summary: Arthur thinks of his boyfriend on Thanksgiving.
(Crap summary is crap, warning: unbeta’ed)
Today is Thanksgiving. He calls it Thanksgiving because that’s the name of the day in America- to most other Brits it’s a simple Thursday in November. Regardless, he’s in America, so Thanksgiving it shall be.
His boyfriend would be proud.
Thinking of his boyfriend makes him smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling despite the lack of joy in them. Alfred, dear Alfred, would be so excitable today. Oh, Arthur could just imagine it; his boyfriend with a shining grin from ear to ear, and sky blue eyes just as bright to match.
He’d brush his one stray lock of sunshine down in an attempt to look presentable for dinner, for Arthur, but it would just spring back up as enthusiastically, just like Alfred would when he would hear Arthur walk through the door and look at the meal he had made.
He’d probably make a comment on Arthur’s overly-formal clothing before taking Arthur’s coat- the one that was currently fluttering in the cold autumn breeze like leaves as Arthur walked briskly to his destination along the pale cement (pale, like Alfred). Then, Alfred would shove him towards the table, make a different stupid comment on Arthur’s size, how thin he is (how thin Alfred is now, he thinks) and how Arthur should let loose and enjoy himself, all while piling turkey onto his plate.
After they’d both eaten, Alfred would undoubtedly get pie or some other saccharine dessert from the kitchen. It’d be one that Arthur was sure he’d get fat off of-
(Not that he’d ever have to worry about that now, with all the walking back and forth between his home and that dreaded building).
Arthur’s jolted out of his daydreaming by reaching that building, pristine white walls rising up to meet him. He pushes through the doors; walks mindlessly down the colorless, silent hallways (they don’t suit Alfred, he’s too cheerful) likes he’s been doing for the past year. He reaches the room- 1124- and opens the door.
A celebration is not what he is greeted with. There’s no messily set table, no gigantic meal, no smile to greet him- but there is Alfred.
There is Alfred, lying there, pale as the white sheets he lays on, unmoving. He’s barely alive, his body only fed through the machine that pumps food through a tube into him. He can’t eat by himself, of course- one has to be conscious to do that, and Alfred isn’t. He hasn’t been for the past year, not since that day.
That day, Arthur didn’t look as he crossed the busy street. Alfred did, though, and finally became the hero he wanted to be.
Arthur wished the price hadn’t been so large.
Still, Alfred was there, in the hospital, and that meant something. It meant that, through some miracle, Alfred was alive.
And that was something that Arthur could be thankful for.
HURRAY for poorly written angst! I have to warn y’all that this is my default: wordy, angsty writing. IDK why. It just happens TT_TT. I have no beta so sorry about bad grammar and awkward wording in places. I’m awkward, so we twin!
This is for the USUK Thanksgiving being held by @fanfic-so-usuk. It’s a gift for @iggysduckie, who has super cute art and is such a sweetie!
I’m thankful for anyone who reads this, and I wish you all a happy Thanksgiving (if you have that) :)
