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TITLE: This Is Why You Label Your TV Guide Clearly or Else Your Neighbors Are Going to Take Them and You'll Never Get it Back
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
indict
RECIPIENT:yumi_oko_chan
GENRE: Romance/humor.
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG.
SUMMARY/PROMPT: Lame, maybe slightly, unintentionally offensive, pickup lines and confession clichés from either of them to the other as a means of confessing love, whether first off or somewhere during a relationship.
If Alfred F. Jones had to pinpoint the exact time he fell in love with Arthur Grumpyface Kirkland, he’d say it was somewhere between drinking Coca-Cola, cartoon reruns playing in the background, as he flipped through Seventeen in some mild hope that his TV Guide was actually nested somewhere between the glossy lipstick pages, and not that they delivered the wrong magazine to his door. But a title caught his eye: an article, that said, are you in love and just don’t realize it?
Of course he wasn’t in love, he thought. Being in love meant you knew you were in love. That’s the meaning of being in love. And quizzes like that were stupid. If feelings could be pigeon-holed like that, then they certainly wouldn’t need to be categorized in some stupid kinda quiz.
With that noble standpoint in mind, he eagerly read onward.
Love! the magazine proclaimed, was when you go to see him even if you don’t need to. It’s when you think about him a lot, and when you go to see him in the good times and the bad, when you want to be there for him 4eva. Love was that warm, bubbly feeling you get in your chest when you see him, that happy feeling, like no other.
Alfred F. Jones always thought that was indigestion.
After all, he had seen Japan turn several colors in his face after eating that burnt and brittle food, and France twist his shirttails around in writhing pain after a particularly strong baked cake. But, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he didn’t always eat his food while he visited Arthur’s house. Visited Arthur’s house—unnecessarily?
No! He couldn’t let that stupid magazine get to his head. He slapped his face a few times, and then took a deep breath. Calm down, Jones. Of course he wasn’t in love. There would be obvious signs that he was in love, and this wasn’t it.
He scrambled past the laundry that Arthur would come over the weekend and wash, and dug through the pile of magazines that were randomly dog-earred to show Arthur that he was right over a particular point. It wasn’t until after he passed by the kitchen, where most of the utensils belonged to Arthur in some shape or form, that he realized that his cell phone was on the table, where Arthur had knitted a cell phone holder so he wouldn’t have to clean up the house after Alfred had rampaged wildly looking for his cellular device. With that, Alfred dialed his first speed number, waiting for Arthur to pick up, as he usually did after a few rings, if he wasn’t out in the garden or taking his nap.
Idly, Alfred wandered closer to his computer to check his twitter to see if Arthur had tweeted him while he was gone.
“’ullo?” Arthur must have been napping, because he sounded groggy and husky as he picked up the phone.
“Hey, Arthur, I just read this thing, and I was thinking—” He was mid-way laughing at his own sentence, because falling in love with Arthur would be the worst thing possible, until he caught sight of his own reflection on the ghastly computer screen. Against his own twitter icon, he could see his face, happy and excited, stupidly gigantic smile plastered across his face, and if his life was a Disney movie (which would be awesome), his eyes would have been twinkling.
He was in love with him.
He really was.
He hung up the phone without much ceremony, and then frantically turned off his phone with lesser ceremony. In times of panic, great men rise to the occasion, and rise, Alfred F. Jones did. But first, he needed to panic for a few hours, bury his face into his pillow, rethink everything he ever knew, blush embarrassingly at the pictures of Arthur lying around his house, play a few hours of some video game to try and forget, lose a boss battle and not even care, and then finally, nestled between the cushions of his sofa and with his cat lying on his back, he thought, this was love. Love was losing a boss battle and not even caring.
There was only one thing he could do, one person he could turn to in his time of need. He turned his head, and flipped open the magazine again, to the Five Great Ways to Tell Your Guy You Like Him.
1.
Be flirty and forward. Be flirty, and forward. Be flirty and—what was the second one again? But Alfred F. Jones wasn’t panicking. Secret Agent Jones didn’t panic when he was about to make a flirty and forward move onto Arthur Kirkland, who was currently sexily trying to not fall asleep in his newspaper.
“Worked late again?” That wasn’t flirty or forward, but he was getting there. He needed to build up to it. Arthur obviously didn’t suspect a thing, with the way he sexily and begrudgingly raised his eyes at him, muttered some black curse, and returned to sipping his tea.
“You really need to sleep more.” Alfred persisted.
“I sleep plenty.” Arthur folded his newspaper crisply into half, his unhappy expression full-on into Alfred’s space. “What were you saying yesterday, anyway? The phone must have cut off. I tweeted you, but you didn’t respond there, either. Not that I was checking, of course, because it’s not like I checked rapidly in case you responded or anything…”
Alfred wasn’t listening anymore. Time to be flirty and—and something. He’d figure out the second part later. Baby steps. Just let Arthur know he was interested in him, that sort of thing, just slide it in subtly. Subtleness needed to be the key. If he wasn’t subtle, the entire plan would go down in shambles.
“—I mean, it’s not like I’m happy you responded, it’s just—”
“If I could rearrange the alphabet,” Alfred burst out loudly, “I’d put U and I together.”
“… Why?”
This was a bit tricky, because Alfred had built himself so high to that point, he had forgotten to the deal with the consequences. And the consequence was, that he was an absolutely handsome young man, charming, exciting, and genuinely friendly. He was a charmer who could deliver even the cheesiest pick-up line with a heartwarming smile. The only problem was that he was courting Arthur Kirkland, who was apparently the Destroyer of Romance.
“W-hy?” Alfred repeatedly nervously.
“Is there a reason to rearrange the alphabet?” Arthur somberly regarded him. “It would mean a drastic change to an old system and the modern lifestyle. Is that what you were going to put on the table today?”
“Well—no—”
“Is there a particular reason for putting the letters together?”
“No, I mean, yes, but, it’s like, uh.” Alfred’s hands were grasping backwards and forwards, like dragging air into them, desperately reaching for a ledge that never appeared. “You don’t have to take it that seriously!”
“So it’s a joke, then,” Arthur said slowly, each word drawn out quietly. “You’re once more mocking the way I apparently ‘put u’s’ into everything.”
“What? No—”
“My apologies, then, if I coloured your perceptions, because I didn’t think you would still harbour such stubbornness, or perhaps my perceptions were the ones flavoured generously if I thought you had more honour than that.”
“It’s not like that! I wasn’t talking about how you spelled stuff and—stuff!” Alfred was waving around his arms now, trying to dodge the acid wit while clarifying the entire stupid mistake. Flirty and forward, that was the word now, he realized, but it was too late. It was far too late to be flirty and forward with a man straight out of Sleepless in London.
“Then what was it?” said the main character of Sleepless in London.
“I just meant—together—we could—You and I, you know? You, as in you, and I, as in I,” Alfred said, pointing to him exaggeratedly, and then poking himself in the chest so hard that he would find a bruise there the next morning. But he could almost visibly see Arthur’s ruffled fur smooth down, to an almost neutral expression.
“Another one of your stupid jokes, then?” he asked drolly.
“No, it wasn’t like, a joke, but it wasn’t supposed to be taken seriously, it’s just… You know, you and I. You know?” He wasn’t making much sense, he knew that. But if he didn’t try, it would be game over, and this time, he really would care if he lost to the boss. He watched Arthur intensely, but the latter only picked up the newspaper again.
Before he hid his face behind the headlines, though, Alfred could have sworn that he saw a ghostly smile pass over Arthur’s face.
2.
Be sassy, but sweet.
Alfred went through the trouble to look up the definition of sassy, because he thought it might not mean what he thought it meant. But it meant what he thought it meant, and he was vaguely troubled in appearing sassy. Just in case, though, he also looked up sweet. It meant what he thought it meant, and it meant it was going to be difficult. Fortunately, he had picked out and crafted to his taste a line that would surely woo Arthur’s socks off, were Arthur’s socks not from some thick woolen material that appeared attached to his feet.
This time, he thought, this time was going to be it. That was why he scheduled a night picnic to watch the stars, with his handy-dandy telescope and all, on the top of a hill, and the food absolutely store-bought, with no chance of a stray hand-made terrible food item passing along into the system.
For what it was worth, though, he knew that Arthur had brought along a packet of cookies under his jacket, just in case Alfred got hungry.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it!” he said loudly.
“A bit parky.” Arthur, bundled up tightly, lowered his scarf to breathe in shallowly through the night air. His breath left a thin vapor that trailed behind him as he walked on the grass, his nose and cheeks red like apples even under the dim moonlight. Yeah, perhaps Alfred should have checked the weather report before heading out, but nothing beat the fresh air going inside you.
Except maybe fresh air going inside you, and a ham sandwich, which Alfred had thoughtfully packed for himself.
“It’s going to be a great picnic, full of star-sighting and everything. Here, you go over there, and I’ll set up the telescope.”
“Perhaps I should—”
“Don’t lift a finger! I can do everything.” This was, in part, stirred by the feelings most people received when Arthur was around food: a sudden protectiveness of everything food. The sheer movement of Arthur may disturb the balance of a ham sandwich. But, more importantly, he wanted Arthur to have a good time. He was being sassy, but sweet. He was like a ham sandwich, except hopefully without the sass part. And the sweet, a sweet ham sandwich was worrisome.
Engrossed in his thoughts, he didn’t notice until it was too late that he had swung the telescope too far back. And he didn’t notice until he heard a sudden crunch behind him, and the telescope suddenly felt like it hit interference. Considering there wasn’t a ballpark miles from there, there was really only one option left.
And he was really hoping it was a stray volleyball team practicing in the middle of the night.
“Arthur—!” He turned out rapidly, as Arthur rocked slightly back, dumbfounded, as blood splattered down his mouth and chin.
“I’d find,” Arthur said quickly, teeth already reddening with blood as he tried to stem the impervious tides. Though the flow did not let up, neither did Arthur with his stalwart defense of his tiny handkerchief that had his initials embroidered on the side. He mopped himself up quite nicely by the time Alfred was done with his frantic nervous spiel.
“—so sorry,” he finished, hovering around him nervously.
“I’d find,” he insisted again, louder, though not better. He took the opportunity to sit down on the blanket, shivering slightly, handkerchief pressed to his nose. Though he waved Alfred to continue to set up the telescope, Alfred squatted down next to him and hesitantly lingered. Now wasn’t the time to spit out his ice-cold super-smooth pick-up line, but—something in him—said, yes, do it.
That was his stupid voice.
He shouldn’t listen to his stupid voice.
But he did.
“Was your father an astronaut?” he blurted out, at such high speeds that NASCAR wouldn’t even be able to record it down. “Because he—took the stars, and in your eyes, he put them.”
Oh yeah. Super-smooth.
Arthur gaped at him quietly, a surprisingly ordinary sight, despite the coursing waves of blood pouring down his front. After a quiet cough, he mopped up the most of the excess sexily crusty blood on his handkerchief.
“That’s just the reflection of the stars,” Arthur said, with great patience. “And if you want to be an astronaut, you’d do well to learn about planets and stars.”
“That’s not—” No, he could still recover. Remember, be sassy, but—what was the last one again? He gripped Arthur’s shoulder tightly. “Your eyes are like stars!”
He must have shouted too loudly too closely to Arthur’s ears, because the latter winced and rubbed his ear, accidentally smearing more blood everywhere.
“You can’t take stars and put them in someone’s eyes,” Arthur said loudly, his hearing apparently quickly fading, like Alfred’s hopes and dreams. “Doctors wouldn’t recommend it.”
“No, I mean—your eyes are shining like—stars—”
“Because we are under the stars,” Arthur said, with as much deliberation and elongation as a man with a bloody stuffed nose possibly could. “You are just looking at a reflection at them. Don’t look that close, anyway, you wanker. It’s disgusting to think about a human walking around with balls of gas for their eyes.”
“You’re missing the point!”
“You’re missing mine.”
“Nuh-uh.” But Alfred tucked his chin to his knees and scowled down at his ham sandwich. “I just meant your eyes looked nice today, ‘sall.”
“Oh.” Arthur’s utterance came out faintly. “That’s creepy.”
“No it isn’t! Now you’re just nitpicking!” Like he wasn’t nitpicking before. Alfred petulantly turned towards him, just in time to see that faint ghostly smile appear again, except this time with a warmer chuckle.
“All right,” Arthur said with a laugh, “I am. Your eyes look nice tonight, too. But say it straightforwardly next time, why don’t you?”
Well he could.
But it wouldn’t be nearly as sassy or sweet.
3.
The third time was just bad luck.
The third time, be a little sexy, really would have worked.
The third time, Alfred asked, “Did you fall down from heaven? Because your ass—”
The third time, Arthur dusted off his white wings and straightened out his white toga, and said, simply, “Yes.”
4.
All right, maybe the third time was bad luck. But the fourth time would bring all the luck. Be mysterious. Well, Alfred F. Jones had a perfect line for that. Fortunately, he even had the opportune time to make the perfect delivery, since Arthur had invited him out to an early brunch while he was in town.
“… bloody uncomfortable bed,” Arthur was saying, picking cruelly at his toast, until all the crust was in small pieces alongside the edge of the dish, watching the crusted middle wait for its doom. “Did they layer the entire mattress with peas? Hell, I’d take a bed of peas at this rate.”
“So you’re… tired, then.” It was the perfect introduction to his slick-smooth line, and Alfred F. Jones wasn’t wasting a second of his time with his pitch-perfect delivery.
“Don’t make it sound vulgar,” Arthur said, sniffing his tea and wrinkling his nose. “This is a blasted terrible tea. Where’s the owner of this establishment? I should talk to him about this—”
“No!” They were moving far away from the goal, which was Make Arthur Fall in Love with Alfred Through Slick Smooth Lines. “No, we were talking about how tired you were.”
Arthur gazed somberly down at his tea, and said, “Yes, that’s right. You’re absolutely right. I should talk to the owner of that establishment.”
“But you must be tired, right?” he said again, louder.
“Yes, I’ll give a stern speech—”
“Yeah,” Alfred said, ploughing through, “You must be tired.”
“If you listened to a single word I said, then you should know that I would be.” Arthur’s scowl was growing increasingly bigger, and that indent between his eyebrows grew steeper and steeper.
“Because,” Alfred said even louder, “you’ve been running through my dreams all night.”
Bam! Instant fall in love! If this was a sports show (which would be awesome), Alfred would have replayed that scene again and again. Or, maybe not, considering the way Arthur’s face rapidly drained of his color, and that he put down his tea, the tea he hated but he couldn’t live without.
“They’ve come again,” he whispered, and abruptly stood up. He shoved away from the table, and stalked across the room, exited from the gate, and disappeared down the street.
“Because,” Alfred said to the empty space, “because, we’re meant to be, so I… dreamed about you… and stuff.” It was such a good line. It was such a good line, but he was left with such a big bill. There were many sacrifices to be made for love, and apparently his wallet and some pallid tea were on the chopping block.
5.
But he wouldn’t just give up with something as pathetic as that. No, the fifth one would be it, but he couldn’t even remember the fifth one. Nevertheless, he felt this keening sense of necessity, because it wasn’t a game to him. It was sort of a game, anyway, he had a lot of fun thinking about the best lines to get Arthur to smile, but he couldn’t find that winning line, and it was getting to him.
He wanted Arthur to like him.
It might have taken any bystanders by surprise when Alfred rushed through the crowd, jostling along the way, when he saw Arthur standing off to the side of the harbor, staring out with great melancholy (as usual) into the waves. But he had to do it right, he had to say that he liked him, woo him over, even though his heart was beating in his wrists and throat and lungs.
“Arthur!” He stopped, panting, in front of him. Arthur, to his credit, turned around with only mild surprise and a tired look.
“’ullo,” he said, “In a rush somewhere?”
“Not really. Uh,” he breathed, “are you… are you from Tennessee?”
“No,” Arthur said slowly, “I’m from England. Since, I am England. It comes with the territory. Literally.”
“Because you’re the only ten I see,” he blurted out, and this time he was gripping Arthur by the shoulders, trying to make him get it. To really get it. To really understand what he was saying, what he meant by a ten, and what he meant by Tennessee.
“Ten of what?” Arthur said blandly, eyes widening. “Is this an insult?”
“Do you have a map? I get—lost in your eyes—”
“I think there’s an ocular textbook, somewhere,” Arthur said, his brows furrowing with increasing worry, “I think there’s one down the street, if you’re really interested in pupils, and the whole lot—”
“If I told you, you had a beautiful body, would you, hold it against me?” His grip was weakening.
“No,” Arthur said, visibly shaken. “I would take it as a compliment, albeit a bit strange.”
“That’s not the point!” Alfred now was literally shaking him, only a little bit, but enough for Arthur to look alarmed. “That’s not what I’m trying to say!”
“Then what are you trying to say? What’s wrong?”
“I want to say that you look nice,” he blurted out, “And that you have nice eyes, and you’re a nice person, and I just want to make you feel happy. Really happy to know that I like you. I mean, I do.”
“Oh,” Arthur said, “Then why didn’t you say that?”
Maybe the fifth advice was to be honest. Now that he was thinking about it, it might have been. And then, he had to smile to himself, a little bit. Yeah, that was it. His lines weren’t bad. They may have been a little corny, but they hadn’t been bad. But Arthur was always going to be Arthur, and this was how Arthur did things.
“If I said I liked you,” Alfred said, flushing slightly, “What would you say?”
Here, now, finally, Arthur was blushing too, and not looking him in the eye.
“We’ll see,” he said, after some pause, “I don’t want to deal with theoreticals. But, theoretically, is that what you’ve been trying to tell me? With those strange lines of yours?”
“Theoretically.” Alfred grinned slightly. “But it wasn’t so bad.”
“No? You seem to get a little frustrated. And all of those were rather stupid.”
“They weren’t all stupid.” No, he had to be honest with himself sometime. “Maybe one of them was stupid. But I got to see you smile a bit. That’s something, right?”
That was it.
That was the magical line. It must have been, because Arthur suddenly reddened, then turned away back to the harbor, and started muttering something quick-paced and nervous into the air, and didn’t look Alfred in the eyes for such a long time. This was the slick-smooth pitch-perfect delivery line to make anybody fall in love with him, and he had nailed it with so much effectiveness that hammers paled in comparison against his mighty weight.
But he was still pretty sure Arthur was a broom.
Because he sure did sweep him off his feet.
Hope you enjoyed it! Happy holidays!
AUTHOR:
indictRECIPIENT:
yumi_oko_chanGENRE: Romance/humor.
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG.
SUMMARY/PROMPT: Lame, maybe slightly, unintentionally offensive, pickup lines and confession clichés from either of them to the other as a means of confessing love, whether first off or somewhere during a relationship.
If Alfred F. Jones had to pinpoint the exact time he fell in love with Arthur Grumpyface Kirkland, he’d say it was somewhere between drinking Coca-Cola, cartoon reruns playing in the background, as he flipped through Seventeen in some mild hope that his TV Guide was actually nested somewhere between the glossy lipstick pages, and not that they delivered the wrong magazine to his door. But a title caught his eye: an article, that said, are you in love and just don’t realize it?
Of course he wasn’t in love, he thought. Being in love meant you knew you were in love. That’s the meaning of being in love. And quizzes like that were stupid. If feelings could be pigeon-holed like that, then they certainly wouldn’t need to be categorized in some stupid kinda quiz.
With that noble standpoint in mind, he eagerly read onward.
Love! the magazine proclaimed, was when you go to see him even if you don’t need to. It’s when you think about him a lot, and when you go to see him in the good times and the bad, when you want to be there for him 4eva. Love was that warm, bubbly feeling you get in your chest when you see him, that happy feeling, like no other.
Alfred F. Jones always thought that was indigestion.
After all, he had seen Japan turn several colors in his face after eating that burnt and brittle food, and France twist his shirttails around in writhing pain after a particularly strong baked cake. But, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he didn’t always eat his food while he visited Arthur’s house. Visited Arthur’s house—unnecessarily?
No! He couldn’t let that stupid magazine get to his head. He slapped his face a few times, and then took a deep breath. Calm down, Jones. Of course he wasn’t in love. There would be obvious signs that he was in love, and this wasn’t it.
He scrambled past the laundry that Arthur would come over the weekend and wash, and dug through the pile of magazines that were randomly dog-earred to show Arthur that he was right over a particular point. It wasn’t until after he passed by the kitchen, where most of the utensils belonged to Arthur in some shape or form, that he realized that his cell phone was on the table, where Arthur had knitted a cell phone holder so he wouldn’t have to clean up the house after Alfred had rampaged wildly looking for his cellular device. With that, Alfred dialed his first speed number, waiting for Arthur to pick up, as he usually did after a few rings, if he wasn’t out in the garden or taking his nap.
Idly, Alfred wandered closer to his computer to check his twitter to see if Arthur had tweeted him while he was gone.
“’ullo?” Arthur must have been napping, because he sounded groggy and husky as he picked up the phone.
“Hey, Arthur, I just read this thing, and I was thinking—” He was mid-way laughing at his own sentence, because falling in love with Arthur would be the worst thing possible, until he caught sight of his own reflection on the ghastly computer screen. Against his own twitter icon, he could see his face, happy and excited, stupidly gigantic smile plastered across his face, and if his life was a Disney movie (which would be awesome), his eyes would have been twinkling.
He was in love with him.
He really was.
He hung up the phone without much ceremony, and then frantically turned off his phone with lesser ceremony. In times of panic, great men rise to the occasion, and rise, Alfred F. Jones did. But first, he needed to panic for a few hours, bury his face into his pillow, rethink everything he ever knew, blush embarrassingly at the pictures of Arthur lying around his house, play a few hours of some video game to try and forget, lose a boss battle and not even care, and then finally, nestled between the cushions of his sofa and with his cat lying on his back, he thought, this was love. Love was losing a boss battle and not even caring.
There was only one thing he could do, one person he could turn to in his time of need. He turned his head, and flipped open the magazine again, to the Five Great Ways to Tell Your Guy You Like Him.
1.
Be flirty and forward. Be flirty, and forward. Be flirty and—what was the second one again? But Alfred F. Jones wasn’t panicking. Secret Agent Jones didn’t panic when he was about to make a flirty and forward move onto Arthur Kirkland, who was currently sexily trying to not fall asleep in his newspaper.
“Worked late again?” That wasn’t flirty or forward, but he was getting there. He needed to build up to it. Arthur obviously didn’t suspect a thing, with the way he sexily and begrudgingly raised his eyes at him, muttered some black curse, and returned to sipping his tea.
“You really need to sleep more.” Alfred persisted.
“I sleep plenty.” Arthur folded his newspaper crisply into half, his unhappy expression full-on into Alfred’s space. “What were you saying yesterday, anyway? The phone must have cut off. I tweeted you, but you didn’t respond there, either. Not that I was checking, of course, because it’s not like I checked rapidly in case you responded or anything…”
Alfred wasn’t listening anymore. Time to be flirty and—and something. He’d figure out the second part later. Baby steps. Just let Arthur know he was interested in him, that sort of thing, just slide it in subtly. Subtleness needed to be the key. If he wasn’t subtle, the entire plan would go down in shambles.
“—I mean, it’s not like I’m happy you responded, it’s just—”
“If I could rearrange the alphabet,” Alfred burst out loudly, “I’d put U and I together.”
“… Why?”
This was a bit tricky, because Alfred had built himself so high to that point, he had forgotten to the deal with the consequences. And the consequence was, that he was an absolutely handsome young man, charming, exciting, and genuinely friendly. He was a charmer who could deliver even the cheesiest pick-up line with a heartwarming smile. The only problem was that he was courting Arthur Kirkland, who was apparently the Destroyer of Romance.
“W-hy?” Alfred repeatedly nervously.
“Is there a reason to rearrange the alphabet?” Arthur somberly regarded him. “It would mean a drastic change to an old system and the modern lifestyle. Is that what you were going to put on the table today?”
“Well—no—”
“Is there a particular reason for putting the letters together?”
“No, I mean, yes, but, it’s like, uh.” Alfred’s hands were grasping backwards and forwards, like dragging air into them, desperately reaching for a ledge that never appeared. “You don’t have to take it that seriously!”
“So it’s a joke, then,” Arthur said slowly, each word drawn out quietly. “You’re once more mocking the way I apparently ‘put u’s’ into everything.”
“What? No—”
“My apologies, then, if I coloured your perceptions, because I didn’t think you would still harbour such stubbornness, or perhaps my perceptions were the ones flavoured generously if I thought you had more honour than that.”
“It’s not like that! I wasn’t talking about how you spelled stuff and—stuff!” Alfred was waving around his arms now, trying to dodge the acid wit while clarifying the entire stupid mistake. Flirty and forward, that was the word now, he realized, but it was too late. It was far too late to be flirty and forward with a man straight out of Sleepless in London.
“Then what was it?” said the main character of Sleepless in London.
“I just meant—together—we could—You and I, you know? You, as in you, and I, as in I,” Alfred said, pointing to him exaggeratedly, and then poking himself in the chest so hard that he would find a bruise there the next morning. But he could almost visibly see Arthur’s ruffled fur smooth down, to an almost neutral expression.
“Another one of your stupid jokes, then?” he asked drolly.
“No, it wasn’t like, a joke, but it wasn’t supposed to be taken seriously, it’s just… You know, you and I. You know?” He wasn’t making much sense, he knew that. But if he didn’t try, it would be game over, and this time, he really would care if he lost to the boss. He watched Arthur intensely, but the latter only picked up the newspaper again.
Before he hid his face behind the headlines, though, Alfred could have sworn that he saw a ghostly smile pass over Arthur’s face.
2.
Be sassy, but sweet.
Alfred went through the trouble to look up the definition of sassy, because he thought it might not mean what he thought it meant. But it meant what he thought it meant, and he was vaguely troubled in appearing sassy. Just in case, though, he also looked up sweet. It meant what he thought it meant, and it meant it was going to be difficult. Fortunately, he had picked out and crafted to his taste a line that would surely woo Arthur’s socks off, were Arthur’s socks not from some thick woolen material that appeared attached to his feet.
This time, he thought, this time was going to be it. That was why he scheduled a night picnic to watch the stars, with his handy-dandy telescope and all, on the top of a hill, and the food absolutely store-bought, with no chance of a stray hand-made terrible food item passing along into the system.
For what it was worth, though, he knew that Arthur had brought along a packet of cookies under his jacket, just in case Alfred got hungry.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it!” he said loudly.
“A bit parky.” Arthur, bundled up tightly, lowered his scarf to breathe in shallowly through the night air. His breath left a thin vapor that trailed behind him as he walked on the grass, his nose and cheeks red like apples even under the dim moonlight. Yeah, perhaps Alfred should have checked the weather report before heading out, but nothing beat the fresh air going inside you.
Except maybe fresh air going inside you, and a ham sandwich, which Alfred had thoughtfully packed for himself.
“It’s going to be a great picnic, full of star-sighting and everything. Here, you go over there, and I’ll set up the telescope.”
“Perhaps I should—”
“Don’t lift a finger! I can do everything.” This was, in part, stirred by the feelings most people received when Arthur was around food: a sudden protectiveness of everything food. The sheer movement of Arthur may disturb the balance of a ham sandwich. But, more importantly, he wanted Arthur to have a good time. He was being sassy, but sweet. He was like a ham sandwich, except hopefully without the sass part. And the sweet, a sweet ham sandwich was worrisome.
Engrossed in his thoughts, he didn’t notice until it was too late that he had swung the telescope too far back. And he didn’t notice until he heard a sudden crunch behind him, and the telescope suddenly felt like it hit interference. Considering there wasn’t a ballpark miles from there, there was really only one option left.
And he was really hoping it was a stray volleyball team practicing in the middle of the night.
“Arthur—!” He turned out rapidly, as Arthur rocked slightly back, dumbfounded, as blood splattered down his mouth and chin.
“I’d find,” Arthur said quickly, teeth already reddening with blood as he tried to stem the impervious tides. Though the flow did not let up, neither did Arthur with his stalwart defense of his tiny handkerchief that had his initials embroidered on the side. He mopped himself up quite nicely by the time Alfred was done with his frantic nervous spiel.
“—so sorry,” he finished, hovering around him nervously.
“I’d find,” he insisted again, louder, though not better. He took the opportunity to sit down on the blanket, shivering slightly, handkerchief pressed to his nose. Though he waved Alfred to continue to set up the telescope, Alfred squatted down next to him and hesitantly lingered. Now wasn’t the time to spit out his ice-cold super-smooth pick-up line, but—something in him—said, yes, do it.
That was his stupid voice.
He shouldn’t listen to his stupid voice.
But he did.
“Was your father an astronaut?” he blurted out, at such high speeds that NASCAR wouldn’t even be able to record it down. “Because he—took the stars, and in your eyes, he put them.”
Oh yeah. Super-smooth.
Arthur gaped at him quietly, a surprisingly ordinary sight, despite the coursing waves of blood pouring down his front. After a quiet cough, he mopped up the most of the excess sexily crusty blood on his handkerchief.
“That’s just the reflection of the stars,” Arthur said, with great patience. “And if you want to be an astronaut, you’d do well to learn about planets and stars.”
“That’s not—” No, he could still recover. Remember, be sassy, but—what was the last one again? He gripped Arthur’s shoulder tightly. “Your eyes are like stars!”
He must have shouted too loudly too closely to Arthur’s ears, because the latter winced and rubbed his ear, accidentally smearing more blood everywhere.
“You can’t take stars and put them in someone’s eyes,” Arthur said loudly, his hearing apparently quickly fading, like Alfred’s hopes and dreams. “Doctors wouldn’t recommend it.”
“No, I mean—your eyes are shining like—stars—”
“Because we are under the stars,” Arthur said, with as much deliberation and elongation as a man with a bloody stuffed nose possibly could. “You are just looking at a reflection at them. Don’t look that close, anyway, you wanker. It’s disgusting to think about a human walking around with balls of gas for their eyes.”
“You’re missing the point!”
“You’re missing mine.”
“Nuh-uh.” But Alfred tucked his chin to his knees and scowled down at his ham sandwich. “I just meant your eyes looked nice today, ‘sall.”
“Oh.” Arthur’s utterance came out faintly. “That’s creepy.”
“No it isn’t! Now you’re just nitpicking!” Like he wasn’t nitpicking before. Alfred petulantly turned towards him, just in time to see that faint ghostly smile appear again, except this time with a warmer chuckle.
“All right,” Arthur said with a laugh, “I am. Your eyes look nice tonight, too. But say it straightforwardly next time, why don’t you?”
Well he could.
But it wouldn’t be nearly as sassy or sweet.
3.
The third time was just bad luck.
The third time, be a little sexy, really would have worked.
The third time, Alfred asked, “Did you fall down from heaven? Because your ass—”
The third time, Arthur dusted off his white wings and straightened out his white toga, and said, simply, “Yes.”
4.
All right, maybe the third time was bad luck. But the fourth time would bring all the luck. Be mysterious. Well, Alfred F. Jones had a perfect line for that. Fortunately, he even had the opportune time to make the perfect delivery, since Arthur had invited him out to an early brunch while he was in town.
“… bloody uncomfortable bed,” Arthur was saying, picking cruelly at his toast, until all the crust was in small pieces alongside the edge of the dish, watching the crusted middle wait for its doom. “Did they layer the entire mattress with peas? Hell, I’d take a bed of peas at this rate.”
“So you’re… tired, then.” It was the perfect introduction to his slick-smooth line, and Alfred F. Jones wasn’t wasting a second of his time with his pitch-perfect delivery.
“Don’t make it sound vulgar,” Arthur said, sniffing his tea and wrinkling his nose. “This is a blasted terrible tea. Where’s the owner of this establishment? I should talk to him about this—”
“No!” They were moving far away from the goal, which was Make Arthur Fall in Love with Alfred Through Slick Smooth Lines. “No, we were talking about how tired you were.”
Arthur gazed somberly down at his tea, and said, “Yes, that’s right. You’re absolutely right. I should talk to the owner of that establishment.”
“But you must be tired, right?” he said again, louder.
“Yes, I’ll give a stern speech—”
“Yeah,” Alfred said, ploughing through, “You must be tired.”
“If you listened to a single word I said, then you should know that I would be.” Arthur’s scowl was growing increasingly bigger, and that indent between his eyebrows grew steeper and steeper.
“Because,” Alfred said even louder, “you’ve been running through my dreams all night.”
Bam! Instant fall in love! If this was a sports show (which would be awesome), Alfred would have replayed that scene again and again. Or, maybe not, considering the way Arthur’s face rapidly drained of his color, and that he put down his tea, the tea he hated but he couldn’t live without.
“They’ve come again,” he whispered, and abruptly stood up. He shoved away from the table, and stalked across the room, exited from the gate, and disappeared down the street.
“Because,” Alfred said to the empty space, “because, we’re meant to be, so I… dreamed about you… and stuff.” It was such a good line. It was such a good line, but he was left with such a big bill. There were many sacrifices to be made for love, and apparently his wallet and some pallid tea were on the chopping block.
5.
But he wouldn’t just give up with something as pathetic as that. No, the fifth one would be it, but he couldn’t even remember the fifth one. Nevertheless, he felt this keening sense of necessity, because it wasn’t a game to him. It was sort of a game, anyway, he had a lot of fun thinking about the best lines to get Arthur to smile, but he couldn’t find that winning line, and it was getting to him.
He wanted Arthur to like him.
It might have taken any bystanders by surprise when Alfred rushed through the crowd, jostling along the way, when he saw Arthur standing off to the side of the harbor, staring out with great melancholy (as usual) into the waves. But he had to do it right, he had to say that he liked him, woo him over, even though his heart was beating in his wrists and throat and lungs.
“Arthur!” He stopped, panting, in front of him. Arthur, to his credit, turned around with only mild surprise and a tired look.
“’ullo,” he said, “In a rush somewhere?”
“Not really. Uh,” he breathed, “are you… are you from Tennessee?”
“No,” Arthur said slowly, “I’m from England. Since, I am England. It comes with the territory. Literally.”
“Because you’re the only ten I see,” he blurted out, and this time he was gripping Arthur by the shoulders, trying to make him get it. To really get it. To really understand what he was saying, what he meant by a ten, and what he meant by Tennessee.
“Ten of what?” Arthur said blandly, eyes widening. “Is this an insult?”
“Do you have a map? I get—lost in your eyes—”
“I think there’s an ocular textbook, somewhere,” Arthur said, his brows furrowing with increasing worry, “I think there’s one down the street, if you’re really interested in pupils, and the whole lot—”
“If I told you, you had a beautiful body, would you, hold it against me?” His grip was weakening.
“No,” Arthur said, visibly shaken. “I would take it as a compliment, albeit a bit strange.”
“That’s not the point!” Alfred now was literally shaking him, only a little bit, but enough for Arthur to look alarmed. “That’s not what I’m trying to say!”
“Then what are you trying to say? What’s wrong?”
“I want to say that you look nice,” he blurted out, “And that you have nice eyes, and you’re a nice person, and I just want to make you feel happy. Really happy to know that I like you. I mean, I do.”
“Oh,” Arthur said, “Then why didn’t you say that?”
Maybe the fifth advice was to be honest. Now that he was thinking about it, it might have been. And then, he had to smile to himself, a little bit. Yeah, that was it. His lines weren’t bad. They may have been a little corny, but they hadn’t been bad. But Arthur was always going to be Arthur, and this was how Arthur did things.
“If I said I liked you,” Alfred said, flushing slightly, “What would you say?”
Here, now, finally, Arthur was blushing too, and not looking him in the eye.
“We’ll see,” he said, after some pause, “I don’t want to deal with theoreticals. But, theoretically, is that what you’ve been trying to tell me? With those strange lines of yours?”
“Theoretically.” Alfred grinned slightly. “But it wasn’t so bad.”
“No? You seem to get a little frustrated. And all of those were rather stupid.”
“They weren’t all stupid.” No, he had to be honest with himself sometime. “Maybe one of them was stupid. But I got to see you smile a bit. That’s something, right?”
That was it.
That was the magical line. It must have been, because Arthur suddenly reddened, then turned away back to the harbor, and started muttering something quick-paced and nervous into the air, and didn’t look Alfred in the eyes for such a long time. This was the slick-smooth pitch-perfect delivery line to make anybody fall in love with him, and he had nailed it with so much effectiveness that hammers paled in comparison against his mighty weight.
But he was still pretty sure Arthur was a broom.
Because he sure did sweep him off his feet.
Hope you enjoyed it! Happy holidays!