never ballpoints [57/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:44:03 UTC
Arthur comes, a knot in his throat and a spasm that runs his length. Alfred simply holds, and waits, and by the time it's over, the walls are falling around them.
Too soon, Alfred thinks, too soon too fast and it's just-that, like something shattered across the floor. In all fairness: Arthur is young, and probably-inexperienced-but that just seems to prickle more questions to the roof of Alfred's mouth. He wants to ask, are you, and he wants to be Arthur's first and last and never.
"Good boy," he says, instead, and retracts his fingers and Arthur's and presses shhhs with his other hand. Arthur's eyes are closed. "That wasn't-"
-and he's meaning, that wasn't too bad, was it, because it truly wasn't, and Alfred can still see the trembles over Arthur's muscles. He's broken off by a knocking, though, wet and sharp in the silence, and Alfred suddenly feels more: his cock, hard pressed into Arthur's leg, and the high pink of Arthur's face, and the white across the round of his stomach and Alfred's fingers.
"Shit," he hisses. His hands make quick work, pulling up Arthur's pants, tee down, swiping damp hair from his brow. Alfred kisses the same place, tasting salt on his temple. "There."
He wonders, who the hell is that, and reminds himself of Arthur's mumble through the door. Of course, who else would it be but Francis.
Arthur, as if reinforcing the idea, whispers, "Francis," and sounds so naked. Somehow, it's worse-it's more-than having Arthur sprawled before him, red and white and new. Alfred hates it.
"Open the door," says Alfred, unthinking and throwing papers into his briefcase. His come-wet fingers tack to them and dab backward numbers to his palms. "Go on."
Wobbling, Arthur makes his way to the door between breaths. It is Francis, Cheshire cat smile and smooth. Arthur gulps at him, and Francis says something too sudden for Alfred to catch.
Briefcase packed, Alfred stands and holds it-strategically.
"Francis!" he says, a little loud, smile that shows too much gum. "I was just helping Arthur catch up with all the work he missed."
Francis nods vaguely, eyes flickering back between them. It lingers on the sweat showing on Arthur's cheeks.
"Are you... okay?" he asks, barely loud enough for Alfred to hear. Arthur works his jaw, tension hard in his shoulders, and nods.
"Fine." Arthur holds up a hand that's shaking. "Bit feverish."
Alfred feels out of place, for one odd moment. He comes back to himself when two pairs of eyes land on him.
"Oh, damn," he says, suddenly, brow crinkling as he looks to his watch. "I've got to get ready for the next lesson, huh?" Alfred pushes through, halting at the doorway between Arthur and Francis. "Hope to see you next week, Arthur!"
He winks, and Arthur looks to his feet, and Alfred feels Francis watching his back till he turns the corner.
never ballpoints [58/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:44:49 UTC
Panic over, Alfred slips into the nearest bathroom and locks himself in a stall. He has-five minutes-and it's faster than that, because on his mind is all pink and heavy and yes and it takes four quick strokes. He's silent as he comes.
(Alfred thinks, Arthur came in this fist, and scrubs his hands till the soap stings his bones.)
His face, next, and he splashes himself with cold water and gasps, working the ache through it. He feels old, and scared, and exhilarated. He has to get to his classroom because the lesson, right, and.
And Francis will stare for the whole hour and come up with questions and ask, and Alfred was always fond of students like that. The curious ones.
never ballpoints [59/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:45:25 UTC
The lesson comes and goes, and then the weekend's the same, and Alfred lets it. He talks to Matthew, some time, and their conversation skirts between the weather and work. He sounds worried, and Alfred doesn't ask why.
He dreams more, and wakes up sticky those nights. He tries to sleep less. Alfred whittles it down to four hours a night, because that's probably the same that Arthur's getting.
"A problem shared is a problem halved," Matthew says, at one point, the cliché rolling easily off and Alfred cannot remember what topic brought them to this.
"That's," he starts, thumbs at his forehead and thoughts pulsing, "that's great, Matt. I gotta go."
He hangs up, and shovels breakfast into his mouth.
-
The week is equally short and slow and beyond him. Alfred grasps to the conscious hours of pressing equations into students' heads and talking non-stop about the beauty of infinity. Friday sits in his head like a weighted promise, and by the time it comes, Alfred's mind is everywhere but ready.
The day crawls through on its knees, and then it's the last hour, and he's watching people come through the door in twos and threes and the screech of chairs. He starts at the sound of Francis, brash in the calm, and his butterfly-laughter.
Arthur is behind him, hand at his mouth and gaze everywhere but Alfred himself.
By the time Alfred stops staring, he's ten minutes behind and lost.
"Uh-who's up for a quiz?" he asks, and the classroom cringes.
never ballpoints [60/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:46:03 UTC
It's just like it used to be, because the sun is casting tall monsters from the chair legs and paper towers and Arthur is fumbling to his desk at the end of the hour. He nudges a chair close and drops his bag at his feet.
"Feeling better?" Alfred asks, and stands to shut the door. Arthur stutters over his yes. He's holding his pen too tight, and his fingers are going white at the joints. Alfred touches his shoulder, gently, and smiles wide.
"Great!" he says, and Arthur seems to breathe when Alfred turns to the window. He taps at a dirt fleck. "Back to work, then."
He slides a sheet of questions under Arthur's nose and steps back, to the glass. It's cool to his forehead. Somewhere, in this all-consuming silence, Alfred is missing something.
(Arthur's bag zip is bare, is why, and he's thinking a thousand things like; I deserve that it was a gift it might have fallen off did he crush it. It preys on his insides.)
He turns again, and stares along Arthur's shoulders. Alfred wonders if the bite marks are still there, and if Arthur thinks about this like he does-or obsesses, rather, and every waking minute is torture.
"You did well, today," Alfred says, conversational. He taps a rhythm like his heart into the windowpane. "You're getting better."
Arthur doesn't answer, and when Alfred slips into his own chair, there's a tightness around his eyes. He considers touching the corners of them, just with his thumb, and easing that discomfort away.
Alfred doesn't move, and the tightness only gets worse.
never ballpoints [61/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:46:35 UTC
Of course, they are far beyond talking at this point. A shame, because that was always one of the things Alfred was good at: talking, and being talked to, and-perhaps pretending-but he was a good listener. He liked to listen.
This isn't one of those talk-able things, is it.
Alfred doesn't find this fair. It was never fair. From Arthur's view point-a child's view point-he wouldn't understand. But for Alfred, it's-
-because it was Arthur who caught his attention in the first place. It was Arthur who dragged him this far. It was Arthur, and Arthur is so strange and out-of-place and different, once you peel the mask away. He's so many things, and Alfred was never any good at not having what he wants.
Because Arthur was just-there, always, and he still is. Arthur is talking in an afternoon gone golden, and his writing that slopes left once and right the other, and football-soccer, and these things untouchable.
(Alfred thinks that what he feels-deep, and underneath the rest of it, hot and wire-tight-that there was more to this. More than wanting to fuck Arthur over the tables in the staffroom. More in that-way, the way that gums his tongue to his mouth. But it's too late for sentimentality.)
The hour ends without ceremony, and Arthur is gone without a word.
never ballpoints [62/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:47:11 UTC
"Slow progress," Alfred tells the phone, between mouthfuls. Spaghetti, and it tastes pretty good because he made it. "S'boring, as usual."
"Mhm, yeah," Matthew says back, and then, "are you eating? While on the phone?"
Alfred forks and twirls, and tomato sauce goes flying. "You're the one that called at a bad time. Your fault, not mine."
Matthew sighs. "You could have just, I dunno, told me you were having dinner." There's a silence, and Alfred assumes his brother is making faces. "I'll talk to you later, I guess."
The dial tone starts just as Alfred says bye. Every conversation of theirs ends this way; stilted, and neither really following, and Alfred knows something's up.
It's scary, but Alfred has lost the nerve to try anymore.
-
He gets no phone calls for the rest of the week, and that's fine. He doesn't need Matt to call him. Alfred is busy, anyway, because students are starting to get edgier the more the year progresses, and that's the way it has always been. He could do with some time to himself.
It's Thursday night, though, and Alfred can hear music from a car that flashes nearby. He's bored, and there's nothing on, and his mind is restless. He stands, and paces, and his feet carry him to his car.
The engine is slow and angry to start, and he doesn't know what he's doing.
-
He drives for what feels like hours, to nowhere. Alfred knows, now, but the part of him still sane is going no, and too far, and it's keeping his hands on the wheel. There's a little white pharmacy down-and-left, and it would take three seconds to get to. He's been thinking, though, and there's a disease in that. In this.
He pulls in, anyway, and pushes through the glass doors.
never ballpoints [63/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 00:48:09 UTC
It seems almost loud, in his jacket pocket. The key gives a little clink with every other step, and it all reminds him.
(He's got a rubber, new, and whenever he pockets his hands he feels the cheap foil and jolts, like he doesn't expect it to be there. What is he doing.)
There's hand lotion in his desk, too-which is a little embarrassing, but his hands get dry in winter and in summer, and he likes having nice hands.
(And it's like a jigsaw that's three pieces and too easy and he's just thinking: it could be like the dreams and against the desk so the legs leave marks on the perfect floor, or to the wall and watching his posters of calculus crumple and split where they're pinned up, under long, desperate fingers, and just-noise.)
He hardly notices the lessons go by till the clock ticks and Arthur's there, head low and voice gone.
(Last piece.)
-
He waits for the room to empty, first, and then it's Arthur and him and the silence. Alfred circles, more out of nervousness than anything else, and places his hand on the desk. His are a lot darker, broader, than Arthur's. His fingers tense.
"Remember," says Alfred, in Arthur's ear, "the Thanksgiving present I gave to you? What happened to it?"
He feels Arthur flush more than he sees it, but the reassurance comes fast and satisfying. Arthur stumbles over a breath.
"Uh," he says, struggling, and his veins show blue, "it fell off. I don't know, I'm sorry."
Alfred forces a sigh, and says, "Oh, well."
He pushes off from the desk and Arthur's exhale is almost tangible. Alfred feels the guilt and forces it back. He doesn't want to stop when he's so close. When he's waited-seven months, or eight, and this was his dream, wasn't it, and he's gone through hell to get this far. So-no. No stopping.
Alfred makes his way to the door, steps measured and slow. His fingers find the key-brushes the foil, crinkle-and he locks it. Behind him, he can hear Arthur's breath start and stop and hitch into something else.
It's compensation, Alfred tells himself, and winds his fingers through.
-
Damn, this is late! orz My life has been all over the place and I'm going off for a week to visit family I don't wanna visit and urgh! I'm so, so, so sorry. Your comments are so wonderful and ahh, I love all of you even if I don't have the time to say so and OP oh my god you are just such a wonderful OP and fuck I'm such a mess right now hrngurhg. I hope you enjoyed this, anyhow ;3;
Re: never ballpoints [63/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 01:01:41 UTC
And Francis will stare for the whole hour and come up with questions and ask, and Alfred was always fond of students like that. The curious ones.
(Not so much anymore.)
Ugh, just like his deteriorating relationship with Mattie, this is just one more reminder that Alfred's mind is riddled with this sickness like a diseased organ with tumors. Just ... augh. You're breaking my heart, Alfred, gdi.
Re: never ballpoints [63/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 01:53:05 UTC
askljsfsdlkg;dslgksdjgdl;fkgdfh
I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS FILL FOREVER AND IT IS LOVELY AND HORRIFYING IN WAYS I CAN'T DESCRIBE BUT HOLY FUCKING SHIT ALFRED what are you doing son oh my god.
Re: never ballpoints [63/?]
anonymous
August 10 2010, 20:12:28 UTC
This story continues to give me the chills. So realistic, specially the subtle deteriorating of his close relationship and losing his past appreciation for things like inquisitve students. Poor Arthur! I wonder how much Francis knows. I really want Alfred to get caught, fired and put in prison for this. Come on, white knight Francis!!
Too soon, Alfred thinks, too soon too fast and it's just-that, like something shattered across the floor. In all fairness: Arthur is young, and probably-inexperienced-but that just seems to prickle more questions to the roof of Alfred's mouth. He wants to ask, are you, and he wants to be Arthur's first and last and never.
"Good boy," he says, instead, and retracts his fingers and Arthur's and presses shhhs with his other hand. Arthur's eyes are closed. "That wasn't-"
-and he's meaning, that wasn't too bad, was it, because it truly wasn't, and Alfred can still see the trembles over Arthur's muscles. He's broken off by a knocking, though, wet and sharp in the silence, and Alfred suddenly feels more: his cock, hard pressed into Arthur's leg, and the high pink of Arthur's face, and the white across the round of his stomach and Alfred's fingers.
"Shit," he hisses. His hands make quick work, pulling up Arthur's pants, tee down, swiping damp hair from his brow. Alfred kisses the same place, tasting salt on his temple. "There."
He wonders, who the hell is that, and reminds himself of Arthur's mumble through the door. Of course, who else would it be but Francis.
Arthur, as if reinforcing the idea, whispers, "Francis," and sounds so naked. Somehow, it's worse-it's more-than having Arthur sprawled before him, red and white and new. Alfred hates it.
"Open the door," says Alfred, unthinking and throwing papers into his briefcase. His come-wet fingers tack to them and dab backward numbers to his palms. "Go on."
Wobbling, Arthur makes his way to the door between breaths. It is Francis, Cheshire cat smile and smooth. Arthur gulps at him, and Francis says something too sudden for Alfred to catch.
Briefcase packed, Alfred stands and holds it-strategically.
"Francis!" he says, a little loud, smile that shows too much gum. "I was just helping Arthur catch up with all the work he missed."
Francis nods vaguely, eyes flickering back between them. It lingers on the sweat showing on Arthur's cheeks.
"Are you... okay?" he asks, barely loud enough for Alfred to hear. Arthur works his jaw, tension hard in his shoulders, and nods.
"Fine." Arthur holds up a hand that's shaking. "Bit feverish."
Alfred feels out of place, for one odd moment. He comes back to himself when two pairs of eyes land on him.
"Oh, damn," he says, suddenly, brow crinkling as he looks to his watch. "I've got to get ready for the next lesson, huh?" Alfred pushes through, halting at the doorway between Arthur and Francis. "Hope to see you next week, Arthur!"
He winks, and Arthur looks to his feet, and Alfred feels Francis watching his back till he turns the corner.
Reply
(Alfred thinks, Arthur came in this fist, and scrubs his hands till the soap stings his bones.)
His face, next, and he splashes himself with cold water and gasps, working the ache through it. He feels old, and scared, and exhilarated. He has to get to his classroom because the lesson, right, and.
And Francis will stare for the whole hour and come up with questions and ask, and Alfred was always fond of students like that. The curious ones.
(Not so much anymore.)
Reply
He dreams more, and wakes up sticky those nights. He tries to sleep less. Alfred whittles it down to four hours a night, because that's probably the same that Arthur's getting.
"A problem shared is a problem halved," Matthew says, at one point, the cliché rolling easily off and Alfred cannot remember what topic brought them to this.
"That's," he starts, thumbs at his forehead and thoughts pulsing, "that's great, Matt. I gotta go."
He hangs up, and shovels breakfast into his mouth.
-
The week is equally short and slow and beyond him. Alfred grasps to the conscious hours of pressing equations into students' heads and talking non-stop about the beauty of infinity. Friday sits in his head like a weighted promise, and by the time it comes, Alfred's mind is everywhere but ready.
The day crawls through on its knees, and then it's the last hour, and he's watching people come through the door in twos and threes and the screech of chairs. He starts at the sound of Francis, brash in the calm, and his butterfly-laughter.
Arthur is behind him, hand at his mouth and gaze everywhere but Alfred himself.
By the time Alfred stops staring, he's ten minutes behind and lost.
"Uh-who's up for a quiz?" he asks, and the classroom cringes.
Reply
"Feeling better?" Alfred asks, and stands to shut the door. Arthur stutters over his yes. He's holding his pen too tight, and his fingers are going white at the joints. Alfred touches his shoulder, gently, and smiles wide.
"Great!" he says, and Arthur seems to breathe when Alfred turns to the window. He taps at a dirt fleck. "Back to work, then."
He slides a sheet of questions under Arthur's nose and steps back, to the glass. It's cool to his forehead. Somewhere, in this all-consuming silence, Alfred is missing something.
(Arthur's bag zip is bare, is why, and he's thinking a thousand things like; I deserve that it was a gift it might have fallen off did he crush it. It preys on his insides.)
He turns again, and stares along Arthur's shoulders. Alfred wonders if the bite marks are still there, and if Arthur thinks about this like he does-or obsesses, rather, and every waking minute is torture.
"You did well, today," Alfred says, conversational. He taps a rhythm like his heart into the windowpane. "You're getting better."
Arthur doesn't answer, and when Alfred slips into his own chair, there's a tightness around his eyes. He considers touching the corners of them, just with his thumb, and easing that discomfort away.
Alfred doesn't move, and the tightness only gets worse.
Reply
This isn't one of those talk-able things, is it.
Alfred doesn't find this fair. It was never fair. From Arthur's view point-a child's view point-he wouldn't understand. But for Alfred, it's-
-because it was Arthur who caught his attention in the first place. It was Arthur who dragged him this far. It was Arthur, and Arthur is so strange and out-of-place and different, once you peel the mask away. He's so many things, and Alfred was never any good at not having what he wants.
Because Arthur was just-there, always, and he still is. Arthur is talking in an afternoon gone golden, and his writing that slopes left once and right the other, and football-soccer, and these things untouchable.
(Alfred thinks that what he feels-deep, and underneath the rest of it, hot and wire-tight-that there was more to this. More than wanting to fuck Arthur over the tables in the staffroom. More in that-way, the way that gums his tongue to his mouth. But it's too late for sentimentality.)
The hour ends without ceremony, and Arthur is gone without a word.
Reply
"Mhm, yeah," Matthew says back, and then, "are you eating? While on the phone?"
Alfred forks and twirls, and tomato sauce goes flying. "You're the one that called at a bad time. Your fault, not mine."
Matthew sighs. "You could have just, I dunno, told me you were having dinner." There's a silence, and Alfred assumes his brother is making faces. "I'll talk to you later, I guess."
The dial tone starts just as Alfred says bye. Every conversation of theirs ends this way; stilted, and neither really following, and Alfred knows something's up.
It's scary, but Alfred has lost the nerve to try anymore.
-
He gets no phone calls for the rest of the week, and that's fine. He doesn't need Matt to call him. Alfred is busy, anyway, because students are starting to get edgier the more the year progresses, and that's the way it has always been. He could do with some time to himself.
It's Thursday night, though, and Alfred can hear music from a car that flashes nearby. He's bored, and there's nothing on, and his mind is restless. He stands, and paces, and his feet carry him to his car.
The engine is slow and angry to start, and he doesn't know what he's doing.
-
He drives for what feels like hours, to nowhere. Alfred knows, now, but the part of him still sane is going no, and too far, and it's keeping his hands on the wheel. There's a little white pharmacy down-and-left, and it would take three seconds to get to. He's been thinking, though, and there's a disease in that. In this.
He pulls in, anyway, and pushes through the glass doors.
Reply
(He's got a rubber, new, and whenever he pockets his hands he feels the cheap foil and jolts, like he doesn't expect it to be there. What is he doing.)
There's hand lotion in his desk, too-which is a little embarrassing, but his hands get dry in winter and in summer, and he likes having nice hands.
(And it's like a jigsaw that's three pieces and too easy and he's just thinking: it could be like the dreams and against the desk so the legs leave marks on the perfect floor, or to the wall and watching his posters of calculus crumple and split where they're pinned up, under long, desperate fingers, and just-noise.)
He hardly notices the lessons go by till the clock ticks and Arthur's there, head low and voice gone.
(Last piece.)
-
He waits for the room to empty, first, and then it's Arthur and him and the silence. Alfred circles, more out of nervousness than anything else, and places his hand on the desk. His are a lot darker, broader, than Arthur's. His fingers tense.
"Remember," says Alfred, in Arthur's ear, "the Thanksgiving present I gave to you? What happened to it?"
He feels Arthur flush more than he sees it, but the reassurance comes fast and satisfying. Arthur stumbles over a breath.
"Uh," he says, struggling, and his veins show blue, "it fell off. I don't know, I'm sorry."
Alfred forces a sigh, and says, "Oh, well."
He pushes off from the desk and Arthur's exhale is almost tangible. Alfred feels the guilt and forces it back. He doesn't want to stop when he's so close. When he's waited-seven months, or eight, and this was his dream, wasn't it, and he's gone through hell to get this far. So-no. No stopping.
Alfred makes his way to the door, steps measured and slow. His fingers find the key-brushes the foil, crinkle-and he locks it. Behind him, he can hear Arthur's breath start and stop and hitch into something else.
It's compensation, Alfred tells himself, and winds his fingers through.
-
Damn, this is late! orz My life has been all over the place and I'm going off for a week to visit family I don't wanna visit and urgh! I'm so, so, so sorry. Your comments are so wonderful and ahh, I love all of you even if I don't have the time to say so and OP oh my god you are just such a wonderful OP and fuck I'm such a mess right now hrngurhg. I hope you enjoyed this, anyhow ;3;
Reply
(Not so much anymore.)
Ugh, just like his deteriorating relationship with Mattie, this is just one more reminder that Alfred's mind is riddled with this sickness like a diseased organ with tumors. Just ... augh. You're breaking my heart, Alfred, gdi.
... *pats you on the head <3*
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I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS FILL FOREVER AND IT IS LOVELY AND HORRIFYING IN WAYS I CAN'T DESCRIBE BUT HOLY FUCKING SHIT ALFRED what are you doing son oh my god.
on the edge of my seat, writeranon.
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BAD END, ALFRED.
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is just so amazing. I'm loving it author anon!
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