At least, he had never smoked in Arthur's presence, and he had never smelled like cigarettes before. Arthur tried to remember what had happened after...after their movements had stilled and they lay trembling with lust sated and meaningless words dying on their lips. He tensed as a shiver went through the languid form beside him.
Leaving their previous target, who was beginning to stir, Arthur's eyes danced about the fairly plain walls of the room. It was where Alfred lived, where he slept, where he stayed when he wasn't following Arthur like the proverbial lost puppy he sometimes seemed to be. Arthur wondered why it did not better match his personality.
The ceiling, walls, and floor were the same unpainted, unbroken khaki. There was a smudge under the window that had probably been there since the building's construction, and the curtains were faded and torn. There were no sports posters, no pin-ups of the scantily-clad models one might expect to see in the bedroom of a college-age fellow. Around the bed, there were piles of clothes and an open book or two, but everywhere else, it was neat and tidy, not a hair out of place. Even the couch, upon which they had cuddled, eaten, and briefly wrestled the night before, seemed oddly unruffled.
There was not a pack of cigarettes in sight.
Alfred's glasses, on the nightstand next to the lamp that didn't work, caught the sunlight and made Arthur bury his head in Alfred's shoulder to avoid going blind.
The air tingled with something a little heart-stopping, before the tension broke around lips smiling against his hair.
"Hi," Alfred murmured, voice heavy with sleep and satisfaction. Arthur shuddered with anxious pleasure, and hesitantly looked up into Alfred's gentle face. The blue eyes were bleary and unfocused, pupils wide, but they looked straight at him.
You Know My Name Part 9
Leaving their previous target, who was beginning to stir, Arthur's eyes danced about the fairly plain walls of the room. It was where Alfred lived, where he slept, where he stayed when he wasn't following Arthur like the proverbial lost puppy he sometimes seemed to be. Arthur wondered why it did not better match his personality.
The ceiling, walls, and floor were the same unpainted, unbroken khaki. There was a smudge under the window that had probably been there since the building's construction, and the curtains were faded and torn. There were no sports posters, no pin-ups of the scantily-clad models one might expect to see in the bedroom of a college-age fellow. Around the bed, there were piles of clothes and an open book or two, but everywhere else, it was neat and tidy, not a hair out of place. Even the couch, upon which they had cuddled, eaten, and briefly wrestled the night before, seemed oddly unruffled.
There was not a pack of cigarettes in sight.
Alfred's glasses, on the nightstand next to the lamp that didn't work, caught the sunlight and made Arthur bury his head in Alfred's shoulder to avoid going blind.
The air tingled with something a little heart-stopping, before the tension broke around lips smiling against his hair.
"Hi," Alfred murmured, voice heavy with sleep and satisfaction. Arthur shuddered with anxious pleasure, and hesitantly looked up into Alfred's gentle face. The blue eyes were bleary and unfocused, pupils wide, but they looked straight at him.
"Good morning."