I'll die, die, die before I give you up (1/2)
anonymous
September 2 2009, 20:56:01 UTC
(Not the anon above, but just had to try D: )
The night is made of neon and prostitutes and beer and rain. People dance, sing, tumble out of the crowded pubs, fuck in an alley, fall asleep, fall into unconsciousness. Wake up. Memories deleted, return to the daily life with yet another venereal disease slumbering in the body.
Arthur is made of alcohol and dizziness and lust and need. As he orders his thirteenth glass of beer, he’s so drunk he could actually consider sleeping with Francis if the guy decided to show up. Yes, the thought is appealing, but when he gazes upon the door, all he sees is the head of a blonde he knows too well.
“Alfred, go home. This is no place for a teen.” Arthur’s body sinks in the seat as if boneless. Alfred takes the seat next to him grabbing the glass of beer ‘fore the Englishman can get to it.
“No more alcohol for you.”
“You’re starting to sound like Matthew.”
“Be nice.” A chuckle. Arthur joins in, tilts his head backwards and lets out a maniac laughter.
“But it’s true! He’s worrying all the time. It’s kind of annoying.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re drunk. You love Matthew.”
“Well, he speaks French.” End of discussion. A blonde-haired quickly leaves the pub. No one notice. “So..” Arthur starts out as he leans across the desk, glaring at Alfred from the corner of the eye, “are you here to teach me better drinking habits or do you have a good reason to invade Dublin?” Pause. “And hand over that beer.” He gets his glass. Sips. Nods approving. Shoves the liquid down the throat in one big gulp. Alfred’s lips curve in to a grimace of disgust, but he decides not to bring up the elder’s drinking-problem once again - he always loses that discussion anyway.
“Do ‘I just wanted to see you’ count for a reason?” Arthur seems to ponder for a second, maybe two, then smiles brightly as he states:
“No.” With a smug look he orders two glasses of beer ( - no way he’ll be the only one drinking!) ‘fore he continues: “This is no romantic Hollywood-movie, Alfred, this is reality.”
“I think I am allowed to miss you anyway,” Alfred shrugs the shoulders, “you want me to leave?”
“I just ordered beer for you, so you better stay and drink it.”
“Fine.” Smile. Arthur returns it, looks into the empty glass, ponders: ‘When did I get this softheaded?’
Two glasses of beer. Drink, drink. Arthur with happy sighs, Alfred with swearing and force. The background music accompanies them. A lady sings: “I will die, die, die before I give you up.” Arthur smiles every time she repeats that line. Alfred thinks he’s got alcohol on his mind. Arthur knows he’s got some airheaded kid haunting his thoughts.
“I will die, die, die before I give you up.”
--
Two hours later. Down the street. Arthur has got his troubles walking a straight line. Alfred tries to show him the way to do it. It’s still raining. Arthur complains (“water makes me sober”), Alfred ignores (“I really doubt that”).
“How far, how far?” Arthur wants to know and leans against Alfred’s shoulder. He’s such a kid when drunk. “How far, how far?”
“Further, further,” Alfred answers, for he doesn’t really know. How far? That depends - is he to dump Arthur at his doorstep? - or take him with him back to the hotel? Last one sounds most appealing, but he doubts Arthur would be able to forgive him in the morning, if they were to wake up next to one another. He’s tried that a thousands time before. It’s tiring getting yelled at for being an irresistible American.
The night is made of neon and prostitutes and beer and rain. People dance, sing, tumble out of the crowded pubs, fuck in an alley, fall asleep, fall into unconsciousness. Wake up. Memories deleted, return to the daily life with yet another venereal disease slumbering in the body.
Arthur is made of alcohol and dizziness and lust and need. As he orders his thirteenth glass of beer, he’s so drunk he could actually consider sleeping with Francis if the guy decided to show up. Yes, the thought is appealing, but when he gazes upon the door, all he sees is the head of a blonde he knows too well.
“Alfred, go home. This is no place for a teen.” Arthur’s body sinks in the seat as if boneless. Alfred takes the seat next to him grabbing the glass of beer ‘fore the Englishman can get to it.
“No more alcohol for you.”
“You’re starting to sound like Matthew.”
“Be nice.” A chuckle. Arthur joins in, tilts his head backwards and lets out a maniac laughter.
“But it’s true! He’s worrying all the time. It’s kind of annoying.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re drunk. You love Matthew.”
“Well, he speaks French.” End of discussion. A blonde-haired quickly leaves the pub. No one notice. “So..” Arthur starts out as he leans across the desk, glaring at Alfred from the corner of the eye, “are you here to teach me better drinking habits or do you have a good reason to invade Dublin?” Pause. “And hand over that beer.” He gets his glass. Sips. Nods approving. Shoves the liquid down the throat in one big gulp. Alfred’s lips curve in to a grimace of disgust, but he decides not to bring up the elder’s drinking-problem once again - he always loses that discussion anyway.
“Do ‘I just wanted to see you’ count for a reason?” Arthur seems to ponder for a second, maybe two, then smiles brightly as he states:
“No.” With a smug look he orders two glasses of beer ( - no way he’ll be the only one drinking!) ‘fore he continues: “This is no romantic Hollywood-movie, Alfred, this is reality.”
“I think I am allowed to miss you anyway,” Alfred shrugs the shoulders, “you want me to leave?”
“I just ordered beer for you, so you better stay and drink it.”
“Fine.” Smile. Arthur returns it, looks into the empty glass, ponders: ‘When did I get this softheaded?’
Two glasses of beer. Drink, drink. Arthur with happy sighs, Alfred with swearing and force. The background music accompanies them. A lady sings: “I will die, die, die before I give you up.” Arthur smiles every time she repeats that line. Alfred thinks he’s got alcohol on his mind. Arthur knows he’s got some airheaded kid haunting his thoughts.
“I will die, die, die before I give you up.”
--
Two hours later. Down the street. Arthur has got his troubles walking a straight line. Alfred tries to show him the way to do it. It’s still raining. Arthur complains (“water makes me sober”), Alfred ignores (“I really doubt that”).
“How far, how far?” Arthur wants to know and leans against Alfred’s shoulder. He’s such a kid when drunk. “How far, how far?”
“Further, further,” Alfred answers, for he doesn’t really know. How far? That depends - is he to dump Arthur at his doorstep? - or take him with him back to the hotel? Last one sounds most appealing, but he doubts Arthur would be able to forgive him in the morning, if they were to wake up next to one another. He’s tried that a thousands time before. It’s tiring getting yelled at for being an irresistible American.
“Alfred?” Alfred’s ripped from his thoughts.
“Mhmm?”
“I’m going to puke.”
--
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