![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bersekerTitle: Everyday’s Most Quiet Need
Genre: Fluff. And sappiness. Lots and lots of sappiness.
Pairing(s): US/UK
Rating/Warnings: None, I guess. Well, they are in bed.
Summary: Alfred is being romantic, and Arthur needs a hug. Also, lots of poems. This was written for the prompt “Writing on each other in bed”
Alfred had left the window open. This way he could see the moon here from his bed, and what a gorgeous moon it was! Full and bright and, and silvery and all, its light entering the bedroom to design fantastic figures on the wall every time the curtains moved, something that would usually be upsetting because it kinda looked like a ghost, or something, but now it was pure magic, turning an otherwise ordinary bedroom into a mystic kingdom of light.
Well, not ordinary, not really. His bedroom was awesome. He had flags on the wall and posters and a wicked cool sound system and his bed was big enough to host the Olympics, even if he usually slept alone. He even had a fluffy rabbit. So his bedroom was pretty cool.
But that wasn’t the point. The point was, the window was open and the moonlight was like a palpable thing, spreading around like, like water or something, hiding in every secret corner of his room and, more important, the skin of a very tired and half asleep Arthur Kirkland, who was at this very moment lying down by his side.
You know what, forget the moon. Alfred would have found beauty even in the worst of the storms, the kind that rattled windows and destroyed everything, he would’ve still been happy, because Arthur was finally, finally here. He wanted to laugh. But Arthur was insanely neurotic and was bound to think Alfred was thinking something mean. And then he'd get angry and he would leave and, honestly. They had just finished- erm, sleeping together. Making love. That. So it wasn’t the time to laugh.
He allowed himself a contented sigh. It wasn’t the time to cry either, but Alfred could feel the tears somewhere very close. From the moment Arthur entered his room, all stiff back and gritted teeth, to the small crack on his armor to the hands framing Alfred’s face and the lips pressing against his mouth, Alfred had felt a million times this crazy urge to laugh and cry and maybe do both at the same time, and also maybe kinda sorta run all the way to the sun and back. Arthur was here.
Arthur was here.
He sighed again.
“What’s wrong?” Arthur said, “Are you regretting this already?”
“Yes,” Alfred said, bending to kiss his temple (and now he could, he was allowed, after so many years of overthinking every gesture and debating whether he should shake his hand or touch his shoulder, now he could just go and kiss him and he was going to burst in tears if he kept thinking like that. Or in laughter. Which would be a mistake.) “That was exactly what I was thinking. I was regretting waiting for so long.”
Arthur muttered something, probably an insult, and Alfred’s smile got a little brighter. Arthur was laying on his belly, face half hidden in the pillow. This gave Alfred a perfect opportunity to look at all the scars crisscrossing his back.
Lots and lots of scars. Alfred knew they meant Arthur was a fighter, that he was strong and this was something to be proud of –some of them, anyway - but still, the sheer amount of it gave him a bad taste on the mouth. Oh well, he decided, he wasn’t going to be upset about this now. Arthur would never have another scar again, he vowed, touching one of the thin white lines with the tip of his finger.
Arthur shuddered:
“What are you doing?”
Alfred raised his hand:
“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”
“No. You surprised me, that’s all. What are you doing?”
Alfred touched the white line again:
“A promise to myself,” he said, “So don’t interrupt me.”
That’s right, he thought. Arthur would never get hurt again, ever, and Alfred was a hero who always kept his promises, so there. Everything was ok now.
“A promise to yourself,” Arthur echoed. His voice made clear what he thought of this. Alfred ignored him in favor of reaching over his lover (lover, not friend or father or older brother or even ally, his lover, and he almost laughed again) to get a pen on the nightstand.
He bit the tip of the pen, a habit Arthur had tried – and failed – to get out of him, and then started to write on his back:
“Oi! What do you think you’re-“
“Don’t worry, it will wash off,” Alfred said. It was hard to make the paint stay, because his skin was still a little sweaty. He had to make every letter at least twice.
“That's no excuse!” he tried to get up, but Alfred pushed him down. “Alfred!”
“Please, you can write on me too! Please?”
Arthur looked up at him, and Alfred gave him his best pleading look. Arthur grumbled, but he settled on his pillow again:
“If you write anything dirty, I’ll be very annoyed.”
“I know,” Alfred beamed, “Don’t worry, is nothing bad.”
He bit the pen again. He had written ‘Awesome America Will Protect You’, but now that he had more space, he was a little out of ideas. And he had to be careful, because Arthur would be reading it later. Then he smiled. He pressed the pen against one of Arthur’s buttocks.
“Not there! Write on my back, you- you pervert!”
“Just two words, I swear! And then you can write whatever you want in any place you want.”
Arthur paused:
“Whatever I want?”
“Any place you want.”
Arthur gave in. So Alfred scribbled as fast as he could, before Arthur could change his mind, “America’s Property”.
“Ha,” he said, unable to hold back “I just claimed your vital regions!”
“Yes, I noticed,” Arthur muttered, “Now, give me this pen.”
“But I want to write more!”
“Later. Now is my turn.”
He sat down. Alfred gave him the pen, pouting a little.
“Let me see,” Arthur said, “You’ll have to lay on your back.”
Alfred did. Arthur thought for a few moments. He was biting his lower lip and the weak light from the moon played tricks on his hair and eyes, making the golden almost white, the green a little more silvery. Alfred kinda wanted to kiss him again.
Apparently reaching a decision, he started to write on Alfred’s chest.
And Alfred started to squirm.
“Be still, will you? I can’t concentrate this way.”
“I’m ticklish! And you’re writing more than I did.”
Arthur didn’t bother to answer. Alfred made a valiant effort to face the torture he was being subjected too, and finally, after what seemed years, Arthur finished his impossible long message. Tattoo. Whatever. Alfred was relieved:
“God, what did you write? This took ages!”
“No, it didn’t,” he didn’t look too pleased. “Can’t you read it?”
“It’s upside down, and anyway, I like to hear you.”
“You could have fooled me,” Arthur mumbled, blushing a little “It’s part of a poem. The More Loving One, from Auden.”
“Cool. What does it says?”
“Nothing important. I should’ve picked something else.”
Alfred didn’t like his tone. He frowned:
“Why? Is it something offensive?”
Because, really. Arthur could wait at least a few more hours before insulting him, right?
“No. Not at all. Is just- not fitting.”
“Aw, come on! Just tell me already!”
“I don’t want to!”
Honestly! This man could be really, really aggravating when he wanted to. And now he was staring straight ahead, and he looked like- like he hadn’t quite decided what he wanted to look like, because his eyes were all guarded again. Alfred was worried. What if he had written something dirty? Although that would be- well, very fitting, all things considered, but still, why would Arthur be ashamed? Or angry or whatever it was that he was being now. Sighing loudly, he opened his closet and searched until he found a small hand-mirror Francis had given him a few years ago for reasons never quite explained.
It took him some acrobatic effort and he had to turn on the lights, ruining the whole poetic moonlight thing that was going on before, but Alfred finally deciphered the sentences
“How should we like it were stars to burn
with a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
let the more loving one be me”.
Uh.
Well.
No wonder Arthur didn’t want to read it out loud. He had just opened a very secret part of his soul, something raw and fragile and very painful, probably, and that would obviously require all of Alfred’s respect and kindness and consideration.
So he threw the mirror at him and grabbed Arthur by his shoulders:
“What the hell is that?” he screamed “Why did you write something so awful?”
“It’s a poem! A very beautiful and poignant poem about selfless love and-”
“It’s not! It’s awful and I hated it! Write something else!”
“Stop screaming at me! It's not my fault you don’t understand poetry.”
“I want another!”
“All right. Just- stop yelling.” He took the pen again, crossed “What do you want me to write, then?”
“I dunno. Something nice.”
Arthur nodded.
He wrote on his chest again, and this time Alfred had to bite his tongue so he wouldn’t move. The soft pressure of the pen, the way Arthur’s hand brushed over his skin, it was sheer agony and it was totally unfair, this, there was nothing less heroic than being ticklish. What a stupid weakness for a hero to have.
“There,” Arthur said. This time he read it. “Never seek to tell thy Love/ Love that never told can be/ For the gentle wind doth move/ Silently, invisibly.”
Alfred considered it carefully, a little suspicious:
“I don’t know. What the rest of it says?”
“It doesn’t matter. That’s the part I picked.”
Alfred whimpered.
“Arthur...”
“Well, what did you write? You never told me.”
“And I don’t plan to. Comparing to your depressing stuff, I’ll just look like an idiot.”
“Oh. Good thing you’re used to it, then.”
His smile was almost normal, almost, but there was- something. A shadow. Alfred pouted again:
“I was being serious, you know. And you’re just making fun of me, choosing these things.”
“No, I’m not. These things happen to be very good poetry, something that I find quite enjoyable.”
“Well, then this makes it worse, because you enjoy depressing poetry and you associate it with me. What’s the problem, do you think I’m gonna leave you?”
Arthur’s smile vanished and his breath almost catched, and he shook his head:
“God, Alfred. You have a way of- of rushing in where angels fear to thread, which, by the way, is another poem that I happen to like and no, I don’t know when- if you’re going to leave me. I wasn’t even thinking about it. It’s just some verses.”
“You’re lying,” Alfred said “You think I will, and you’re lying. What’s wrong, Arthur? I said I wasn't going to, ever, so why won’t you believe me?”
“I never say I don’t believe you,” he said, a little too haughty, a little too stiff to be convincing “I do. I just think that- well. These… promises were made before, weren't they? And they were broken. And- this is silly. We shouldn't even be talking about this. I'm perfectly fine and you don't need to worry.”
“Arthur... come on, be fair! I had to- to do what I did, back then, because you were suffocating me! You just have to… I don’t know, never go crazy again, and I won’t have any reason to leave you, and I really, really-”
Love you, he thought, but Arthur just gave him a hollow smile:
“And that’s precisely the problem, isn’t it? I can’t- I’m- even when I don’t want to, sometimes I end up being-“he stopped, rubbing his face “I can’t offer any guaranties that I won’t go crazy. Or that you won’t think I’m being crazy, and so I have to be ready for when- just in case. In case this happens.”
He was getting up:
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go take my shower.”
Alfred opened his mouth. All the joy and enchantment from the beginning of the night had pretty much evaporated, but he- he wouldn’t let this happen! Arthur was in pain, was suffering over something he had imagined, and Alfred had just promised to protect him and- and anyway who the hell did he think he was, running away like this?
“No I don’t! You’re totally not excused! Come back here!”
Arthur stopped, surprised, and Alfred had to summon up all his awesomeness and genius to come up with something to say:
“You- you wrote poems and classical stuff and I didn’t, and that’s not fair.”
“So?” Arthur frowned “It will wash off, you said.”
“Still, it’s the- the principle of the matter that counts. Come back.”
Arthur bit his lip. Alfred watched his inner fight, the awfully important decision he had to make, heart aching a little.
But then Arthur shrugged, taking one deep breath before saying:
“Where do you want to write now?”
“Your leg,” Alfred said, beaming. Arthur sat on the bed, laying back against the pillows. His face was burning red, and Alfred, sitting between his legs, bended over to kiss his mouth:
“I’ll convince you,” he said, confident, “Just stay around, will you? And I’ll convince you.”
Arthur didn’t answer. He bit his lip again, and for a second there he looked so lost that Alfred almost repeated his promise, but then he blinked and the old Arthur was back, frowning at him in disapproval:
“Don’t be daft,” he said “I don’t need you to convince me of anything.”
“Right,” Alfred smiled “So, you can start thinking about your next poem, and I want a happy one this time.”
“You just don’t understand poetry.”
Alfred pulled Arthur’s leg over his lap and started writing on his thigh, hiding a smile when Arthur squirmed. So, then. Love poems. There was only one choice he could make, really, and he was reading aloud when as he wrote it:
“I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints…”
“That’s practically a cliché,” Arthur said, but he was wrong, the cliché part was only the two first verses, and Alfred could feel his smile behind the grumpiness, so he kept going “I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life!” he pressed a little on the exclamation point “and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. See, that’s a good one. Of course, since you're such a thickhead, I should add a footnote saying 'I love you, git' or something, and- ”
“Give me the pen.”
Alfred did, laying down on his back again. This time, Arthur decided to write on his stomach, and when he finally finished Alfred was laughing.
“Well, I see someone here is really sensible,” Arthur said, pressing a kiss on his belly. Alfred tried to hold him, giggling, and when he finally captured Arthur’s face on his hand he was a little breathless:
“That’s torture!”
Arthur just smiled. He kissed Alfred’s neck, then his lips:
“If you say so.”
And, apparently, torturing Alfred had improved his mood. There was still that little something in his eyes, a little lost and a little unsure, and Alfred knew the problem had been most avoided than solved, but- well. Avoided was good enough for now. He’d have time to solve this later, because Arthur wasn’t going to run away. He could reassure him as much as he needed, and Alfred had confidence enough for both of them.
“What did you write this time?”
“Advice for marriages,” Arthur said “To keep your marriage brimming, with love in the wedding cup, whenever you're wrong, admit it; whenever you're right, shut up.”
Alfred laughed:
“Come on, man, what’s your problem? Can’t you be romantic for once?”
“How about this one? Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, knowing thy heart torments me with disdain…
“Arthur, I’ll- I’ll punch you, I swear I will.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll just have to try again, then.”
“Where, now?”
“On your back, so you can’t read it.”
“Arthur!”
“I mean it. You can read it why I’m in the shower, because this one’s going to be embarrassing.”
“Sounds promising,” Alfred said, turning over. He tried to guess what Arthur was writing, but his handwriting was too weird for that. When Arthur was finally done he pressed a kiss between Alfred’s shoulders, at the base of his neck:
“That’s Shakespeare, by the way. Not that you’ll understand it, you with your vocabulary of twenty seven words, but it’s worth a try, right? Now excuse me.”
He was in the bathroom, the door safely locked, when Alfred finally managed to make out what was written. He almost twisted his neck doing it, but a hero stopped at nothing!
And what was written was:
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
PS: That means I love you too
Oh.
Ok, then.
He had- he had said it, and-
Alfred could feel his breath catching. He bit his lip, feeling dizzy, feeling again the crazy wish to laugh and cry, even if Arthur was screaming at him from the bathroom (probably had found the claim of his vital parts). Alfred could barely hear what he was saying.
He lay down on the space Arthur had vacated at the bed. Now he would never shower again and Arthur would probably complain about it sooner or later, but it was a small price to pay to keep the words on his skin. Arthur would surely understand that.
He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of his lover (lover!) still on the sheets.
~*~
Poems:
Sonnets CXVI, CXXXII, from Shakespeare, Advice to Husbands by Ogden Nash, Love’s Secret by William Blake, The More Loving One by Auden and, of course, How Do I Love Thee, by E. B. Browning. The title comes from this one.
I still say Shakespeare’ CXX fits them, but it was too angsty. Still, it works.
Genre: Fluff. And sappiness. Lots and lots of sappiness.
Pairing(s): US/UK
Rating/Warnings: None, I guess. Well, they are in bed.
Summary: Alfred is being romantic, and Arthur needs a hug. Also, lots of poems. This was written for the prompt “Writing on each other in bed”
Alfred had left the window open. This way he could see the moon here from his bed, and what a gorgeous moon it was! Full and bright and, and silvery and all, its light entering the bedroom to design fantastic figures on the wall every time the curtains moved, something that would usually be upsetting because it kinda looked like a ghost, or something, but now it was pure magic, turning an otherwise ordinary bedroom into a mystic kingdom of light.
Well, not ordinary, not really. His bedroom was awesome. He had flags on the wall and posters and a wicked cool sound system and his bed was big enough to host the Olympics, even if he usually slept alone. He even had a fluffy rabbit. So his bedroom was pretty cool.
But that wasn’t the point. The point was, the window was open and the moonlight was like a palpable thing, spreading around like, like water or something, hiding in every secret corner of his room and, more important, the skin of a very tired and half asleep Arthur Kirkland, who was at this very moment lying down by his side.
You know what, forget the moon. Alfred would have found beauty even in the worst of the storms, the kind that rattled windows and destroyed everything, he would’ve still been happy, because Arthur was finally, finally here. He wanted to laugh. But Arthur was insanely neurotic and was bound to think Alfred was thinking something mean. And then he'd get angry and he would leave and, honestly. They had just finished- erm, sleeping together. Making love. That. So it wasn’t the time to laugh.
He allowed himself a contented sigh. It wasn’t the time to cry either, but Alfred could feel the tears somewhere very close. From the moment Arthur entered his room, all stiff back and gritted teeth, to the small crack on his armor to the hands framing Alfred’s face and the lips pressing against his mouth, Alfred had felt a million times this crazy urge to laugh and cry and maybe do both at the same time, and also maybe kinda sorta run all the way to the sun and back. Arthur was here.
Arthur was here.
He sighed again.
“What’s wrong?” Arthur said, “Are you regretting this already?”
“Yes,” Alfred said, bending to kiss his temple (and now he could, he was allowed, after so many years of overthinking every gesture and debating whether he should shake his hand or touch his shoulder, now he could just go and kiss him and he was going to burst in tears if he kept thinking like that. Or in laughter. Which would be a mistake.) “That was exactly what I was thinking. I was regretting waiting for so long.”
Arthur muttered something, probably an insult, and Alfred’s smile got a little brighter. Arthur was laying on his belly, face half hidden in the pillow. This gave Alfred a perfect opportunity to look at all the scars crisscrossing his back.
Lots and lots of scars. Alfred knew they meant Arthur was a fighter, that he was strong and this was something to be proud of –some of them, anyway - but still, the sheer amount of it gave him a bad taste on the mouth. Oh well, he decided, he wasn’t going to be upset about this now. Arthur would never have another scar again, he vowed, touching one of the thin white lines with the tip of his finger.
Arthur shuddered:
“What are you doing?”
Alfred raised his hand:
“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”
“No. You surprised me, that’s all. What are you doing?”
Alfred touched the white line again:
“A promise to myself,” he said, “So don’t interrupt me.”
That’s right, he thought. Arthur would never get hurt again, ever, and Alfred was a hero who always kept his promises, so there. Everything was ok now.
“A promise to yourself,” Arthur echoed. His voice made clear what he thought of this. Alfred ignored him in favor of reaching over his lover (lover, not friend or father or older brother or even ally, his lover, and he almost laughed again) to get a pen on the nightstand.
He bit the tip of the pen, a habit Arthur had tried – and failed – to get out of him, and then started to write on his back:
“Oi! What do you think you’re-“
“Don’t worry, it will wash off,” Alfred said. It was hard to make the paint stay, because his skin was still a little sweaty. He had to make every letter at least twice.
“That's no excuse!” he tried to get up, but Alfred pushed him down. “Alfred!”
“Please, you can write on me too! Please?”
Arthur looked up at him, and Alfred gave him his best pleading look. Arthur grumbled, but he settled on his pillow again:
“If you write anything dirty, I’ll be very annoyed.”
“I know,” Alfred beamed, “Don’t worry, is nothing bad.”
He bit the pen again. He had written ‘Awesome America Will Protect You’, but now that he had more space, he was a little out of ideas. And he had to be careful, because Arthur would be reading it later. Then he smiled. He pressed the pen against one of Arthur’s buttocks.
“Not there! Write on my back, you- you pervert!”
“Just two words, I swear! And then you can write whatever you want in any place you want.”
Arthur paused:
“Whatever I want?”
“Any place you want.”
Arthur gave in. So Alfred scribbled as fast as he could, before Arthur could change his mind, “America’s Property”.
“Ha,” he said, unable to hold back “I just claimed your vital regions!”
“Yes, I noticed,” Arthur muttered, “Now, give me this pen.”
“But I want to write more!”
“Later. Now is my turn.”
He sat down. Alfred gave him the pen, pouting a little.
“Let me see,” Arthur said, “You’ll have to lay on your back.”
Alfred did. Arthur thought for a few moments. He was biting his lower lip and the weak light from the moon played tricks on his hair and eyes, making the golden almost white, the green a little more silvery. Alfred kinda wanted to kiss him again.
Apparently reaching a decision, he started to write on Alfred’s chest.
And Alfred started to squirm.
“Be still, will you? I can’t concentrate this way.”
“I’m ticklish! And you’re writing more than I did.”
Arthur didn’t bother to answer. Alfred made a valiant effort to face the torture he was being subjected too, and finally, after what seemed years, Arthur finished his impossible long message. Tattoo. Whatever. Alfred was relieved:
“God, what did you write? This took ages!”
“No, it didn’t,” he didn’t look too pleased. “Can’t you read it?”
“It’s upside down, and anyway, I like to hear you.”
“You could have fooled me,” Arthur mumbled, blushing a little “It’s part of a poem. The More Loving One, from Auden.”
“Cool. What does it says?”
“Nothing important. I should’ve picked something else.”
Alfred didn’t like his tone. He frowned:
“Why? Is it something offensive?”
Because, really. Arthur could wait at least a few more hours before insulting him, right?
“No. Not at all. Is just- not fitting.”
“Aw, come on! Just tell me already!”
“I don’t want to!”
Honestly! This man could be really, really aggravating when he wanted to. And now he was staring straight ahead, and he looked like- like he hadn’t quite decided what he wanted to look like, because his eyes were all guarded again. Alfred was worried. What if he had written something dirty? Although that would be- well, very fitting, all things considered, but still, why would Arthur be ashamed? Or angry or whatever it was that he was being now. Sighing loudly, he opened his closet and searched until he found a small hand-mirror Francis had given him a few years ago for reasons never quite explained.
It took him some acrobatic effort and he had to turn on the lights, ruining the whole poetic moonlight thing that was going on before, but Alfred finally deciphered the sentences
“How should we like it were stars to burn
with a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
let the more loving one be me”.
Uh.
Well.
No wonder Arthur didn’t want to read it out loud. He had just opened a very secret part of his soul, something raw and fragile and very painful, probably, and that would obviously require all of Alfred’s respect and kindness and consideration.
So he threw the mirror at him and grabbed Arthur by his shoulders:
“What the hell is that?” he screamed “Why did you write something so awful?”
“It’s a poem! A very beautiful and poignant poem about selfless love and-”
“It’s not! It’s awful and I hated it! Write something else!”
“Stop screaming at me! It's not my fault you don’t understand poetry.”
“I want another!”
“All right. Just- stop yelling.” He took the pen again, crossed “What do you want me to write, then?”
“I dunno. Something nice.”
Arthur nodded.
He wrote on his chest again, and this time Alfred had to bite his tongue so he wouldn’t move. The soft pressure of the pen, the way Arthur’s hand brushed over his skin, it was sheer agony and it was totally unfair, this, there was nothing less heroic than being ticklish. What a stupid weakness for a hero to have.
“There,” Arthur said. This time he read it. “Never seek to tell thy Love/ Love that never told can be/ For the gentle wind doth move/ Silently, invisibly.”
Alfred considered it carefully, a little suspicious:
“I don’t know. What the rest of it says?”
“It doesn’t matter. That’s the part I picked.”
Alfred whimpered.
“Arthur...”
“Well, what did you write? You never told me.”
“And I don’t plan to. Comparing to your depressing stuff, I’ll just look like an idiot.”
“Oh. Good thing you’re used to it, then.”
His smile was almost normal, almost, but there was- something. A shadow. Alfred pouted again:
“I was being serious, you know. And you’re just making fun of me, choosing these things.”
“No, I’m not. These things happen to be very good poetry, something that I find quite enjoyable.”
“Well, then this makes it worse, because you enjoy depressing poetry and you associate it with me. What’s the problem, do you think I’m gonna leave you?”
Arthur’s smile vanished and his breath almost catched, and he shook his head:
“God, Alfred. You have a way of- of rushing in where angels fear to thread, which, by the way, is another poem that I happen to like and no, I don’t know when- if you’re going to leave me. I wasn’t even thinking about it. It’s just some verses.”
“You’re lying,” Alfred said “You think I will, and you’re lying. What’s wrong, Arthur? I said I wasn't going to, ever, so why won’t you believe me?”
“I never say I don’t believe you,” he said, a little too haughty, a little too stiff to be convincing “I do. I just think that- well. These… promises were made before, weren't they? And they were broken. And- this is silly. We shouldn't even be talking about this. I'm perfectly fine and you don't need to worry.”
“Arthur... come on, be fair! I had to- to do what I did, back then, because you were suffocating me! You just have to… I don’t know, never go crazy again, and I won’t have any reason to leave you, and I really, really-”
Love you, he thought, but Arthur just gave him a hollow smile:
“And that’s precisely the problem, isn’t it? I can’t- I’m- even when I don’t want to, sometimes I end up being-“he stopped, rubbing his face “I can’t offer any guaranties that I won’t go crazy. Or that you won’t think I’m being crazy, and so I have to be ready for when- just in case. In case this happens.”
He was getting up:
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go take my shower.”
Alfred opened his mouth. All the joy and enchantment from the beginning of the night had pretty much evaporated, but he- he wouldn’t let this happen! Arthur was in pain, was suffering over something he had imagined, and Alfred had just promised to protect him and- and anyway who the hell did he think he was, running away like this?
“No I don’t! You’re totally not excused! Come back here!”
Arthur stopped, surprised, and Alfred had to summon up all his awesomeness and genius to come up with something to say:
“You- you wrote poems and classical stuff and I didn’t, and that’s not fair.”
“So?” Arthur frowned “It will wash off, you said.”
“Still, it’s the- the principle of the matter that counts. Come back.”
Arthur bit his lip. Alfred watched his inner fight, the awfully important decision he had to make, heart aching a little.
But then Arthur shrugged, taking one deep breath before saying:
“Where do you want to write now?”
“Your leg,” Alfred said, beaming. Arthur sat on the bed, laying back against the pillows. His face was burning red, and Alfred, sitting between his legs, bended over to kiss his mouth:
“I’ll convince you,” he said, confident, “Just stay around, will you? And I’ll convince you.”
Arthur didn’t answer. He bit his lip again, and for a second there he looked so lost that Alfred almost repeated his promise, but then he blinked and the old Arthur was back, frowning at him in disapproval:
“Don’t be daft,” he said “I don’t need you to convince me of anything.”
“Right,” Alfred smiled “So, you can start thinking about your next poem, and I want a happy one this time.”
“You just don’t understand poetry.”
Alfred pulled Arthur’s leg over his lap and started writing on his thigh, hiding a smile when Arthur squirmed. So, then. Love poems. There was only one choice he could make, really, and he was reading aloud when as he wrote it:
“I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints…”
“That’s practically a cliché,” Arthur said, but he was wrong, the cliché part was only the two first verses, and Alfred could feel his smile behind the grumpiness, so he kept going “I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life!” he pressed a little on the exclamation point “and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. See, that’s a good one. Of course, since you're such a thickhead, I should add a footnote saying 'I love you, git' or something, and- ”
“Give me the pen.”
Alfred did, laying down on his back again. This time, Arthur decided to write on his stomach, and when he finally finished Alfred was laughing.
“Well, I see someone here is really sensible,” Arthur said, pressing a kiss on his belly. Alfred tried to hold him, giggling, and when he finally captured Arthur’s face on his hand he was a little breathless:
“That’s torture!”
Arthur just smiled. He kissed Alfred’s neck, then his lips:
“If you say so.”
And, apparently, torturing Alfred had improved his mood. There was still that little something in his eyes, a little lost and a little unsure, and Alfred knew the problem had been most avoided than solved, but- well. Avoided was good enough for now. He’d have time to solve this later, because Arthur wasn’t going to run away. He could reassure him as much as he needed, and Alfred had confidence enough for both of them.
“What did you write this time?”
“Advice for marriages,” Arthur said “To keep your marriage brimming, with love in the wedding cup, whenever you're wrong, admit it; whenever you're right, shut up.”
Alfred laughed:
“Come on, man, what’s your problem? Can’t you be romantic for once?”
“How about this one? Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, knowing thy heart torments me with disdain…
“Arthur, I’ll- I’ll punch you, I swear I will.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll just have to try again, then.”
“Where, now?”
“On your back, so you can’t read it.”
“Arthur!”
“I mean it. You can read it why I’m in the shower, because this one’s going to be embarrassing.”
“Sounds promising,” Alfred said, turning over. He tried to guess what Arthur was writing, but his handwriting was too weird for that. When Arthur was finally done he pressed a kiss between Alfred’s shoulders, at the base of his neck:
“That’s Shakespeare, by the way. Not that you’ll understand it, you with your vocabulary of twenty seven words, but it’s worth a try, right? Now excuse me.”
He was in the bathroom, the door safely locked, when Alfred finally managed to make out what was written. He almost twisted his neck doing it, but a hero stopped at nothing!
And what was written was:
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
PS: That means I love you too
Oh.
Ok, then.
He had- he had said it, and-
Alfred could feel his breath catching. He bit his lip, feeling dizzy, feeling again the crazy wish to laugh and cry, even if Arthur was screaming at him from the bathroom (probably had found the claim of his vital parts). Alfred could barely hear what he was saying.
He lay down on the space Arthur had vacated at the bed. Now he would never shower again and Arthur would probably complain about it sooner or later, but it was a small price to pay to keep the words on his skin. Arthur would surely understand that.
He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of his lover (lover!) still on the sheets.
~*~
Poems:
Sonnets CXVI, CXXXII, from Shakespeare, Advice to Husbands by Ogden Nash, Love’s Secret by William Blake, The More Loving One by Auden and, of course, How Do I Love Thee, by E. B. Browning. The title comes from this one.
