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Alfred watched from the other side of the bunker. He was told it was for the best: they wanted to be sure he wasn’t sick anymore, wasn’t contagious. He was sure it was for the best… but that didn’t mean he liked it. He especially didn’t like how Alice hadn’t looked over at him in days.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Alfred hated the idea of saying goodbye to Alice, but he knew it wouldn’t be too hard. He was, after all, the one who would be leaving. He wasn’t the one who would have to live on. Alice was always in denial about his illness; she’d taken to blaming everything and anything else, from the dampness of the bunker to the “awful attitudes” of the nurses. She wanted a miracle, and it broke Alfred’s heart to know that he couldn’t give her one.
So...yes, Alfred thought he’d had it under control. Alice was holding on to false hope, and he didn’t want to be the one to hurt her. Not when she didn’t have anything else. The Mad Hatter’s tea party was the perfect opportunity: there was a role that needed to be filled, and a plan that needed to take place.
I hate you! I hate you for getting sick, I hate you!
Of course, Alfred hadn’t expected it to hurt him so much. But it was for the best, he told himself— just like his prolonged isolation. Alice hated him. It didn’t matter; he wouldn’t be around long enough for it to mean much.
But then he got better. He stopped coughing, his chest stopped hurting, his body stopped shivering. He could eat, and stay awake, and breathe. The only problem was...Alice wasn’t celebrating with him. She didn’t understand that it was all a show, all for her benefit, and he hadn’t meant it, not really. He wasn’t sick of her, and by no means did he want her to hate him. He wanted his best friend back.
That was days ago. Still, Alice spent her time with Tabitha, never so much as acknowledging Alfred’s existence. He might as well have died.
* * *
Dr. Butridge took Alfred’s temperature, watching him closely. “Hope you’re not tired of rebuilding,” he said conversationally.
Alfred looked up at him, confused. “Sorry?”
The doctor offered him an empathetic smile. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You watch her like a television.”
Alfred did his best not to blush. “I do not,” he mumbled around the thermometer.
Butridge pulled the instrument from Alfred’s mouth, checking it. “That fight you had… rather nasty, no? I was told she pushed you off the bed.”
“She didn’t push me,” Alfred lied. “I fell.”
“Tuberculosis is hard on everyone,” the doctor continued, deaf to Alfred’s words. “Not just he who falls victim, but the ones who love him, too. Just because you fall apart doesn’t mean you can’t rebuild. I’d suggest getting started, because this might take a little more.”
With that, the doctor left Alfred alone again. The boy tugged on the sleeves of his shirt and looked across the bunker, eyes falling on Alice before the curtain that separated them was pulled shut.
* * *
Alfred leaned back against the wall. His blanket covered his legs, not because he was cold, but because he had nowhere else to put it. He had started to feel cold again lately, but the doctors and nurses assured him that his temperature was fine. So why did he wrap his arms around himself at night, until he fell asleep?
He heard footsteps approaching, and he turned his head, expecting the nurse to open the curtain and bring him his share of cold tinned soup. But the curtain stayed still, and the sound stopped before they came closer. His eyes fell to the space between the end of the curtain and the floor, landing on black shoes dulled by dirt and grime. He knew those shoes.
“Alice?” he asked quietly.
She didn’t answer, but he knew she was there.
“I’m sorry, Alice,” he said. He hadn’t gotten the chance to apologize yet. “I’m so sorry.”
Still no answer.
“I miss you,” he told her, and his eyes brimmed with tears. God, he missed her. He missed how she used to play with his hair as she read to him, the way her smile was more contagious than his illness, the way she took a room of sorrow and filled it with hope. “All of you, really, but... especially you. Doctor Butridge says I might be allowed a visitor soon. I think I’d like to try and look at you, if you’ll come.”
“Alice!” Nigel called. “Come, play cards with me. Please?”
Alice’s shoes turned away, and Alfred blurted, “Tomorrow. Won’t you come back tomorrow? I’ve so much to tell you, and...and so much I want to hear. I want you to tell me everything. I need to talk to you, Alice. I don’t hate you, not at all. I still feel the way I did before. Don’t you?”
She didn’t answer, but she hesitated. Her footsteps receded, and Alfred couldn’t help but smile. Hesitation was good enough for him.
* * *
True to his word, Alfred had convinced Dr. Butridge to allow him a visitor. The doctor must have had a soft spot for him, or at the very least pitied him, because Alice was standing on the other side when the curtain was opened, and they were left alone.
The two best friends stared at each other in silence. She looked the same, Alfred thought, but more tired, as though she hadn’t slept well in days. Neither had he. He wondered if it was for the same reason.
He moved over on his bed to give her space to join him. She did, leaving a few inches of space between them. She felt an ocean away to Alfred.
“You came,” he said, rather unnecessarily.
“You asked me to,” she said. She wouldn’t look at him.
“You didn’t have to.” He picked at the flaking toe of his boot. “Thank you.”
Silence fell over the pair, though there was something comfortable about it. They’d sat in silence before, though Alice had never liked silence. She would fill it with words, reading to him or telling him her own story, usually one in which they starred. She often spoke of their future, of the adventures they would go on once they were freed from the bunker, of all the places they would visit and things they would do. You’ll see, Alfred, she’d say, there’s a whole world beyond these walls. Just because we can’t see Wonderland doesn’t mean we can’t see everything else.
“I’m sorry about your book,” said Alfred. He hadn’t said anything about it at the time. He had other things on his mind. “It wasn’t fair of the nurse to rip it up.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry it took me so long to tell the story without it.”
He chanced a glance at her. “It didn’t matter after all.”
“No,” she agreed, “I suppose it didn’t.”
Alfred shifted a little closer. “I don’t remember much after the tea party. Would you go on from there?”
Now she did look at him. “I thought you didn’t want to linger.”
It hurt to hear, but she was right. He had told her as much. “I don’t like unfinished things.”
“Yet another thing you don’t like.”
That one hurt more, and he frowned. “I didn’t mean it, Alice. I only wanted to help.”
“I didn’t want your help,” said Alice, crossing her arms. “I would have been fine.”
“You wouldn’t,” he argued. “You needed to let me go, but your belief kept...kept fueling the fire.”
“Our fire died last winter, Alfred.” She found a loose string of his blanket, and she wrapped it around her finger. “All of the shouting blew it out.”
Alfred paused. “I don’t like when you shout at me,” he said decidedly.
“I don’t like when you act like a prick.” She looked like she was trying not to smile, but Alfred knew her better than that. “You know, I could live without or with you.”
“I know.” I was hoping for the latter, he wanted to say. “I wasn’t sure you knew that.”
“Well, I did.” She tugged on the string until it sprang free from his blanket, and she dropped it to the ground. “But...I might like having you about.”
Alfred smiled down at his lap. “I like having you about, too.”
Alice nodded, and Alfred could tell that he was forgiven. She loved him too much to stay mad at him for long. He wouldn’t take that for granted.
“So, the tea party?” Alfred prompted. “Next is the croquet game, isn’t it?”
Alice nodded slowly. “I’m afraid I don’t recall that chapter terribly well.”
“Yes, these new walls are pretty hard to crack.” Alfred reached up as if to tap her head teasingly, but opted to tuck her hair behind her ear instead.
She closed her eyes, composing herself, for only a second. She pulled away from his touch. “It might take awhile to go back to how we were. I don’t know how to be until I trust you won’t attack.”
“I understand,” said Alfred, though his heart felt heavy. All he had wanted was to avoid hurting her...and that had only hurt her more. “I apologize.”
Alice shrugged. “It was only self-defence.”
Alfred shook his head, almost violently. “Far from it. It wasn’t about me, Alice. It was about you. I thought if you hated me...it would be easier to let me go. Running away just made sense.”
“Nothing would make it easier to let you go, Alfie,” said Alice quietly. Her lip trembled, and Alfred knew she was close to tears. “I wanted to be with you until the end. I wanted to go with you. When they took you away, I thought...I thought I’d lost you, and the last thing you would’ve heard me say…”
“You didn’t lose me.” He took her hand, his fingers curling around hers and he couldn’t help but smile. It all felt so familiar, so right. He pulled her closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Here I am, with arms unfolding.”
“Here you are,” she said, laughing tearfully, leaning into him a little. She seemed to relax in his embrace, and he rested his head against her. “I guess it isn’t quite the end.”
“Far from it,” Alfred promised. “We’ll stop when we reach the end. For now...we’re still beginning.”
“That’s good,” said Alice. “I want our story to go on forever, I think.”
“Forever and ever,” he agreed, eyes closing. He hadn’t realized how tired he was.
“Are you going to fall asleep on me?”
“Perhaps.” He squeezed her hand gently. His strength was slowly returning. “Will you stay with me, my partner in crime?”
Alice laughed quietly, nodding. “Of course. Always.”
Always. That was a concept Alfred could get used to. He lay down, and she stayed sitting beside him. He felt her fingers comb through his hair, and he smiled to himself. For once, he didn’t feel so cold.
They didn’t speak for some time. After awhile, when Alice thought he’d fallen asleep, Alfred heard her whisper, “I’m going to try and fall in love with you again.”
Alfred was too close to sleep to speak, but he knew he wouldn’t soon forget it. He only hoped she understood his reply as he squeezed her hand again.
I never stopped.