Regret was a bitter and beautiful flower that bloomed at the most inopportune moments. It came when Arthur could feel the prick of Francis’ blade piercing his doublet and between his ribs, or staring down the barrel of a musket to see if framed by the fierce blue eyes that had once looked up at him with fondness, or the crystal clear memory of Matthew’s face contorted in hurt as the ties between them shattered.
And each time, Arthur could only feel the chasm open wider as the swirl of ‘what ifs’ trapped him. What if he hadn’t pushed them away so hard? What if he had been able to say what he felt, and not the opposite? What if he had just taken a step away and collected himself instead of throwing them all in headfirst? Perhaps then he would not have found himself still awake at night centuries later toiling over the past.
Arthur looked over to the clock, huffing out a sigh when he saw the time: 4:07AM. He still had not slept a bit, but he would need to be soak anyway in an hour so there was no need to try and force rest when it would certainly not come.
Puttering about his apartment in a routine, Arthur let his kettle start boiling and fumbled around for something to eat. In the dimly lit kitchen, his hands wandered around the back cabinets until they landed on his stale sleeve of digestives. The tea bag he dropped into the mug was the same brand he had been using for decades at this point.
The endless scrolling by no means helped the sinking feeling in his gut, but Arthur could not resist the temptation. It took only a few swipes down instagram until he remembered why this was a bad decision.
It was a blurry selfie of Alfred and Matthew, both decked out in red white and blue—was it that time of year already again? Alfred’s grin made it clear he was far more enthusiastic about it but Matthew was offering his usual meek smile so he at least wasn’t truly irritated. It was sweet, in a way, to see them together like this, getting along in the way they always had, both seemingly happy. And yet. It was the wedge that Arthur had driven in between himself and them that had brought the other two together. If he blinked a few times, perhaps he could imagine that he was in the photo as well, off to the side with a frown that meant that no matter how pleased he was, he would never admit it.
The tea burned his throat as he continued to scroll, hoping for something that would untie the knot in his stomach. Instead, it was an image of Francis laying in crisp white sheets with some comment about lazy mornings. Arthur noticed, though, the arm that was draped over his waist at the edge of the photo and the tuft of platinum blonde hair behind him. How easy it would be to picture himself in that strangers place and how possible that could have been centuries ago.
Arthur turned his phone down on the small table and watched as the clock clicked to 4:30AM. The day had barely begun and yet he already wished it were over.