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There were definitely downfalls to being openly gay, and Arthur by God was tired of them.
He was tired of the fact that other gay men thought Arthur owed them a date merely based on the commonality of their sexual orientation.
“It’s not like he’s ugly,” Francis said, and Arthur rolled his eyes, averting his gaze from the man across the room who’d taken to sliding into a split as if to impress Arthur.
“I hope he lands on his balls.”
“Give him a chance,” Francis said with a snicker.
“You seem to be forgetting I have a boyfriend.” And the expression on Francis’ face became one of annoyance because he, like all the others in their dance troupe, including the man who seemed to be bending over backward for Arthur’s attention, didn’t believe that Arthur’s boyfriend existed.
The tall and muscular ‘boxer’? Who conveniently can never show up to your dance practice because he’s always at ‘boxing’ practice? Yes, well, when they’d put it like that, Arthur supposed it did sound a bit fake.
Well, show us a picture then. See, Arthur didn’t like pictures, meaning his phone never had photos of the two together. There were just pictures of an Alfred Jones- photos of him smiling, eating, photos that his friends would send Arthur while he was working out, and really, they all seemed right out of an Instagram page, so it was no wonder the troupe thought Arthur was some sort of pathological liar.
“Call him, then.” Someone had shouted over at them, and Francis raised his brows in agreement. It seemed to gather everyone’s attention. The idea wasn’t half bad, really, so Arthur did call him, with his expression furrowed triumphantly.
He then pulled the phone away from his ear, lips twisting in a bashful smile, “It’s… um, gone to voicemail.”
“Give it a rest, mon ami.”
It was exhausting.
Arthur supposed he didn’t have to prove it to anyone. He didn’t owe it to anyone, yet there was something about the way everyone looked at him when he’d make an offhand comment about his relationship. It was as if he was lying.
“My boyfriend loves chick flicks.” A girl had gushed.
“Mine does too.” Arthur would say, and Alfred did love rom-coms. He would never admit it, but it was cute the way he’d laugh and cry and deny his interest, and Arthur had only wanted to share that fact, but no.
“Yeah, I’ll bet he loves to cook and listen to your problems and give you little massages after practice too, doesn’t he?”
“As a matter of fact, he does-!” Arthur couldn’t help that Alfred Jones was an amalgamation of the perfect man.
He also couldn’t help that he himself was small, cold, bitter, and overall too undeserving of such a boyfriend, because nobody seemed to believe that someone so “perfect” could be attracted to and much less date someone like Arthur.
Especially not the man, some new addition to their troupe, who seemed so adamant about taking Arthur out on a date. He would flex his bicep, “I’m the best you’ll get, Arthur, try me out.”
“My boyfriend’s biceps are bigger.” Arthur would say, bored.
“Oh right, the boxer.”
Arthur had done everything but quite literally scream- “My boyfriend is real!”
Well, he had probably done that at some point- It had gotten to the extent that Arthur would take a few minutes aside after warmups to ponder as to whether Alfred Jones was actually, all along, some figment of his imagination.
“You seem a bit out of balance today, Arthur.”
Arthur glanced up from his place sitting on the floor, catching his breath after a, particularly difficult, routine. The troupe leader was right, he hadn’t been his best. He parted his lips to apologize.
“Did your boyfriend give you a rough time last night?” She said with a slight chuckle and Arthur groaned, burying his face in his palms.
“I-”
“Let’s go again, y’all-” She interrupted, arms beckoning the end of their break, “From the top.”
Arthur was positively burned out.
It didn’t help that he always walked home alone after practices.
“Doesn’t your boyfriend want to pick you up?” Francis would tease. “Ah, that’s right, he’s too busy at wrestling practice.”
“Boxing.” Arthur would hiss.
“Sorry, boxing.”
So yes, the day Alfred Jones finally came into Arthur’s lunch break, into the academy cafeteria, with those damn greasy burgers Arthur had sworn to him left, right and center that Arthur would never eat, with his gym duffel bag, with his hair damp from practice, with his biceps that were definitely bigger than anyone in the troupe or their damn boyfriends’-Arthur tore away from whatever conversation he’d been having to launch himself right into those arms.
And Alfred had staggered back, managing to hold Arthur with his single free arm, see, he was just that strong after having been a boxer for years, take that, troupe!
“How’s my little ballerina?”
Arthur kissed the life out of him, something Alfred wasn’t used to in public. Arthur was never one for PDA.
Well, people change.
“Jeez, Artie, I-”
Arthur kissed him again. And again. And again, until he’d managed to drag every other member of his troupe toward them like moths to a flame. Open-mouthed moths with incredulous expressions on their moth-faces.
Alfred was positively pink, eyes darting around as Arthur clung to his chest in a hungry embrace. ”I brought lunch?”
“How was practice, my love?” Arthur said.
Alfred blinked. “It was good. I left real early today-”
“Boxing practice,” Arthur added, tossing a smirk at whoever met his gaze, unknowing to Alfred, who paused.
“… yes.”
“God, I’m being so inconsiderate, let’s go sit, Alfred, you must be tired.”
Never in a million years would Arthur eat anything from that fast food Hell Alfred loved so much. Perhaps a fry or two, yes, but nothing more. Yet, there he was, munching dutifully on a Mc-Whatever as Alfred watched, blue eyes glittering with amusement.
“This is a first.”
Arthur tossed him a baleful look- one that morphed into a saccharine smile as Francis turned to look at them from his spot amongst others, all equally interested, sitting in a table not too far away.
“Kiss me,” Arthur said through grit teeth.
“What’s gotten into you?” Alfred said, punctuating it with a peck to Arthur’s cheek. “Not that I’m complaining, anyway.”
Alfred seemed to find whatever situation he’d walked into to be funny. He chuckled as Arthur attempted to feed him a fry. “What are you doing, Kirkland?”
“I just want them to know we’re real,” Arthur replied, as if it were a matter of fact.
He hadn’t quite told Alfred about the workplace drama of his. He hadn’t told him that no one believed he had a boyfriend, that no one believed someone like Alfred could be with someone like Arthur.
He had, however, told Alfred many times just how perfect he was, just how lucky Arthur was to have him, yes, when Arthur would get real drunk or find himself petting Alfred’s soft blond hair silently as the two lounged on their couch. Blue eyes would meet Arthur’s, and Alfred’s dimpled smile would coax honeyed words out of Arthur’s lips.
But Arthur had never told him that his entire dance troupe thought he was some sort of morbid daydreamer. Perhaps that was why Alfred’s eyes softened at Arthur’s words, not quite understanding their ridiculous origin. His hand cupped the side of Arthur’s cheek. “It doesn’t get real-er than us, honey.”
Arthur would tell Alfred what he meant later. He rather liked the looks on everyone else’s face as Alfred tugged Arthur into his arms, peppering Arthur’s head with kisses in the sentiment of proving the “realness” of their relationship. “I love you, Arthur, okay?”
Arthur would tell him later, yes, because he wouldn’t really want to mess the moment up to have Alfred dissolve into snorting laughter at the prospect of his boyfriend being framed a liar.
“I love you too Alfred.”
Arthur cast a look around the cafeteria, around at the eyes that watched them with awe, and he allowed Alfred to hold the hand of his that was not stained with condiments.
He made sure everyone saw.