Author anon apologizes for lack of sex. The fanfic came to life and went in an entirely different direction.
Hypochondria
Alfred was hiding. Nothing was going his way, in fact, his life felt like it was going down the tubes and he couldn't take it anymore. On top of it all, he had a perpetual cold that only seemed to worsen with the days that dragged on. So he was hiding. From the world. Under his comforter, emblazoned with Superman logos. So warm and safe.
Even though he left all the lights off in the house, people still stopped by to check in on him; why, Kiku had been by earlier that day, and with one look at Alfred, he nodded and said, "It's alright, I understand." The smile on his face was very wistful and pitying but also kind of disgusted. Alfred felt a grumble of discomfort inside at the very thought. Oh. Wait. That wasn't from Kiku-- that was hunger. The thought of a mouth-watering cheeseburger and french fries entered his mind. He could even hear a frothy coca-cola, and feel the bubbles tingle his lips. So hungry. SO HUNGRY.
He dragged himself into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator... empty, save for a jar of dill pickles and a half-empty bottle of ketchup. And a three-month old box of scones Arthur had baked him (for some reason...) and he had chosen, for his own safety, not to eat. Still, that was all there was, and it wasn't like he'd never eaten those scones before... He grabbed one, gave it a squeeze-- it felt like a lumpy, crusty baseball. He liked baseball, but eating them, not so much. All the same, he took a bite, chewed and swallowed, and immediately regretted it. While he was certain Arthur had told him many times that scones never went bad, these scones had passed their due date. Mold was eating away the insides. Terror and disgust filled his gut in place of his initial hunger (which, for the most part, actually remained.) What would happen? He wondered briefly if he would die.
In his unsuccessfulness of meal-making, he returned to bed with a can of coke and huddled under his comforters yet again. His stomach growled in protest against the concept that all that was in his stomach right now was something quite disgusting. He took a sip of soda to calm his humors and thought about those scones-- and Arthur. Arthur was the only one of the people who he considered a friend who hadn't stopped by to make sure he was alright. That alone made him feel more empty inside than if Arthur had come and made an effort to make him feel bad (which is what he did on a regular basis). He also wanted Arthur around for comic relief. Those eyebrows went on for days, after all, and when they furrowed up they looked absolutely adorable. The thought alone made Alfred blush a little...
A pang of pain in his stomach brought him back to the trouble at hand. And a plan-- he always had one, after all. The way to get Arthur to come was to blame him for his problems, to which Arthur's response would probably be to stomp over and attempt to prove him wrong in any number of amusing ways. As quickly as he could, doubled over in stomach-agony, he made his way to the phone, where he called his old buddy. But by the time he got through, he was in debilitating pain, and all he could say was, "Arthur.... I'm dying.... you bastard..."
Arthur sounded genuinely concerned on the other end of the line, asking him all sorts of questions about his condition, but Alfred could only groan and barely understand him. Arthur then hung up the phone. Alfred felt a line of drool dribble out of his mouth, sour tasting like stomach acid. It seemed like forever and ever before he could shift and gain a new position...only this one was even worse. He tried again in an eternity later, but there was no way he could make himself feel comfortable. All he got was pain. His heavy breathing fogged up his glasses and he couldn't see anything. The only indication he had that someone was entering his home was the muffled sound of a door cracking open as someone kicked it in. Before he knew it, above him were...
...Eyebrows. A gloved hand gently slapped his face and called his name. "Who did this to you, Alfred?"
"Y....you... and your..... your goddamned moldy scones..." With extreme effort, that was still all the response he could muster, He supposed he might have left out the oath but it was a nice touch. A blurry image of Arthur removing his glove entered his field of vision, and the Brit's hand was on his forehead.
"You're burning up. I should get you to a hospital."
"Nnng--no.... just..."
"Be quiet, you imbecile." Arthur's hand was moving to trace Alfred's jawline. Then his neck. He pushed back the comforter and slipping his fingers along the American's pectorals. Then he stopped abruptly. "M-my goodness... you're on fire all over."
Alfred felt strangely at peace in Arthur's presence at this moment; his touch was hypnotic and his voice was soothing, somehow. Without thinking, he slid his bare hands up to Arthur's shoulders, dragging him down into a sloppy embrace. The other appeared to struggle momentarily before conceding, grabbing a handful of comforter to balance himself and keep him from crashing his head into Alfred's face.
"Arthur..." Alfred whimpered weakly "...Arthur...."
"What is it?"
"Why didn't you come visit me this week...?"
There was silence. Arthur didn't look at Alfred. His brows were furrowed and his face was burning hot. The sick man below him could feel the heat in his face radiating from his cheeks. Instead of answering the question, he put his head down on Alfred's forehead. The closeness made Alfred blush despite himself; also, those eyebrows tickled his forehead...
"I thought you were just being your dramatic self and I didn't want to encourage it." There was a solemnness in his voice that didn't fit with the generally disapproving nature of the comment. In fact, the edge on his voice was weak and shaky. "I knew you were just doing it for attention, anyway."
"....such an Arthur thing to say," Alfred smiled, drawing him even more awkwardly close. His stomach was slowly settling, and instead a sleepy sense was overtaking him, and he wanted to sleep. Arthur was like a big stuffed animal; he didn't want to let him go. "You're here now, that's all that matters."
More silence. Arthur's breathing became uneven, and he leaned in in a strange, as if to.... kiss him? He couldn't tell, he was too tired... But then the was was a strange sensation, a soft, dry pair of lips touching his own, gently though it was. His already swimming mind made it's way into even deeper waters. Arthur was kissing him, after all. Just barely. And he wanted more--
Suddenly the scone in his belly made one last attack. He arched his back, pulling violently away from the kiss, rolling over and away, scrambling to his feet and rushing to the bathroom and puking the damned pastry into the porcelain bowl before him. All the same... with it out of his system now, he felt much better, although bitter bile and half-digested scone flavor were all he could taste, and the pain of vomiting had caused tears to form in his eyes. But it was out of him. He sighed happily and brushed his teeth. Stepping out of the bathroom, he could see that the Englishman was in the same place he left him, gazing down at the floor, hands in fists on his thighs, one still ungloved. He looked up, then back down again.
"Did I... Did I make you vomit?"
Al considered it a second. "Yep, that was definitely you." It was his scone after all. But he didn't want Arthur to feel bad so he said it in a chipper tone.
Arthur was quiet, and then suddenly shook, lifted and opened his clenched hands before hiding his face in them and sobbing uncontrollably. Confusion and concern filled Alfred, who took a few steps forward to where he was and knelt in front of him. "What? Why are you crying?"
The Brit wiped the tears from his eyes and managed to get out between sniffles, "I-I never imagined... you found me so disgusting..." He glanced up at the confused American and teared up all over again. "S-stop looking at me!"
"Hey... I guess it's not your fault... I mean, after all, I left those scones laying around for a while and didn't check them for mold... so I guess... it's my fault...?"
The crying man stopped abruptly. He looked up with his bloodshot eyes. "What?!"
"Well, yeah, that was why I was sick... I ate one of your scones, and it was all moldy inside..."
"Wait. So... it wasn't me kissing you that made you throw up...?"
"Oh. I forgot about that already."
"Y-you moron...." he sputtered and started crying again. "Th-that's even w-worse...."
Alfred was sick of all this crying BS. He grabbed Arthur by the shoulders and shook him. "Listen, if you want someone to remember you kissing them, this is how you do it." And he kissed him. With tongue. Before Arthur could react beyond stopping crying. He leaned back again after it all and stared right into those reddened green eyes. The shocked expression made him laugh out loud.
"Don't laugh at me!"
Alfred kissed him again, this time knocking him over with his higher body weight. He laced his fingers with the ungloved hand, his other hand on the side of Arthur's face, tracing the raw skin where tears had fallen harshly moments before. Arthur's gloved hand had grabbed a clump of the bespectacled man's hair. He'd also wrapped his legs around the man kissing him. Alfred began to undo the Brit's clothing, pulling it open and rubbing his skin.
The American broke away with a little grin before kissing his neck and body. "Alfred..." Arthur whined, bucking his hips up against the man above him, begging for some form of sexual release. Alfred tried his hardest not to be a little weirded out by the hard form that was now pressing against his stomach.
"Why didn't you tell me before that you liked me?"
"I-I don't like you...."
"Of course not." Let him be in denial.
Arthur laughed.
"You ticklish or something?"
"It's amazing how quickly you recover from your stupid 'depression'."
Alfred paused, then bit down on his collarbone, eliciting a pained noise. He smiled. "You too."
A/N: Sorry if this sucks, first fanfic I've written in years
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(Anonymous) 2009-04-16 10:16 pm (UTC)(link)Alfred as a hikkikomori.
Hypochondria (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2009-04-18 03:21 am (UTC)(link)Hypochondria
Alfred was hiding. Nothing was going his way, in fact, his life felt like it was going down the tubes and he couldn't take it anymore. On top of it all, he had a perpetual cold that only seemed to worsen with the days that dragged on. So he was hiding. From the world. Under his comforter, emblazoned with Superman logos. So warm and safe.
Even though he left all the lights off in the house, people still stopped by to check in on him; why, Kiku had been by earlier that day, and with one look at Alfred, he nodded and said, "It's alright, I understand." The smile on his face was very wistful and pitying but also kind of disgusted. Alfred felt a grumble of discomfort inside at the very thought. Oh. Wait. That wasn't from Kiku-- that was hunger. The thought of a mouth-watering cheeseburger and french fries entered his mind. He could even hear a frothy coca-cola, and feel the bubbles tingle his lips. So hungry. SO HUNGRY.
He dragged himself into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator... empty, save for a jar of dill pickles and a half-empty bottle of ketchup. And a three-month old box of scones Arthur had baked him (for some reason...) and he had chosen, for his own safety, not to eat. Still, that was all there was, and it wasn't like he'd never eaten those scones before... He grabbed one, gave it a squeeze-- it felt like a lumpy, crusty baseball. He liked baseball, but eating them, not so much. All the same, he took a bite, chewed and swallowed, and immediately regretted it. While he was certain Arthur had told him many times that scones never went bad, these scones had passed their due date. Mold was eating away the insides. Terror and disgust filled his gut in place of his initial hunger (which, for the most part, actually remained.) What would happen? He wondered briefly if he would die.
Hypochondria (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2009-04-18 03:22 am (UTC)(link)A pang of pain in his stomach brought him back to the trouble at hand. And a plan-- he always had one, after all. The way to get Arthur to come was to blame him for his problems, to which Arthur's response would probably be to stomp over and attempt to prove him wrong in any number of amusing ways. As quickly as he could, doubled over in stomach-agony, he made his way to the phone, where he called his old buddy. But by the time he got through, he was in debilitating pain, and all he could say was, "Arthur.... I'm dying.... you bastard..."
Arthur sounded genuinely concerned on the other end of the line, asking him all sorts of questions about his condition, but Alfred could only groan and barely understand him. Arthur then hung up the phone. Alfred felt a line of drool dribble out of his mouth, sour tasting like stomach acid. It seemed like forever and ever before he could shift and gain a new position...only this one was even worse. He tried again in an eternity later, but there was no way he could make himself feel comfortable. All he got was pain. His heavy breathing fogged up his glasses and he couldn't see anything. The only indication he had that someone was entering his home was the muffled sound of a door cracking open as someone kicked it in. Before he knew it, above him were...
...Eyebrows. A gloved hand gently slapped his face and called his name. "Who did this to you, Alfred?"
Re: Hypochondria (3/?)
(Anonymous) 2009-04-18 03:23 am (UTC)(link)"You're burning up. I should get you to a hospital."
"Nnng--no.... just..."
"Be quiet, you imbecile." Arthur's hand was moving to trace Alfred's jawline. Then his neck. He pushed back the comforter and slipping his fingers along the American's pectorals. Then he stopped abruptly. "M-my goodness... you're on fire all over."
Alfred felt strangely at peace in Arthur's presence at this moment; his touch was hypnotic and his voice was soothing, somehow. Without thinking, he slid his bare hands up to Arthur's shoulders, dragging him down into a sloppy embrace. The other appeared to struggle momentarily before conceding, grabbing a handful of comforter to balance himself and keep him from crashing his head into Alfred's face.
"Arthur..." Alfred whimpered weakly "...Arthur...."
"What is it?"
"Why didn't you come visit me this week...?"
There was silence. Arthur didn't look at Alfred. His brows were furrowed and his face was burning hot. The sick man below him could feel the heat in his face radiating from his cheeks. Instead of answering the question, he put his head down on Alfred's forehead. The closeness made Alfred blush despite himself; also, those eyebrows tickled his forehead...
Re: Hypochondria (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2009-04-18 03:24 am (UTC)(link)"....such an Arthur thing to say," Alfred smiled, drawing him even more awkwardly close. His stomach was slowly settling, and instead a sleepy sense was overtaking him, and he wanted to sleep. Arthur was like a big stuffed animal; he didn't want to let him go. "You're here now, that's all that matters."
More silence. Arthur's breathing became uneven, and he leaned in in a strange, as if to.... kiss him? He couldn't tell, he was too tired... But then the was was a strange sensation, a soft, dry pair of lips touching his own, gently though it was. His already swimming mind made it's way into even deeper waters. Arthur was kissing him, after all. Just barely. And he wanted more--
Suddenly the scone in his belly made one last attack. He arched his back, pulling violently away from the kiss, rolling over and away, scrambling to his feet and rushing to the bathroom and puking the damned pastry into the porcelain bowl before him. All the same... with it out of his system now, he felt much better, although bitter bile and half-digested scone flavor were all he could taste, and the pain of vomiting had caused tears to form in his eyes. But it was out of him. He sighed happily and brushed his teeth. Stepping out of the bathroom, he could see that the Englishman was in the same place he left him, gazing down at the floor, hands in fists on his thighs, one still ungloved. He looked up, then back down again.
"Did I... Did I make you vomit?"
Al considered it a second. "Yep, that was definitely you." It was his scone after all. But he didn't want Arthur to feel bad so he said it in a chipper tone.
Re: Hypochondria (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2009-04-18 03:25 am (UTC)(link)The Brit wiped the tears from his eyes and managed to get out between sniffles, "I-I never imagined... you found me so disgusting..." He glanced up at the confused American and teared up all over again. "S-stop looking at me!"
"Hey... I guess it's not your fault... I mean, after all, I left those scones laying around for a while and didn't check them for mold... so I guess... it's my fault...?"
The crying man stopped abruptly. He looked up with his bloodshot eyes. "What?!"
"Well, yeah, that was why I was sick... I ate one of your scones, and it was all moldy inside..."
"Wait. So... it wasn't me kissing you that made you throw up...?"
"Oh. I forgot about that already."
"Y-you moron...." he sputtered and started crying again. "Th-that's even w-worse...."
Re: Hypochondria (FINAL)
(Anonymous) 2009-04-18 03:27 am (UTC)(link)"Don't laugh at me!"
Alfred kissed him again, this time knocking him over with his higher body weight. He laced his fingers with the ungloved hand, his other hand on the side of Arthur's face, tracing the raw skin where tears had fallen harshly moments before. Arthur's gloved hand had grabbed a clump of the bespectacled man's hair. He'd also wrapped his legs around the man kissing him. Alfred began to undo the Brit's clothing, pulling it open and rubbing his skin.
The American broke away with a little grin before kissing his neck and body. "Alfred..." Arthur whined, bucking his hips up against the man above him, begging for some form of sexual release. Alfred tried his hardest not to be a little weirded out by the hard form that was now pressing against his stomach.
"Why didn't you tell me before that you liked me?"
"I-I don't like you...."
"Of course not." Let him be in denial.
Arthur laughed.
"You ticklish or something?"
"It's amazing how quickly you recover from your stupid 'depression'."
Alfred paused, then bit down on his collarbone, eliciting a pained noise. He smiled. "You too."
A/N: Sorry if this sucks, first fanfic I've written in years
Re: Hypochondria (FINAL)
(Anonymous) 2009-04-18 03:40 am (UTC)(link)OP really enjoyed this, writer. ♥ ♥
Re: Hypochondria (FINAL)
(Anonymous) 2009-04-18 04:18 pm (UTC)(link)A moldy scone made by Arthur is just... overkill.
Re: Hypochondria (FINAL)
(Anonymous) 2009-04-18 04:48 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Hypochondria (FINAL)
(Anonymous) 2009-04-19 06:36 am (UTC)(link)