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Towards the end of drink number two, Arthur starts to feel a little uneasy. He, John, and Noel are playing Scrabble. Have been for the past hour or so, at the dining room table. It isn't cold inside at all–they have the heater going– but being outside of the bedroom always makes Arthur cold and he, in addition to his thick sweater and long sleeve pajama shirt under it, has a blanket around his shoulders. When it's not his turn, Arthur has been looking off at the wall, trying to not think about what popped into his mind with the first sip he took. It's some sort of cherry soda Noel found at the grocery store with a shot of vodka, lime, and a couple cherries at the bottom. Nothing special. It's something Noel was able to make without thinking. Same with John's spiked root beer (that he insisted on putting ice cream in) and his whiskey. With some cherries too, since they already had them.
It's not similar at all, just the vague artificial cherry flavor. But that's not something Arthur tastes particularly often, and the association was made a long, long time ago now. Too long. And Arthur is thinking, he's being ridiculous, he needs to stop thinking about this, it's just a nice, sweet drink that his partner lovingly made for him. It doesn't mean anything. It's nothing.
The cherry taste is reminding him of a blood and sand. Which is absurd. This is completely different. He isn't alone and miserable and a horrible person anymore. That's a life that's long, long gone now. He's trying to ground himself in the present. Look at his letter tiles. Think about his next move. Noel is placing his tiles onto the board with soft clunking sounds. It's almost Arthur's turn.
He is thirty five. He lives a ways outside New York City with his partners. He's fine. His life here is peaceful. He barely even drinks anymore.
Noel made him this drink without asking, not thinking anything of it. Said it was something simple he liked when he wanted something sweet but didn't want to get out the shaker and everything. Especially since it was such a bitch to clean.
Arthur must've made a face when he'd tasted it, because Noel looked at him and said, "It taste alright? I can add to it." He nodded to the ingredients that he hadn't put away yet. "Or I can make somethin' else?"
"No, no, it's nothing, thank you." Arthur said, mostly on instinct. He took another sip to calm Noel's nerves, which worked–Noel went back to what he was doing.
Now, Noel finishes his turn and John adds tally marks under Noel's name where he's keeping score. Arthur has already decided his move–he places his tiles and draws his next ones, John writes down the points. As John places his tiles, he talks about how he's been looking for heels lately and is struggling to find a pair that doesn't actually feel like walking on knives. He found a particularly enticing one the other day–the heel was wide enough that John could walk in them, they stayed on well and were pretty, but the toe was far too small. He says, "It's like they're trying to give us bunions."
It's Noel's turn now. Noel downs the last of his drink and exchanges half of his tiles with some from the bag. Arthur starts to reach forward for his turn, then he hears the sound of Noel digging through the bag. Noel isn't looking in the bag of course he isn't, he's just picking a couple tiles that are deep in there. It's not cheating by any means. But the sound of the tiles clacking together sounds like poker chips, and Arthur has to pause for a moment to breathe and remember where he is. He reaches for his drink without thinking, wanting to calm his nerves. When the cherry flavor hits his tongue, he's pulled back into memories so strongly that he has to grip the table for a moment to bring himself back.
He isn't able to bring himself back into the present fully. But he's more here than he isn't. He thinks. It's fine.
It sounds like the shitty, cheap plastic poker chips he remembers so well. God, the sounds are seared into his memory. Chips moving.. Drinks hitting the table. The creak of chairs. Fabric rustling as someone reached in their pocket for their wallet.
Parker losing the last of his chips, putting down his drink, and his chair creaking as his weight shifted as he moved to take out his wallet.
Arthur digs his nails into the palm of his hand to ground himself. His left hand. To remember he still has control of that hand. He's fine. Everything is fine now. He starts to reach for his drink again on instinct, then remembers, and notices Noel is looking at him, waiting for him to go. John is still talking about shoes.
"Right, sorry." Arthur places his tiles. His hands are shaking and as he drops one of the tiles into its little square on the board, his finger brushes against one of the words John placed earlier and knocks it out of its slot. It hits two of the squares next to it, pushing them aside too. "Fuck," Arthur mumbles, tucking his tiles back into his hand and and nudging the other tiles back into their places. His hands are still shaking badly enough that it takes a moment to get the other tiles back in, and when he opens his palm to place his own tiles, his wrist twitches and the tiles go flying.
The sound of the tiles hitting the table makes him jump. John reaches for Arthur's tiles and Noel leans forward to fix the board. Before Arthur can stop himself, he turns, clenching his fist.
"Arthur?" John looks up. "Is… everything okay?"
"Yes, John." Arthur blinks. He's fine. Just snapped a little bit, just for a second there. He can still recover. They can go back to their game. As soon as he can hear the sounds of the city at night again and not only the blood pounding in his ears. Tears are pricking at his eyes–Jesus Christ, nothing even happened, he's fine. Moving his nail to press more firmly into his palm is helping a little bit, he thinks. Probably. Maybe.
Noel starts, "Arthur, kid, y–"
Arthur tenses. "It's nothing. Just need some air." He steps forward, away from the table, vision blurry not from tears but from adrenaline. He can't hear himself think.
"Are you sure, Arthur, y-"
"Yes, I'm fucking sure, John!" Arthur snaps, a little too loudly. Balcony. He's fine. Just needs a moment to stand on the balcony, feel the cold night air on his face, breathe for a moment, say his stupid DBT coping statements, and he'll be fine. Look out at the city, all the other lives peacefully going about, the bugs, the trees, and repeat the phrases, I can tolerate this discomfort, this feeling is not permanent, this too shall pass until he calms down. That's what he's supposed to be working on. Removing himself from the situation when he can't get it together. Removing himself from the situation wasn't an option for so, so long, being able to is so freeing. He's starting to feel a little better at the idea.
As Arthur begins to storm off, vision still blurry, he runs into something soft on the living room floor.
And for half a second, it feels like when his shoe hit Parker's leg. When he ran into Parker's dead body in the office.
Next thing he knows, he's on the floor.