“Yes, I do!” Arthur huffed, hands clenched tightly. “He is the one I want. And I never asked to be tied to you. That was my brothers’ doing. I never loved you and I never will!”
Arthur might have considered Francis’ feelings, years and years prior. But not when he was so foolishly in love with his human. If he had never met Alfred, perhaps over time, he might have even learned to love Francis. He might have grown to love this pompous prince and be happy with him.
But no in this world, not when Alfred so clearly existed.
Francis’ hand was not the one Arthur wished to hold.
Smiling in disdain, hurt but unwilling to show it, Francis wiped the blood off his chin. “You might find his touch to be less gentle than you’d thought, my dearest Arthur,” he said coolly, hands balled into tight fists. Obviously, he’d not expected rejection; but Francis was too proud to show just how much Arthur’s words had hurt him. In end, Francis and Arthur were more alike then they thought. “He is human. You should know by now that humans cannot hold anything in their hands without destroying it.”
Arthur ignored him, refusing to believe his words. Yes, humans were cruel and clumsy with their hands, creating wars and never learning from their mistakes—but not Alfred, who possessed no green thumb but still tried to grow chili peppers every summer. He was poor at gardening, his hands too strong against the frailty of a flower. Arthur had taken pity on him and took up the task of caring for the man’s little garden, sprinkling it with magic every so often to make Alfred believe he could grow something when he put his mind to it.
Alfred’s hands were surely gentle, were surely careful with fragile things. Alfred was not a cruel man. He might be a little childish and quick to act without thinking, but he was kind. Arthur firmly believed that.
He should have known Francis’ words would come back to haunt him.
“Hmm.” Pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, Alfred pursued his lips in frustration. “That’s strange. The wings are not made of bone or muscle, yet the sensory nerves…no, these are mixed nerves.”
Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, his lashes fluttering helplessly against his cheeks, much like his wings…the appendages were restrained, held and picked and prodded by cruel, clumsy hands. He was a butterfly, pinned and helpless.
Clawing helplessly at the cold metal beneath him, Arthur tried to separate himself from the feeling of having his wings handled so carelessly. They were the most fragile part of him, so strong yet so weak, so sensitive to touch. They were the most intimate part of him, and yet Alfred…
“…response to pain is off the charts! The transmission impulses are amazing.” Excitement shined behind Alfred’s glasses, his lips curving into a keen smile. “It resembles a butterfly in many of its aspects, but the form is aesthetically human. Male, 10.5 inches in height. Wings are made of some type of gossamer fiber—no.” Alfred shook his head, frowning thoughtfully. “The texture is more of a silk paper, but…hmm. They do not look strong enough to lift the body, but why else would they be there?”
A pained gasp ripped itself from Arthur’s throat when something cold and sharp ran down his spine, his shoulders twitching at the sensation. The object moved further down, stopping at the low of his back. Goosebumps rose on Arthur’s skin. Though coated with a cold layer of sweat, the almost ethereal glow of the pale skin was unmistakable. This puzzled Alfred.
Your Sins Into Me [4/?]
Arthur might have considered Francis’ feelings, years and years prior. But not when he was so foolishly in love with his human. If he had never met Alfred, perhaps over time, he might have even learned to love Francis. He might have grown to love this pompous prince and be happy with him.
But no in this world, not when Alfred so clearly existed.
Francis’ hand was not the one Arthur wished to hold.
Smiling in disdain, hurt but unwilling to show it, Francis wiped the blood off his chin. “You might find his touch to be less gentle than you’d thought, my dearest Arthur,” he said coolly, hands balled into tight fists. Obviously, he’d not expected rejection; but Francis was too proud to show just how much Arthur’s words had hurt him. In end, Francis and Arthur were more alike then they thought. “He is human. You should know by now that humans cannot hold anything in their hands without destroying it.”
Arthur ignored him, refusing to believe his words. Yes, humans were cruel and clumsy with their hands, creating wars and never learning from their mistakes—but not Alfred, who possessed no green thumb but still tried to grow chili peppers every summer. He was poor at gardening, his hands too strong against the frailty of a flower. Arthur had taken pity on him and took up the task of caring for the man’s little garden, sprinkling it with magic every so often to make Alfred believe he could grow something when he put his mind to it.
Alfred’s hands were surely gentle, were surely careful with fragile things. Alfred was not a cruel man. He might be a little childish and quick to act without thinking, but he was kind. Arthur firmly believed that.
He should have known Francis’ words would come back to haunt him.
“Hmm.” Pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, Alfred pursued his lips in frustration. “That’s strange. The wings are not made of bone or muscle, yet the sensory nerves…no, these are mixed nerves.”
Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, his lashes fluttering helplessly against his cheeks, much like his wings…the appendages were restrained, held and picked and prodded by cruel, clumsy hands. He was a butterfly, pinned and helpless.
Clawing helplessly at the cold metal beneath him, Arthur tried to separate himself from the feeling of having his wings handled so carelessly. They were the most fragile part of him, so strong yet so weak, so sensitive to touch. They were the most intimate part of him, and yet Alfred…
“…response to pain is off the charts! The transmission impulses are amazing.” Excitement shined behind Alfred’s glasses, his lips curving into a keen smile. “It resembles a butterfly in many of its aspects, but the form is aesthetically human. Male, 10.5 inches in height. Wings are made of some type of gossamer fiber—no.” Alfred shook his head, frowning thoughtfully. “The texture is more of a silk paper, but…hmm. They do not look strong enough to lift the body, but why else would they be there?”
A pained gasp ripped itself from Arthur’s throat when something cold and sharp ran down his spine, his shoulders twitching at the sensation. The object moved further down, stopping at the low of his back. Goosebumps rose on Arthur’s skin. Though coated with a cold layer of sweat, the almost ethereal glow of the pale skin was unmistakable. This puzzled Alfred.