“It’s fine.” Alfred sighed for another moment, a slight rolling of breath that made Arthur flush once again. When Alfred was there, he could never concentrate on his work. He read the same sentence three times The official statement of the government does henceforth approve until Alfred spoke again.
“Have you had a lot of work lately?”
“The same amount as usual.”
“You’ve been working hard.”
“The same amount as usual,” he repeated, emphasizing each word sharply. But Alfred did not seem satisfy, rolling his chin around on his hand so Arthur could feel the vibrations throughout his body.
“I guess your food is so disgusting that you don’t eat it that much,” Alfred said out loud, as if he had been pondering it within his head and the words had accidentally slipped out. Arthur straightened up with indignation, his head nearly hitting Alfred’s face.
“It’s delicious!” he argued, tapping his pen against his desk. “Appreciate it, you prat! You wouldn’t know good cooking even if it hit you in the face!”
“I’d probably lose a tooth if any of your cooking hits me in the face,” Alfred said. But he lowered his head closer until it seemed to fit into the dip between Arthur’s shoulder, and despite himself, Arthur flushed and held still. He knew Alfred was only being touchy and playful, but he wanted to enjoy the moment for another second, before Alfred withdrew and left only the coldness. And there was a coldness nowadays, one that emanated from his bones to his skin. He could hardly get warm without wrapping himself up within layers.
“So it’s agreed, then,” Alfred said triumphantly.
“What’s agreed?”
“You’ll make us dinner and I’ll say whether or not it’s good. I mean, it won’t be,” Alfred pondered out loud, and his hand left Arthur’s shoulder. It felt cold. “But I’ll be nice and let you try to redeem yourself. Tonight, I’ll let you cook at my house.”
“All right,” Arthur said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. To see Alfred again at his house made him feel jittery, filling his stomach full of butterflies. He swallowed slightly, regaining his bearings before he opened his mouth again. “I’ll do it.”
--
Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was so cold, and his hands were trembling, and he knew the disgusting food in front of him slopped down on the dish and he didn’t want to touch it. He hated touching it, the bad discolorment, the way it oozed and grimed and slimed on the pristine white china. He played with his silverware for another moment, glancing occasionally at Alfred, who was chewing on it with an emotionless expression.
“It’s disgusting,” Alfred said, looking up and catching sight of Arthur’s gaze. “But I guess I’ll eat it so I don’t have to see you cry.”
“Don’t eat it for my sake,” Arthur said dryly, trying to silence his pounding heart. He stared back down at his plate, and his stomach churned at the thought.
“I’m not,” Alfred said, and an almost pout formed on his face. “I just like eating.”
Arthur snorted, and he forced himself to dip his fork into the substance. With a slightly trembling hand, he brought the food to his mouth. A regular slip and slide, that’s what it was, sticking to his mouth and his gums and teeth before he swallowed. The disgusting feeling overwhelmed him as the food made its way down his throat and into his stomach, and he was disgusting. He shuddered slightly at the feeling of the food settling into his body, and he felt as if he had gained ten pounds from that single bite.
“You don’t like it, either?” Alfred had been watching with a mildly curious look.
“It’s good,” he said defensively. He had to do something. Fuck, he had to, he felt disgusting. His eyes roamed over to the clock sitting on the wall.
“Have you had a lot of work lately?”
“The same amount as usual.”
“You’ve been working hard.”
“The same amount as usual,” he repeated, emphasizing each word sharply. But Alfred did not seem satisfy, rolling his chin around on his hand so Arthur could feel the vibrations throughout his body.
“I guess your food is so disgusting that you don’t eat it that much,” Alfred said out loud, as if he had been pondering it within his head and the words had accidentally slipped out. Arthur straightened up with indignation, his head nearly hitting Alfred’s face.
“It’s delicious!” he argued, tapping his pen against his desk. “Appreciate it, you prat! You wouldn’t know good cooking even if it hit you in the face!”
“I’d probably lose a tooth if any of your cooking hits me in the face,” Alfred said. But he lowered his head closer until it seemed to fit into the dip between Arthur’s shoulder, and despite himself, Arthur flushed and held still. He knew Alfred was only being touchy and playful, but he wanted to enjoy the moment for another second, before Alfred withdrew and left only the coldness. And there was a coldness nowadays, one that emanated from his bones to his skin. He could hardly get warm without wrapping himself up within layers.
“So it’s agreed, then,” Alfred said triumphantly.
“What’s agreed?”
“You’ll make us dinner and I’ll say whether or not it’s good. I mean, it won’t be,” Alfred pondered out loud, and his hand left Arthur’s shoulder. It felt cold. “But I’ll be nice and let you try to redeem yourself. Tonight, I’ll let you cook at my house.”
“All right,” Arthur said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. To see Alfred again at his house made him feel jittery, filling his stomach full of butterflies. He swallowed slightly, regaining his bearings before he opened his mouth again. “I’ll do it.”
--
Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was so cold, and his hands were trembling, and he knew the disgusting food in front of him slopped down on the dish and he didn’t want to touch it. He hated touching it, the bad discolorment, the way it oozed and grimed and slimed on the pristine white china. He played with his silverware for another moment, glancing occasionally at Alfred, who was chewing on it with an emotionless expression.
“It’s disgusting,” Alfred said, looking up and catching sight of Arthur’s gaze. “But I guess I’ll eat it so I don’t have to see you cry.”
“Don’t eat it for my sake,” Arthur said dryly, trying to silence his pounding heart. He stared back down at his plate, and his stomach churned at the thought.
“I’m not,” Alfred said, and an almost pout formed on his face. “I just like eating.”
Arthur snorted, and he forced himself to dip his fork into the substance. With a slightly trembling hand, he brought the food to his mouth. A regular slip and slide, that’s what it was, sticking to his mouth and his gums and teeth before he swallowed. The disgusting feeling overwhelmed him as the food made its way down his throat and into his stomach, and he was disgusting. He shuddered slightly at the feeling of the food settling into his body, and he felt as if he had gained ten pounds from that single bite.
“You don’t like it, either?” Alfred had been watching with a mildly curious look.
“It’s good,” he said defensively. He had to do something. Fuck, he had to, he felt disgusting. His eyes roamed over to the clock sitting on the wall.
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