never ballpoints [65/?]
anonymous
August 16 2010, 15:28:33 UTC
Of course, Alfred is as much a physical being as a social one. What cannot be conveyed by voice can be done by touch, and what can is better otherwise. It’s his mentality-and, along with that, Alfred’s patience is a weak thing.
He strides over, key dropping with a clatter, and splays his hands to Arthur’s chest. It’s his way-I’m sorry and I care and it’s more than simply touching for the sake of it. Alfred knows better than to have Arthur understand, so he drops it.
The difference in colour is even more noticeable now. Arthur’s skin is the white of something that hasn’t-shouldn’t be touched. It sends a fire through Alfred where there shouldn't be fire.
His fingers go lower, skirting along the belt at Arthur’s waist. Cheap leather, the kind you put your nail through and expect it to come back dirty. It seems foreign on Arthur, pristine and white and all perfect, to the trembling edges.
So Alfred slips it off. It slithers over his palm and hits the floor with a swish; clasp, with a clatter.
His fingers, free, curl under the weight of Arthur’s waistband and clutch at his hip. His skin is warm, and when he looks, Alfred can see old fingerprint-pattern bruises.
(He wants to add to them, and to the purpling bites on his clavicle.)
Alfred lowers his hand to his pocket; grasps it, and tenses, and brings it into Arthur's eye line. There's a terrible glass silence.
Arthur’s eyes go wide when he deciphers the little foil square. He makes to speak, and his mind isn’t fast enough to catch himself:
“Oh, no, sir, please,” he chokes, scrabbling for nothing and everything and the tatters of Alfred’s humanity. “Don’t, I’m sorry, please-”
Arthur is bordering on hysterical, so Alfred cuts him off. He feels Arthur’s lips, warm and chapped against the lines of his palm.
“Shh,” says Alfred, “it’s okay, shh.”
And it’s not okay, and it was never okay. Still, Arthur goes silent.
(His eyes scream, and Alfred would not stare into them if they weren’t so beautiful.)
He strides over, key dropping with a clatter, and splays his hands to Arthur’s chest. It’s his way-I’m sorry and I care and it’s more than simply touching for the sake of it. Alfred knows better than to have Arthur understand, so he drops it.
The difference in colour is even more noticeable now. Arthur’s skin is the white of something that hasn’t-shouldn’t be touched. It sends a fire through Alfred where there shouldn't be fire.
His fingers go lower, skirting along the belt at Arthur’s waist. Cheap leather, the kind you put your nail through and expect it to come back dirty. It seems foreign on Arthur, pristine and white and all perfect, to the trembling edges.
So Alfred slips it off. It slithers over his palm and hits the floor with a swish; clasp, with a clatter.
His fingers, free, curl under the weight of Arthur’s waistband and clutch at his hip. His skin is warm, and when he looks, Alfred can see old fingerprint-pattern bruises.
(He wants to add to them, and to the purpling bites on his clavicle.)
Alfred lowers his hand to his pocket; grasps it, and tenses, and brings it into Arthur's eye line. There's a terrible glass silence.
Arthur’s eyes go wide when he deciphers the little foil square. He makes to speak, and his mind isn’t fast enough to catch himself:
“Oh, no, sir, please,” he chokes, scrabbling for nothing and everything and the tatters of Alfred’s humanity. “Don’t, I’m sorry, please-”
Arthur is bordering on hysterical, so Alfred cuts him off. He feels Arthur’s lips, warm and chapped against the lines of his palm.
“Shh,” says Alfred, “it’s okay, shh.”
And it’s not okay, and it was never okay. Still, Arthur goes silent.
(His eyes scream, and Alfred would not stare into them if they weren’t so beautiful.)
“I’ll be gentle,” Alfred offers. “I promise.”
It isn’t enough, but nothing ever is.
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