The night had started simply enough. Arthur had invited Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert over for drinks, perhaps one of the rare times he'd agreed to a social gathering without much fuss. They laughed and chatted in Arthur's dimly lit study, warmed by the crackling fire, their glasses filled with the finest wine Francis had brought from his own cellar.
Arthur seemed lighter tonight, his usual biting remarks softened, almost cheerful. As the night wore on, his guard lowered, and the four of them found themselves reminiscing about times long past, moments that had brought laughter, battles that had once brought glory, now simply stories shared among old friends. But something shifted as they settled deeper into the evening.
Francis leaned over to refill Arthur's glass, and the rich burgundy wine splashed against the crystal, its deep color glinting in the low light. Arthur stared at the liquid, his face growing pale as he froze, the glass slipping from his hands and shattering on the floor. His friends jolted in surprise, exchanging concerned glances as Arthur's gaze remained fixed on the dark stain pooling against the wood, almost as if he didn't see it—almost as if he saw something else entirely.
"Arthur?" Francis's voice was soft but laced with worry as he touched Arthur's shoulder. But Arthur didn't respond. His breaths began to come short and fast, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he clutched at his jacket, his knuckles white. His mind wasn't in the cozy study anymore—it was trapped, replaying memories he'd desperately tried to bury, memories he'd kept hidden even from himself.
The smell of the wine brought the trenches crashing back, the metallic tang of blood, the stench of smoke and decay, the sounds of explosions thundering around him, screams tearing through the air. The walls of his study felt like they were closing in, the light flickering like the bursts of fire that had lit up the battlefield. And he was there again, a young soldier's limp body in his arms, blood staining his hands, the boy's last breath fading like a whisper as Arthur held him, helpless.
"No..." he murmured, his voice barely audible, choked with a fear that gripped him so fiercely he felt like he couldn't breathe. His friends' voices sounded far away, muffled, as if he were underwater.
"Arthur, can you hear us?" Antonio's voice was gentle, his hand warm on Arthur's shoulder. But Arthur only gripped his chest tighter, his breathing turning shallow and erratic as his vision blurred, the room spinning as he tried to ground himself, but every attempt pulled him deeper into his memories.
Gilbert, noticing the panic in Arthur's face, knelt down beside him. "Arthur, hey, it's us. You're safe, alright? You're here with us."
But Arthur's wide eyes were empty, lost in a place they couldn't reach. His lips parted, his breaths coming in rapid, choked gasps as he clutched his jacket, as if holding himself together with the last bit of strength he had. And then, broken words slipped from his lips, faint but filled with a terror that pierced through his friends' hearts.
"No more... please, no more... stop..." Arthur's voice was a hoarse whisper, his head shaking as he tried to push away the images in his mind. His friends looked at each other, realization beginning to dawn on them that this wasn't simple anxiety—he was somewhere far away, reliving something dark, something that had scarred him in a way they hadn't realized.
"Please... stop... too much blood... I can't... I can't make it stop..." Arthur's voice cracked, his face twisted in anguish, tears slipping down his cheeks as his breaths grew shallower, more frantic.
Francis's face softened, horror dawning in his eyes as he knelt beside Arthur, reaching out but unsure if he should touch him, afraid of breaking him further. Arthur's voice shook as more broken words tumbled from his lips, a desperate confession whispered to no one in particular.
