Night and Day, 1/4
anonymous
March 6 2010, 23:58:28 UTC
(first time poster. I hope I'm doing it right :/)
The rain outside the cab window blurs Washington into a gray smudge. Arthur breathes in, sharply, as though he could force another twenty minutes of consciousness from his wrung-out body if he just dragged enough air into his lungs to hold himself up. He curls his fingers across the squeaky black leather of the seat. All the muscles in his arms and fingers are trembling with fatigue. He stares absently down at them, as if he were simply watching a movie about an exhausted man in a taxi in the rain, driving on the wrong side of the road. The camera pans out, into the amorphous grayness outside, and - Arthur jerks awake as the driver informs him they've arrived.
He doesn't even care that his clothes are getting soaked, doesn't even feel the water soaking through his shoes and squishing between his toes. He stumbles over the third step up to Alfred's porch, a sharp flash of adrenaline cutting across his weary, sodden heartbeat.
Alfred is waiting for him; he takes Arthur's suitcase and coat, fusses over his hair, but Arthur can only collapse on the carpeted stairs to the second floor and very deliberately undo his shoes, one by one: tug, tug, tug, pull; tug, tug, tug, pull. He leaves them on the floor, with the socks balled up inside them.
"…and I have to stay up or I won't know the ending and that'll make me even more scared. You probably want to go to bed right away, though." Arthur belatedly notices that Alfred's been talking the whole time. Oh, well.
"Yeah. Right. I'm beat. I'll see you in the morning." He tries to muster a smile but it only comes out as a grimace.
His bed is upstairs, and it's all he can do to pull his clothes off before he collapses onto it, like there's a thousand pounds of pressure pushing inexorably down on him and even though he has the vaguest niggling sensation that he forgot to do something, it's too much effort - the rain has closed in around his mind now, and focusing enough to see through the blur would mean waking up, and he can't gather himself to think so he drifts, nuzzling his cheek into the pillow as…
Re: Night and Day, 2/4
anonymous
March 6 2010, 23:59:17 UTC
He wakes up with a jolt, like a firecracker went off in his ear, and doesn't even remember where he is, as he reacts to the wetness spreading underneath him, rolls off the bed expecting to fall 15 centimeters from his own bed onto a carpet and uncontrollably letting out a huge spurt of pee when he falls at least half a meter onto hardwood, scrambling back up despite the scrapes on his hip and grabbing for something, anything, to piss into, or at least to soak it up. He lays hold of his shirt, dropped there the night before. "Fuck it," he mutters, and wads that up, actually pressing it into his dick, like a child who can't control himself.
As the adrenaline rush fades he feels a hot blush flaring up over his cheeks and chest, the sick refrain of stupid, stupid, stupid rattling around the inside of his head as shame twists low in his belly. Pathetic, he lambastes himself, as he finally stops pissing, and feels around for his pants, to have something to wrap up the soaked shirt in. God, I am pathetic.
Suddenly, the noise of the TV downstairs filters back into his consciousness, and it crashes down on his head that he's at Alfred's house. Arthur stops dead, another wave of adrenaline laced with dread freezing his limbs in place. "Fuck," he hisses, and scrambles for the bed, throwing the pillows off to one side as he tears at the sheet. "Bloody…fuck."
The TV stops. Arthur freezes. The stairs creak, and he explodes into motion again, but he can't win, he can't, and he just barely gets the sheet/shirt/pants bundle under the bed before he hears the tap of Alfred's knuckles on the door. Idiot. You should have just turned out the light and stayed quiet. He'd never have known.
Arthur throws the pillow back onto the bed, but he can't get the covers untangled from the nightstand before Alfred pushes the door open and he freezes, excruciatingly aware that he's stark naked with his bedding scattered around the room.
*
"…Arthur?" Alfred's eyes are huge, like they always are when he watches too much damn television, and he's clutching a pillow to his chest. "Are you okay?"
"Brilliant," says Arthur roughly. "Is it your national habit to barge in on houseguests at three in the morning or am I just that special?"
Alfred cocks his head to one side and sniffs. "Do you smell something?"
Fuck. Arthur pretends to smell the air, too, his nostrils filling with the scent of his own piss. He shrugs. "Not really. Alfred, I'm trying to - "
But Alfred is invading his room anyway, weaving back and forth like a damn police dog, and Arthur hasn't the foggiest clue how to behave - he has a desperate vision of confessing and begging for mercy, and squashes a hysterical shriek of laughter.
"Weird. It smells like - " Alfred pauses, squints at him from over his pillow. "Did you actually wet the bed?"
"I - bloody - what?" Arthur sputters, but Alfred has found the scent, now, and he's merciless in the pursuit.
"Oh my gawd, for serious?" His eyes sparkle with delight, and he clutches the pillow to his mouth, as though to stifle his laughter.
Re: Night and Day, 3/4
anonymous
March 7 2010, 00:00:09 UTC
Arthur feels humiliation prickling in the backs of his eyes, and if he looks at Alfred's gleeful face any longer he's going to punch it, so he drops his gaze to the boards beneath his feet. They're not exactly the same color - the left is lighter than the right, and there's a knot just under his big toe.
"Dude, seriously, that's hilarious. I had no idea! Is it like, a regular thing or only when you're super out of it?" Arthur will not cry - he will not, not in front of anyone but especially not Alfred - but he can't push words through his throat, so he stands and looks at the floor, and holds off on sniffling until his nose is actually about to drip.
*
"Arthur? Dude, seriously, please don't - oh, don't cry." Alfred sounds concerned, and out of the corner of his eye Arthur sees his feet come closer. He bites his lip viciously, only adding more to the liquid pooling dangerously around the corners of his eyes, and feels a hot stab of self-loathing through his gut as the first tear falls, rolling down the curve of his cheek to splash on the floor.
"Oh man, I'm sorry - " and the gutwrenching thing about Alfred is, he is sorry, just as much as he was gleeful a moment ago, and it's that damn earnestness that undoes him every time.
Arthur steps back, sharp and precise, self-contained: don't touch me, and his thigh bumps against the nighstand. "Sod off." He studies a crack between two of the floorboards.
"No, for real; I didn't want to get you all upset." Alfred crowds into his personal space, his hands stroking over Arthur's shoulders, but even when he tips Arthur's chin up with two gentle fingers, Arthur refuses to meet his eyes, staring over his shoulder. "Did - do you want me to go away now?"
Another tear splashes down Arthur's face, and he sucks in a shuddering breath. Alfred smells like leather and wide-open spaces, and Arthur can almost admit to himself that he doesn't want Alfred to go away; he wants Alfred to pull him close and wrap around him and tell him he's not disgusting. You always did have the stupidest fantasies.
Arthur hitches his shoulders up and down. He doesn't trust his voice.
- and then Alfred is wrapping his arms around Arthur's waist, one hand splayed just below Arthur's shoulderblades, nestling Arthur snug up against himself and squeezing, and Arthur bites his lip again, impotently furious, as another pair of tears leak out of his eyes and soak into Alfred's shirt. Once upon a time, he might have dreamt - but then there was a musket in the rain, and now he's too humiliated to even dare to hope that maybe - he pushes it out of his head, and wrenches himself away, pushing at Alfred's shoulders. "Sod off."
Alfred steps backwards - lets himself be pushed, really, because none of them can ever make Alfred do anything he really doesn't want to. "I -. Okay." He scuffs a toe on the floor. "Okay." And he reaches one hand out, abortively, but maybe he can feel Arthur's boundaries bristling back at him, or maybe he just doesn't know what to do, so he drops it and turns to leave. Arthur watches his shoes' progress across the room. "You're really beautiful, you know," Alfred pauses to say, just at the doorway. "That sounds stupid, but. I don't - I'm not grossed out." When Arthur doesn't respond, he sighs and steps out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.
Re: Night and Day, 4/4
anonymous
March 7 2010, 00:01:08 UTC
You're really beautiful, you know. Arthur viciously tears apart the tiny spark of hope that ignites at those words. He is not beautiful. Not loveable, says the voice in his head, and he shakes himself but he can't quite get it out of the corner of his mind. He grabs one of the blankets out of the pile and curls up under it on the mattress, holding himself tensely away from the wet patch where he'd been lying.
"Bloody...what?" He stares down at his dick, which is horribly, treacherously excited by this. "What is your problem?" And now the shame is scattered with sparks of fear, and he half-wants to take a knife to himself, anything to make this fresh humiliation stop.
He hears Alfred moving around in his bedroom, and squirms uncomfortably, humiliation twisting in his stomach. He lies awake: every time his eyes start to close all he can see is Alfred's mocking, delighted face: oh my gawd, for serious? He writhes with embarrassment, digging his fingernails into his palms and stifling a moan as his dick rubs against the mattress. The pale gray glimmerings of the dawn glimmer through the window; soon he's going to have to get up and look Alfred in the face over breakfast, and see did you actually wet the bed and I'm not grossed out in the same pair of blue eyes, and he curls up into himself and springs apart again. He can't stand it. He sobs with frustration, barely refraining from actually rubbing himself off on the bed like a dog.
There's a shower. Attached to his room, there's a shower, and he staggers for it, clenching his hands at his sides so he won't touch himself, and turns the water on freezing. He tries to brace himself as he steps into it, biting down on the heel of his hand to muffle his yell of shock. It works, at least, and he steps out, shaking with cold, and fumbles around in his suitcase for something to wear. The sky outside is gray streaked with palest yellow now, but it doesn't even matter that the night is fading, because Alfred has already invaded it. Alfred, with his big summer-afternoon eyes barged right on into the shame that Arthur hid away in the dark and now the daylight is humiliating too because Arthur has no hidden corner to force the pathetic mess of himself into; it's spilling out all around the edges of his façade.
He straightens his tie and runs fingers through his hair. He will endure this, like he's endured a thousand other humiliations, and if he has to kill off that tiny hopeful spark once and for all, so be it.
Re: Night and Day, 4/4
anonymous
March 9 2010, 01:05:45 UTC
Goodness. I absolutely loved this, I had expected to find a PWP and I found this amazing gem and I love how Alfred told him he actually didn't mind it and he still found Arthur beautiful *-* And gosh. Wow. I just lose words. Terrific fill! <3
The rain outside the cab window blurs Washington into a gray smudge. Arthur breathes in, sharply, as though he could force another twenty minutes of consciousness from his wrung-out body if he just dragged enough air into his lungs to hold himself up. He curls his fingers across the squeaky black leather of the seat. All the muscles in his arms and fingers are trembling with fatigue. He stares absently down at them, as if he were simply watching a movie about an exhausted man in a taxi in the rain, driving on the wrong side of the road. The camera pans out, into the amorphous grayness outside, and - Arthur jerks awake as the driver informs him they've arrived.
He doesn't even care that his clothes are getting soaked, doesn't even feel the water soaking through his shoes and squishing between his toes. He stumbles over the third step up to Alfred's porch, a sharp flash of adrenaline cutting across his weary, sodden heartbeat.
Alfred is waiting for him; he takes Arthur's suitcase and coat, fusses over his hair, but Arthur can only collapse on the carpeted stairs to the second floor and very deliberately undo his shoes, one by one: tug, tug, tug, pull; tug, tug, tug, pull. He leaves them on the floor, with the socks balled up inside them.
"…and I have to stay up or I won't know the ending and that'll make me even more scared. You probably want to go to bed right away, though." Arthur belatedly notices that Alfred's been talking the whole time. Oh, well.
"Yeah. Right. I'm beat. I'll see you in the morning." He tries to muster a smile but it only comes out as a grimace.
His bed is upstairs, and it's all he can do to pull his clothes off before he collapses onto it, like there's a thousand pounds of pressure pushing inexorably down on him and even though he has the vaguest niggling sensation that he forgot to do something, it's too much effort - the rain has closed in around his mind now, and focusing enough to see through the blur would mean waking up, and he can't gather himself to think so he drifts, nuzzling his cheek into the pillow as…
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As the adrenaline rush fades he feels a hot blush flaring up over his cheeks and chest, the sick refrain of stupid, stupid, stupid rattling around the inside of his head as shame twists low in his belly. Pathetic, he lambastes himself, as he finally stops pissing, and feels around for his pants, to have something to wrap up the soaked shirt in. God, I am pathetic.
Suddenly, the noise of the TV downstairs filters back into his consciousness, and it crashes down on his head that he's at Alfred's house. Arthur stops dead, another wave of adrenaline laced with dread freezing his limbs in place. "Fuck," he hisses, and scrambles for the bed, throwing the pillows off to one side as he tears at the sheet. "Bloody…fuck."
The TV stops. Arthur freezes. The stairs creak, and he explodes into motion again, but he can't win, he can't, and he just barely gets the sheet/shirt/pants bundle under the bed before he hears the tap of Alfred's knuckles on the door. Idiot. You should have just turned out the light and stayed quiet. He'd never have known.
Arthur throws the pillow back onto the bed, but he can't get the covers untangled from the nightstand before Alfred pushes the door open and he freezes, excruciatingly aware that he's stark naked with his bedding scattered around the room.
*
"…Arthur?" Alfred's eyes are huge, like they always are when he watches too much damn television, and he's clutching a pillow to his chest. "Are you okay?"
"Brilliant," says Arthur roughly. "Is it your national habit to barge in on houseguests at three in the morning or am I just that special?"
Alfred cocks his head to one side and sniffs. "Do you smell something?"
Fuck. Arthur pretends to smell the air, too, his nostrils filling with the scent of his own piss. He shrugs. "Not really. Alfred, I'm trying to - "
But Alfred is invading his room anyway, weaving back and forth like a damn police dog, and Arthur hasn't the foggiest clue how to behave - he has a desperate vision of confessing and begging for mercy, and squashes a hysterical shriek of laughter.
"Weird. It smells like - " Alfred pauses, squints at him from over his pillow. "Did you actually wet the bed?"
"I - bloody - what?" Arthur sputters, but Alfred has found the scent, now, and he's merciless in the pursuit.
"Oh my gawd, for serious?" His eyes sparkle with delight, and he clutches the pillow to his mouth, as though to stifle his laughter.
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"Dude, seriously, that's hilarious. I had no idea! Is it like, a regular thing or only when you're super out of it?"
Arthur will not cry - he will not, not in front of anyone but especially not Alfred - but he can't push words through his throat, so he stands and looks at the floor, and holds off on sniffling until his nose is actually about to drip.
*
"Arthur? Dude, seriously, please don't - oh, don't cry." Alfred sounds concerned, and out of the corner of his eye Arthur sees his feet come closer. He bites his lip viciously, only adding more to the liquid pooling dangerously around the corners of his eyes, and feels a hot stab of self-loathing through his gut as the first tear falls, rolling down the curve of his cheek to splash on the floor.
"Oh man, I'm sorry - " and the gutwrenching thing about Alfred is, he is sorry, just as much as he was gleeful a moment ago, and it's that damn earnestness that undoes him every time.
Arthur steps back, sharp and precise, self-contained: don't touch me, and his thigh bumps against the nighstand. "Sod off." He studies a crack between two of the floorboards.
"No, for real; I didn't want to get you all upset." Alfred crowds into his personal space, his hands stroking over Arthur's shoulders, but even when he tips Arthur's chin up with two gentle fingers, Arthur refuses to meet his eyes, staring over his shoulder. "Did - do you want me to go away now?"
Another tear splashes down Arthur's face, and he sucks in a shuddering breath. Alfred smells like leather and wide-open spaces, and Arthur can almost admit to himself that he doesn't want Alfred to go away; he wants Alfred to pull him close and wrap around him and tell him he's not disgusting. You always did have the stupidest fantasies.
Arthur hitches his shoulders up and down. He doesn't trust his voice.
- and then Alfred is wrapping his arms around Arthur's waist, one hand splayed just below Arthur's shoulderblades, nestling Arthur snug up against himself and squeezing, and Arthur bites his lip again, impotently furious, as another pair of tears leak out of his eyes and soak into Alfred's shirt. Once upon a time, he might have dreamt - but then there was a musket in the rain, and now he's too humiliated to even dare to hope that maybe - he pushes it out of his head, and wrenches himself away, pushing at Alfred's shoulders. "Sod off."
Alfred steps backwards - lets himself be pushed, really, because none of them can ever make Alfred do anything he really doesn't want to. "I -. Okay." He scuffs a toe on the floor. "Okay." And he reaches one hand out, abortively, but maybe he can feel Arthur's boundaries bristling back at him, or maybe he just doesn't know what to do, so he drops it and turns to leave. Arthur watches his shoes' progress across the room. "You're really beautiful, you know," Alfred pauses to say, just at the doorway. "That sounds stupid, but. I don't - I'm not grossed out." When Arthur doesn't respond, he sighs and steps out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.
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"Bloody...what?" He stares down at his dick, which is horribly, treacherously excited by this. "What is your problem?" And now the shame is scattered with sparks of fear, and he half-wants to take a knife to himself, anything to make this fresh humiliation stop.
He hears Alfred moving around in his bedroom, and squirms uncomfortably, humiliation twisting in his stomach. He lies awake: every time his eyes start to close all he can see is Alfred's mocking, delighted face: oh my gawd, for serious? He writhes with embarrassment, digging his fingernails into his palms and stifling a moan as his dick rubs against the mattress. The pale gray glimmerings of the dawn glimmer through the window; soon he's going to have to get up and look Alfred in the face over breakfast, and see did you actually wet the bed and I'm not grossed out in the same pair of blue eyes, and he curls up into himself and springs apart again. He can't stand it. He sobs with frustration, barely refraining from actually rubbing himself off on the bed like a dog.
There's a shower. Attached to his room, there's a shower, and he staggers for it, clenching his hands at his sides so he won't touch himself, and turns the water on freezing. He tries to brace himself as he steps into it, biting down on the heel of his hand to muffle his yell of shock. It works, at least, and he steps out, shaking with cold, and fumbles around in his suitcase for something to wear. The sky outside is gray streaked with palest yellow now, but it doesn't even matter that the night is fading, because Alfred has already invaded it. Alfred, with his big summer-afternoon eyes barged right on into the shame that Arthur hid away in the dark and now the daylight is humiliating too because Arthur has no hidden corner to force the pathetic mess of himself into; it's spilling out all around the edges of his façade.
He straightens his tie and runs fingers through his hair. He will endure this, like he's endured a thousand other humiliations, and if he has to kill off that tiny hopeful spark once and for all, so be it.
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He's exactly like a prickly hedgehog, isn't he? But don't worry, Alfred loves you all the same!
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I loved it, but omg, cliffhanger!
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