(no subject)

[wingborne]

twelve.

Alfred walks in, and finds Arthur staring at a glued macaroni picture, with dried glue flaking around the edges. It’s so stereotypical that he almost laughs, but he stays quiet when he approaches around the counter. Arthur hasn’t heard the bell ring, and instead, looks at the picture. Alfred recognizes it as his own sloppy work, when he was ten, convinced his best friend was just really invisible and not imaginary, and apparently had a poor idea what an elephant looked like.

His high tops squeak against the floor as he approaches. With all his strength, he plants his hands by the picture.

Arthur jerks back, hitting his head against Alfred’s jaw. He doesn’t wince, but Arthur covers the back of his head plaintively with his hands when he twists his head to see the intruder.

“Don’t scare me like that,” he says unhappily.

“Why are you looking at that?”

“No reason,” Arthur says, pushing the paper underneath a book. “Are you here for that origami book? Your little paper airplane contest is coming up, isn’t it?” He talks too fast. Alfred ignores him and reaches over, chin resting on Arthur’s shoulder, as he yanks it back out. Some macaroni scrapes off, and Arthur makes a strangled sound as he collects the dried pasta.

“Why’d you keep this?”

“Because you made it for me.” Arthur flushes, the red swelling to the tips of his ears. “I didn’t mean to take it. I tried not to. I mean, it wasn’t mine, and I told myself that I wouldn’t take what wasn’t mine. But this was the—exception.”

“The only exception?” Alfred picks up the paper gently, and holds it to the light.

“Yes.” Arthur’s face loses its hard edge. He almost looks happy and fragile. “It’s the last thing I have from your childhood.”

“Okay.”

In a single movement, Alfred tears it in half. The dried pieces scatter across the room, hitting the walls like bullets, and those that fall to the floor, he steps on with his sneakers until they’re nothing but pale dust. Arthur springs up, red in the face and trying to snatch at the remains. He’s spluttering and incoherent.

Alfred pushes him down against the desk, and kisses him. This time, he pushes in his tongue, and wraps his fingers into Arthur’s short hair. He’s violent, and runs his tongue along Arthur’s lower lip, grinding against him demandingly. A few seconds later, Arthur is pushing him off, not hard enough to be a real push, but a hard nudge that’s enough to make Alfred relent and pull back.

“Why did you do that?” Arthur hisses, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. Alfred doesn’t comment that, even though he knows Arthur always keeps a handkerchief in his pocket.

“Don’t think of me like that,” he says. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re reminiscing.” Alfred steps forward. “Don’t think about me like I’m a kid.”

“That doesn’t mean you have the right to go tearing up everything!” Arthur bends down and starts picking up the pieces. “If you don’t want me to think about you like a child, stop acting like one! You come into my life and you act like I have to bloody accommodate you! Like I need you!”

Alfred sits down, resting on his calves. Arthur collects the shreds with his hands, scooping them up against the hardwood floor and cupping them into a small pile. He doesn’t look at him, but his shoulders slump, resigned from the outburst.

“If I was just another adult,” Alfred asks quietly, “would you like me?”

“No. No, I don’t like anyone.”

“Liar.”

Alfred hunches over, and breathes near Arthur’s ear. They don’t move, like statues frozen in time, forever standing amidst old pasta parts. There’s nobody but them, and Alfred feels unable to move, glued to his spot, waiting for something to happen.

Arthur finally turns his head, and kisses him. It’s soft and hesitant, tight and closed. It’s surprising. It feels more like Arthur is pressing his lips against his by sheer force, and when Arthur draws back, he does it slowly, eyes averted. His fingers are still covered in macaroni dust.

“Okay,” Alfred whispers. His lips feel warm. “It’s okay.”

“No,” Arthur says brokenly. “Nothing will be all right again.”

thirteen.

They’re leaving to look for fairies in a few days. Alfred is excited, despite himself. He cancels plans with his father, and spends most of his time plotting out their hiking trail. The maps are spread out on the table and the sign reads “Closed” on the doorway. Arthur has two pencils stuck behind his ear, and drawing with a third, circling the magical hot spots. Dusty textbooks cover every empty chair, and he snarls at any attempting customer to knock on the door.

“You know,” Alfred says, “Sometimes, when I’m working on a project, I go back really far. Maybe there’s some more stuff about this in older books. Like, books in weird languages.”

“It’s possible,” Arthur murmurs over his tourist guide. He peeks over his glasses. “I think I might have some in my private collection.”

“Okay.” It sounds like a good plan, so Alfred begins to sketch again. But when Arthur doesn’t move, he looks up expectantly. Arthur is chewing on his bottom lip, sticking the third pencil with the second, and adjusts his glasses self-consciously.

“They’re upstairs,” Arthur says softly.

“Okay.” Alfred doesn’t understand.

“In my apartment.” Arthur swallows quickly, and when his eyes dart at Alfred’s unsuspecting face, he blurts it out. “You should come with me to look for them. I’m not doing all this work on my own, git.”

“Okay.” He numbly closes the book and stands, chair scratching against the floor. Arthur mutters to himself incoherently as he pulls out the key from his pocket, and unlocks the door to the stairwell. It’s small and cramped, and smells musty, but Alfred follows him anyway. His brain has been locked, struck by lightning, numb. He hadn’t been expecting it. He hadn’t been expecting any of this, but now they’re at the small door, and Arthur is unlocking it, and leaving it open. His fingers tingle when he touches the doorknob, pushing it open even further.

It’s nothing like his own house when Arthur had been living there, and he’s relieved.

The room has only one bay window in the main room, where the couch is pushed against it and the green curtains are half-drawn. The wallpaper is plain, but difficult to discern in the semi-darkness. There are lamps of varied sizes, but they all sit on top of books. Books cover the shelves, the floor, the tables. Papers, old and yellowed, are scattered everywhere, and when Alfred looks into the half-open bedroom, he can see the books have even spread there. But the furniture is remarkably comfortable and warm in color. Arthur shoves off some books and tells him to sit there, he’ll make some tea. He maneuvers around the books to the kitchenette, where recipes are taped to the cupboards, and the trash can and fire extinguisher is suspiciously close to the stove.

Alfred sits, and waits for the tea. There are a few pictures on the table next to him, half-buried in the books, but he acts the archaeologist and digs them out. The pictures are varied, but none feature Arthur in them. Just pictures of boys and girls, all with thick eyebrows, smiling and staring out into the future.

“My brothers and sisters.” Arthur places down the tea cup, and uses his foot to shove away some of the mess on his couch for himself to sit. “Some are still in the UK, but most are spread out across the world. Strange how it works out that way.”

“Do you get along with them?”

“Not at all,” Arthur answers smoothly, sipping his tea. His eyes land on the photos again. “That doesn’t mean I don’t miss them.”

“Do you want to see them again?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur leans forward. The chinaware is white with gold rims, and he traces his fingers along the patterns. “I probably won’t.”

“Okay.” Alfred drinks the tea, and makes a face. “I don’t like tea.”

“You wouldn’t.” The talk has been broken, and it’s a relief. Arthur shoves off more books from the couch, and scatters the books on the floor, picking them up and flipping through them sporadically. Alfred moves to sit next to him, picking up another book, but he isn’t really reading. The script is too old and scrawled, and he doesn’t understand the language. He feels nervous, because he’s inside Arthur’s apartment, and it’s small and smells like tea and spices. But even if his hands shake, he knows what he wants to do.

“Can I kiss you?” he murmurs.

Arthur flips another page, but it’s too quick for him to have finished the page already. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then he closes the book. Doesn’t close it with finality, like a slam, but gently, and places it on the coffee table in front of them, next to the tea cup. Then he lifts his chin, and gently kisses him. It’s a better kiss this time, still awkward and too tight, but he puts his arms on Alfred’s broad shoulders, and Alfred relaxes into the arm of the couch.

“You taste strange,” Arthur murmurs. “Bad. Get some mint.”

“Don’t ruin it,” Alfred laughs breathlessly, because he can’t believe it. He’s holding Arthur in his arms, and they’re on his sofa and there’s rain outside but it’s warm. Arthur kisses him again, softly, arms still tightly curled around him.

“It’s uncomfortable,” he whispers. It is. Alfred can’t feel most of his body because Arthur is lying on top of it, tangled, because the couch is too small. Arthur’s knee digs into his thigh when he shifts his weight, and Alfred accidentally kicks over some books, nearly knocking over the tea. Arthur laughs, and kisses him again. It’s too shy and too awkward, so Alfred moves his hand to press Arthur deeper into the kiss, and the rain continues to fall. They never do find the book that talks about magical hotspots in the forest. They spend the rest of the afternoon kissing, getting braver and brave, until Alfred knows the feel of Arthur’s teeth, and the way Arthur’s tongue flicks across his lips. When he finally leaves, his legs shake, and Arthur holds his hand too long to be casual, and tells him to come back tomorrow.

fourteen.

Arthur tells him, off-handedly, that his bedroom needs to be cleaned. It’s the way things have begun to work, constructed with all the strength of a tower of glass. Arthur invites him, but if Alfred only cleans the room, then he won’t make the first move. It’s a cobweb of fear, and Alfred plays into it, because he doesn’t want Arthur to be scared away. He doesn’t mind it.

He kisses him on the bed, and his hands slowly move up underneath his shirt. It feels strange, to touch another man’s skin, and to be allowed inside the thick sweater vest. The fabric scratches the back of his hands as he moves over the taut stomach, to the chest. He stops at the heart, and begins to peel the shirt and vest off at once, and Arthur lets him. Arthur rests his bare forearms on Alfred’s shoulders, and kisses him, even when Alfred adjusts himself and the mattress shifts to the weight.

“Can I touch you?” Alfred whispers, hands hesitating over Arthur’s waistband.

“Yeah.” Arthur’s hair is recklessly messy, standing on all ends, from taking off his shirt over his head. He smiles crookedly. “You’re heavy.”

“I’m not heavy.”

“Yeah. You eat too many McDonald burgers.” Arthur begins to unbutton Alfred’s shirt, one at a time. His fingers fumble with each button, pressing the knuckles against the bare skin, slowly being exposed against the heavy jacket.

“I don’t.” Alfred makes a noise when Arthur finally opens all the buttons to his shirt, and spreads his fingers across his stomach. He squeezes the pudge, and then laughs delightedly when Alfred squirms on top of him. The mattress squeaks, and Arthur touches him, petting him in the stomach. It’s a little uncomfortable and awkward because Alfred knows he’s only doing it to be sweet, but his hand brushes against the light line of hair leading into his pants, and his underwear is starting to feel tight.

“You ate three just yesterday,” Arthur says playfully, and he must be in a good mood, because he lifts his head to kiss Alfred on the jaw.

“I ate more than that.” Alfred brings his hand to Arthur’s knee, and slides it to his thigh. Arthur stops joking, awkwardly waiting for the hand to move, and when it doesn’t, he laughs nervously.

“It’s all right, love,” he says. Then he hesitates. “It’s all right to—call you that?”

“I like it when you call me that.” Alfred finally moves his hand up along his inner thigh, feeling the muscle underneath the cloth, until he finally touches his crotch. He doesn’t know what to do from there. He’s never been with another man before. But he begins to massage it, awkwardly, and Arthur laughs again.

“That hurts,” he explains when he catches his breath, and Alfred scowls and stops.

“Don’t laugh,” Alfred says, but he’s not angry. He rubs Arthur’s crotch gently with his knee, instead, moving his hand to position himself on the bed. It’s a faulty mattress, which creaks and bends every time he thrusts forward, but Arthur’s face is flushed, and he’s stopped laughing. He breathes through his nose, and begins to unfasten Alfred’s belt, and pushes down his pants.

“It’s all right?” Arthur asks, his voice a higher pitch. Alfred only nods, because he’s kicking off his pants and hearing the sound of his belt clack against the floor. He bends down and tentatively keeps his mouth on Arthur’s neck, and then draws a trail with his tongue down. When he gets to his nipples, he hesitates again, and then licks them.

“What are you doing?” Alfred flushes at Arthur’s amusement, and he looks up, chin scraping against his chest.

“Some people like it,” he mutters.

“I don’t,” Arthur says, but there’s something in his voice. Alfred doesn’t understand, so he puts his mouth over his nipple and begins to suck on it, tongue drawing a slow and lazy circle around the nub. When he finally gently licks it, biting down too light to even leave a mark, he feels Arthur’s hands tighten in his hair. Under his thigh, it feels like he’s gotten harder.

“You like it,” he whispers, looking up.

But Arthur is looking away. “Let’s stop.”

“Why?” Alfred pushes himself up, staring down at him. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just don’t want to go any further tonight.”

“Tell me why.” Alfred bends down, brushing his nose against his hair, because he knows Arthur likes it. As he expects, Arthur brings up his hand around his shoulders again, holding him.

“Because when you suck—there, I think I’m your mother,” Arthur whispers. Alfred has to laugh, despite himself, and allows himself to collapse on top of him. There’s a small grumble of pain before Alfred rolls next to him, stroking his hair.

“I could have made you forget that.”

“Maybe some other time.”

“There’s going to be another time?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

“Okay.” Alfred reaches over and holds his bony shoulders. “Can I sleep here tonight? I won’t do anything.”

“Won’t anybody suspect—”

“No.” They wouldn’t, and he’s sure of it. “I just want to sleep here.”

“All right.” Arthur gently nudges him away, sitting up and stretching his arms. Alfred watches his back muscles move fluidly against the sharp shoulder blades and pronounced ridges of the spine.

It takes another moment for Arthur to turn towards him, distracted look on his face. “But you should brush your teeth. I have a spare, somewhere, so…”

“Okay.” Alfred reaches for his pants on the ground.

“But if you want to keep your toothbrush over here,” Arthur tells his hands, “It’s all right.”

Alfred doesn’t say anything until he buckles his pants lazily, and then he crawls over, bed bending to his weight. He smiles with all the warmth boiling in his heart, and kisses him.

fifteen.

There’s a paper airplane contest at school. Alfred has a spick-and-span design, and it flies sweetly through the air like a true bird, and glides far longer than the rest. Added to his strength, the airplane floats above the others, like a butterfly. It’s a good, windless day, and the lawn is full of people sitting and half-watching the show. The waits are too long and Alfred spends most of his time bouncing on the balls of his feet, but he feels better once he sees his airplane land far beyond the little yellow flag.

When he’s jogging to pick up his airplane, he sees someone standing familiar in front of the stand, taking some pamphlets and flipping through them. Alfred approaches, and watches as Arthur turns, little pins and stupid papers in hand. When he bumps into him, he nearly recoils, and drops the pin onto his foot.

“Alfred,” Arthur says, and suddenly he’s turning three shades of red. “I didn’t—didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“So you were just happened to be on campus.” Alfred ducks his head. He’s pleased, but he doesn’t want to show it. It doesn’t even matter that Arthur didn’t want him to know. The fact that he came, on an off-hand mention, was enough. “Even though you don’t go out that much. And you don’t even like to be around students.”

“I’m a fan of science,” he says stiffly, and jams his souvenirs into his pocket. “I don’t even know when you’re going to throw your airplane. Probably missed it already. I should go.”

“Don’t go. There’s some other guys left, we can watch together.” Alfred hangs onto his sleeve and watches as Arthur hesitates again. Somebody jostles into him, and he steps forward, bumping his nose against Alfred’s chest. It’s crowded and smells like hot dogs, and the clouds hang heavily in the sky, but Arthur only nods and scowls.

“This is a horrible place,” he tells him. “I think I stepped in something. Several somethings.”

“It would be hard not to. It’s college.”

Arthur stops in his tracks, and Alfred stops, too.

“Is your father here?” he asks nervously. His fingers find the collar of his trench coat, and raises it higher, as if he could shield himself from recognition.

“No. He’s not.” Alfred smiles at him. “I don’t think anybody knows who you are.”

“I shouldn’t be here.” Arthur backpedals quickly. “I should go. I have things to do.”

“You look kinda young. Nobody knows who you are, anyway, so you should just stay. It’s fun. I’ll teach you how to make my super secret design, too.”

It’s not convincing him, and Alfred’s hands have begun to numb in the cold. So he reaches over and tucks his fingers into Arthur’s hair and kisses him, in the middle of the crowd. Arthur yanks away, and looks around frantically. But Alfred is confident, and nobody looks at them. Arthur trembles, but he steps closer to him.

“Promise you won’t do that here,” Arthur says in a low voice, “and I’ll stay.”

“Promise.” Alfred takes his hand. “Can I do this?”

They’re holding hands, and he sees Arthur try to analyze the risks and benefits. But he squeezes his hand, and Arthur relents, nods. Alfred drags him to the waiting station, where he folds up his math homework to show him to make the design. Arthur’s fingers are defter, so he can make the corners neatly. But Arthur’s paper planes tend to nosedive before the line, and Alfred holds his sides and bends forward and laughs with all his heart.

sixteen.

“Are you sure you’re not hiding anything from papa?”

“Yeah, Dad. Nothing’s going on.”

seventeen.

“Hey.” Alfred warps his arms around Arthur’s waist. Dinner has already been burnt, and the pots and pans scatter the sink. He feels along the fluffy pink apron, dipping his fingers underneath and pulling out his neatly tucked shirt. “I want to have sex.”

“I’m making dinner,” Arthur says mildly.

“We can eat out.”

“We’re not eating those stupid burgers again.”

“Let’s go out somewhere, then.” Alfred nibbles on his ear, burying his head underneath his chin to lick at the sharp collar bones.

“To where?” Arthur leans forward to toss some peppers into the pot. They crackle into the oil, twisting under the heat. “I’m the one who pays for all this.”

“I can pay.”

“On your poor college fund? Over my dead, rotting body.” Arthur lingers over the peppers, and then sprinkles more liberally over the burnt meat. They crackle and sizzle loudly, even as he lifts the pan and inspects the food gingerly.

“We can have sex, right?” Alfred blindly grabs for the peppers, and sprinkles more into the pan. He likes the sound, like small firecrackers popping in his ear. Arthur makes an annoyed sound, but he uses the spatula to prod the peppers evenly throughout the black meat.

“I could never refuse you. You know, when you were a child—you probably don’t remember—but you had this school play. You hated being a flower, and you did your whole part with a towel over your shoulders, all too loudly.”

“I don’t remember that part.”

“You were fairly young,” Arthur says, smug. He dumps the boiling hot food onto a ceramic plate, and when he tries to pick up a fallen pepper on the counter, he hisses and pulls back his hand. Alfred takes his hand and sucks on the fingertips, gently, and Arthur smacks him on the forehead for his efforts.

“Don’t do that, prat. But that’s not the point. Your father couldn’t make it to your play, after all, and I had to record it all on my cell phone. I thought you’d be upset, but you just ate three gallons of ice cream.” Arthur self-consciously licks his own finger, but when he catches sight of Alfred watching him, he sticks his thumb under the running water of the sink instead. Alfred doesn’t let go of his waist.

“Is that the point of the story? That I eat too much?”

“You do, but that isn’t the point. It’s that I couldn’t say no. How could I? Your father accidentally misses your play, and all you have is some strange man taking you out for ice cream. You fooled me into buying enough for your invisible friend, too.” Arthur shifts loose from his grasp, and takes the plate out to the table. He lays out the cramped kitchenware, shiny but mostly unused, and sits down on the couch. There’s enough space cleared out from the books for Alfred to sit on the other end, but he squeezes in next to him.

“You weren’t a strange man.”

“No?”

“You were Arthur.” It’s a simple answer, and it satisfies him immensely. Arthur doesn’t look nearly as convinced, but he doesn’t say anything as he splits the food between their plates. Alfred ignores the boundary, and leans over to pluck some off Arthur’s plate. He munches on the stolen food with relish.

“It’s disgusting,” he says.

“Shut up.”

But there’s a flicker of a phantom smile on Arthur’s face, sad and full of longing.

eighteen.

Alfred wakes up in the morning, and his eyesight is blurry. He reaches for his glasses, and realizes they’re already on his face. Confused, he presses the palms of his hand against his eyes, feeling the fluttering of his eyeball against his eyelid.

It’s still blurry when he finally swings his legs out of bed, and it’s not until a few minutes later that his eyes readjust.

He doesn’t think much about it.

nineteen.

“Nothing’s wrong, Dad. Yeah, promise. I’ve just been busy. Sorry. Yeah. I’ll call more. Hey, I have to go now. Yeah. See you later.”

twenty.

He has a midterm and an essay. His notes are spread over the table, the same pattern of an airplane shooting over the binder paper. He’s nearly started his essay. There were some false starts, but he finally finishes neatening the kitchen and stretches his fingers. When he plants his fingertips on the keyboard, his cell phone calls out the Superman theme song, and he spins around to flip it open to his ear.

“I need you,” Arthur whispers.

It’s two in the morning, so he takes his bike and pedals as fast as he can through the dark roads. He doesn’t stop for the stairs, clenching his jaw against the rattling of the steps. Down the road, into the light spring shower, stopping in front of the bookstore. He stuffs his bike into the bushes, and tries the door. It’s locked, and nobody answers when he knocks.

But he knows Arthur loses things everywhere, so he hunches down into the dirt, and scrapes until he finds a lost key. There’s more than one, but he easily opens the door into the dank bookstore with a single one. The bell jingles into the quiet, and he closes the door behind him. He takes the steps two at a time, climbing up the narrow way, and opens the room to the apartment.

The curtains aren’t drawn, but there are no lights in the room. Alfred fumbles for the light switch, but he nearly trips over the stacks of books. It smells like alcohol, and he nearly chokes against the stench. When he turns towards the dim window again, he sees someone sitting in the dark, and against the moonlight, catches sight of the empty bottles on the table. He uses the silver light to manage his way to the couch, where he can see Arthur better.

“Hey,” he whispers, sitting down gently. He’s sitting on a book, and the edges of another poke against his back. “What are you doing?”

Arthur shakes his head.

“Are you hurt?”

Another shake.

“Don’t cry.” It takes two tries, but Alfred manages to find his hand, and hold it within his own. It’s warm and bony, like it always has been, and comforting. With his other hand, he finds Arthur’s face, wet with tears. It’s damp and uncomfortable against his palm, but he doesn’t move, and eventually, he runs his thumb along the bottom of Arthur’s eye, the tears spilling over his fingers and into his sleeve.

“’m not crying.” Arthur leans forward suddenly, and collapses onto him. Alfred reaches behind him to draw the curtains closed. The room grows darker, but he thinks it’s some semblance of privacy. He suddenly feels protective, like he has to hide Arthur from the world. He wants to hide him away forever, tucking him and his bottles of tears into somewhere nobody can get him. His heart wrecks every time he hears Arthur give a half-stifled sob, but he can’t do anything. A useless hero.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he whispers.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Everything is a fat lie, and Alfred rests his chin on Arthur’s head. When his eyesight useless, his other senses have sharpened. He can smell the whiskey on Arthur’s breath, and the warmth radiating from his body. He can even feel his own emotions sharper, like a pointed knife scraping against his heart. He thinks that something has gone wrong, and he wants to fix it. But no magic words float to his mind, and he’s left with useless tidbits, but he has to try. He always has to try.

“I like you,” he tells the darkness.

There’s several heartbeats that echo into the quiet. He knows Arthur had heard him, but he doesn’t respond for a while. Finally, he hears Arthur whisper, in a half-wrecked voice, “I think I like you too.”

And maybe that was the reason for his tears.

twenty-one.

Arthur doesn’t talk about that night. Alfred doesn’t, either, but not because he’s sensitive to Arthur’s prickly mood. But he knows that tomorrow, they were going to wait for fairies by the pale moonlight. He mentions it, sipping the bad coffee, and Arthur’s eyes flicker over for a long moment. They can’t say what they really mean, but Alfred thinks he knows. A little while later, Arthur takes down the unicorn painting in the back room.

twenty-two.

It’s the full moon, and Alfred brought McDonalds takeout and condoms. He bought them at the pharmacy, and it’s irrational, but he buys a pack of useless things to hide them. Now he has paper towels and some aspirin, and a few cotton balls lying around the dorm where he accidentally ripped the bag with his super strength, and a pack of toothpicks that he’s used to build a small log cabin on his desk.

Arthur has trouble with the tent, and lands on his back more than he’d like. By the time night falls, he’s rubbing his back and sitting gingerly on the sleeping bag. They’re hidden partly by the trees, and it’s quiet and away from civilization. As promised, the fairy ring of white mushrooms stands inside the open field. It’s a wide circle, and all the mushrooms have white caps with brown edges. When the night falls, Arthur secures his binoculars around his neck, and lies down on his stomach for a better view.

“They’ll come,” he whispers, and props up his binoculars. He resembles a ridiculous alien with the oversized lenses, but Alfred doesn’t tell him that. He only wonders if he read the atmosphere wrong. If tonight, they were really just waiting for unicorns to come.

Arthur rolls over slightly, shirt riding up, and looks at him solemnly. It takes a few tries, but he whispers something out. Alfred bends his head closer to hear him.

“What do you want?” he repeats, in barely a whisper. The night air is still, and nothing moves. Alfred wonders if he’s imagining it. Imagining all of it. Because it’s impossible for Arthur to be lying in front of him, biting his lower lip, eyes lidded sleepily, and clutching at the ridiculous pair of binoculars.

“Are you sure?” Alfred doesn’t know why he’s asking. “We can just—look for fairies. If you’re not sure.”

“I don’t know.” It takes Arthur another try, but he manages to sit up, and grasp around for the basket. He moves the opening of the tent enough so the moonlight illuminates the green glass bottle, and he arranges his legs neatly underneath him. Alfred can’t see the label, but he sees there are two glasses, and Arthur looks up nervously at him.

“You’re old enough for this, aren’t you?” he whispers.

“Yeah.” Alfred wants to chide him for the stupid question, but he doesn’t because Arthur is pouring now. It’s not a lot, and the liquid looks gold when he holds it to the light. He peers through it like a filter for the world, and smiles a little to see the moon like an amber orb hovering in a dusky sky.

He drinks it, and it burns down his throat. His mouth feels strange and he feels light-headed, even though he knows that getting drunk doesn’t happen that fast. It’s the night, he thinks.

Arthur breaks into his thoughts. “Is it enough?”

“I’ll have some more.”

Arthur clutches the bottle close to himself, another fragile shield. He pours the drink clumsily, and laughs too loudly when he spills some onto the grass. Alfred settles into the side of the tent, resting lightly so the fabric bends slightly. It’s warm, and his head feels comfortable. Arthur drinks too much too quickly, and Alfred watches him carefully. He doesn’t want Arthur drunk tonight, even if Arthur did.

“When you were a child,” Arthur tells the rim of his glass, “you—were so small.”

“I’m not a kid.” Alfred finishes his glass, and puts it aside carefully. He gently takes away Arthur’s cup, too, and pushes it to the side, and then he takes off his glasses. The world looks blurrier without them, so he draws closer to Arthur, studying his features carefully. It feels like a movie script, and he has to memorize and record, so he can play back tomorrow. It’s even warmer, now, and his stomach stirs nervously.

“I know,” Arthur says quickly, and he must know what’s going to happen, because he rubs his wrists nervously. “But I’m just saying—when you were—”