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Thirty five.
Thirty five and look at the absolute state of him.
Arthur’s pissed. He’s royally, disgustingly pissed. He’s sat at the edge of the pavement with his head between his knees, convinced that the road beneath him is spinning and not his head. His head can’t spin that quickly.
It had been a good while before Arthur had consumed this much alcohol which must have rendered him a lightweight because he doesn’t have the foggiest idea what time it is, where he is, or how he ended up sprawled on the roadside. The last event he recalls, with a bit of murkiness, is Francis handing him another shot, maybe the sixth of the night, after pre-drinks and regular drinks. It had been a vibrant shade of red and it must have had an amusing name because Francis had been unable to stop the flow of his cackling, even as he had knocked his own back. Daft Frenchman had almost choked himself.
It’s a blessing that Antonio had staggered his drinks enough to keep a semi-sober head and he’d been on scene to slap his mate’s back until the other alpha had cleared his windpipe of the rocket fuel that the shot had been composed of.
Arthur had sent the shot down into his stomach with no questions asked, barely even registering to swallow, before he’d teetered out of the bar, scarcely explaining where he was going to the two alphas accompanying him. Not that Arthur knew where he was going.
A bar, not a pub, the omega remembers with a hint of scorn. How he’d love to stumble into a pub right about now, cosy up on a creaky, comfy chair, underneath low, beamed ceilings, with a decent pint on a questionably sticky table, picking apart a cardboard beer mat. He even remembers when smoking wasn’t prohibited and, by the end of the night, the establishment would be blanketed in a haze of smoke that would sting the eyes.
That’s a testament to his age, and now he’s craving a ciggie something awful.
Francis will have cigarettes on him, most likely, maybe Arthur could bum one off him. They’ll be fruity, French, and piss-poor but Arthur is drunk enough not to care. In fact, he’s so trollied that he can barely hold the weight of his own head, though it also feels disconcertingly loose and each time Arthur tries to stand, it seems to carry on turning perpetually and cripples Arthur with vertigo. Maybe that’s how he’s ended up on his arse on the curb, because he can’t bloody stand.
Now that he concentrates, with all his might, a thread of anxiety tugs at the omega, troubled by the fact it doesn’t feel as though he’s sat on a curb at all, but he’s definitely outside. Near a road. Or on a road.
In the middle of a road.
He’s struck, distantly, by how inglorious and pathetic he must look, plonked on his bum with his knees swinging around, potentially in the middle of a road, too trousered to hold his own weight, and becoming tearful as he thinks of how disappointed his parents would be in him.
Only this morning, he’d spoken to them, when they’d used FaceTime to wish him happy birthday and impress on him how much they missed him. He misses his mum and dad; too, they never fail to offer him soul-deep comfort but also discombobulate him with homesickness. They’d also reminded him, inadvertently and well-meaning, that he’s halfway through his thirties and doesn’t have a mate to speak of, not even someone who will sniff in his direction to notice his dried-up eggs.
Well, that’s an exaggeration.
Maybe. He might have scrambled them from alcohol poisoning from tonight alone.
He’s tempted to call his parents again and sob his heart out, wait for his dad to offer to come and get him, bring him home, like he used to when Arthur was bullied in school, and his mum would make him a cup of tea and serve him sticky toffee pudding with hot custard.
Arthur lies down, noticing the traffic lights ahead of him and battling with a sudden, gripping urge to vomit. He doesn’t, somehow. The omega squints as the traffic lights seem to flash with blue, intermittent, bright blue. Lights in England didn’t do that, but he’s not in England, he’s in the States, and everything’s different here, even the weird traffic lights that also seems to have a siren.
Why would a traffic light need a siren?
Arthur frowns.
“Don’t understand this bloody country,” he mutters under his breath, a bit scathing.
A figure emerges above him, tall, broad-shouldered, undoubtedly alpha. Arthur’s gin and vodka-addled brain can still recognise the virile scent of an attractive alpha. Yes, he’s fairly positive that the alpha is attractive, maybe too much, but it’s difficult to distinguish when he’s that blurry. Why on earth is he blurry? That seems like an oversight of nature. The uniform is rather flattering on the man’s strapping stature, though.
Fascinating.
He’s looking down at Arthur, wearing a perturbed expression. Arthur’s peering up at him, the stranger having fully captured the omega’s attention, and Arthur’s mind takes a nosedive into and starts swimming in the part of his brain that Arthur has termed the ‘distinctly and shamefully randy’ which he keeps buttoned up to himself. No one knows how deep the distinctly and shamefully randy trench goes except for bloody Francis; the alpha is infuriatingly shrewd when it comes to Arthur’s repressed and unexplored libido. It’s the alpha’s favourite arsenal for teasing Arthur until he can make Arthur nasty enough to draw Francis to tears (though that’s often easily done).
What a functional friendship they share.
“That’s a fetching uniform,” Arthur remarks and, then, for no apparent reason, he giggles until his sides hurt and he has to clutch at them to ease away the pain as tears stream out from his eyes.
“Sir, can you stand?” the alpha asks, once he’s waited for Arthur to compose himself, in a tone that’s level and professional.
“Can I stand what?” Arthur counters. “I can’t stand the French, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It, uh, wasn’t,” says the alpha, the crease between his eyebrows deepening the longer he stands beside Arthur. “We got a call about a disturbance—”
“Oh, don’t let me hold you up,” Arthur says, shooing away the man, who is probably a policeman, now that the dots are joining up.
“You are the disturbance, sir,” the policeman replies and his face softens, the crease evening out as his eyebrows lift up with disbelief. “Seriously, how drunk are you? You’re lying in the middle of the road, cars are driving around you—you could get really hurt, it’s damn lucky someone called this in before something bad happened.” He pauses as Arthur cranes his head up to look around, suspicious of the alpha’s claim. “I’m gonna help you stand, alright?”
“Roger that,” Arthur agrees and proceeds to laugh until it’s painful again.
The officer crouches down beside Arthur and he appears to be torn between reproach and sheer incredulity, but Arthur reckons he can distinguish a twinkle of amusement in his bespectacled eyes.
“I shouldn’t say this, but you’ve really let yourself go—what’s the occasion?”
“I’m older,” Arthur laments. “I’m on a birthday bender.”
The officer reels his head back, his eyes widening as he asks, “A what now?”
“A bender,” Arthur supplies, matter-of-fact and staring at the American with imperious conviction. “For my birthday.”
“…alriiight, I’ll assume that’s a British thing where it’s okay to get completely wasted and try to get yourself run-over?”
Arthur nods. “To drown your sorrows.”
“More like squish your sorrows,” the policeman intones, shaking his head. “I’m gonna put my hands under your arms, if you could try and push yourself up?”
“Put your hands wherever you like,” Arthur comments with a feral grin, rather proud of himself for that one.
“Just under your arms, dude,” the officer reiterates, with a firmness to his voice this time, and Arthur gets the impression he’s being told off.
The officer moves behind Arthur and, moments later, the omega feels two large, steady hands come up underneath his arms, pressing into his underarms.
“Ready?”
It’s all the warning Arthur receives before the officer is using his considerable force to urge Arthur on to his feet. Arthur forgets to make any effort to move, and it’s exceedingly difficult when his legs feel like spindly, boneless attachments that he can’t use and his arse has gone completely numb. The officer drags Arthur up onto wobbly legs with his own strength and seems unaffected by it before he proceeds to lead Arthur in the direction of what must be the pavement. The officer gives him clear, authoritative instructions to step up what Arthur imagines is the curb but the omega trips up it regardless, causing him to swing about until he barrels into the alpha’s chest. The officer releases a grunt upon impact and his patience relents, leaving him to physically lift Arthur and then dump him on a nearby bench.
Arthur immediately slumps forward, head between his knees again as he nearly brings up his dinner again. The policeman promptly steps back.
“Ugh,” Arthur groans, beginning to feel rotten.
“Yeah, you’re going to be paying for this tomorrow,” the officer informs Arthur helpfully, his tone far too perky for Arthur’s liking, before he turns his back to Arthur and talks into his radio.
“Ah, Arthur!” someone calls out, and, if the thud of rapid footfall is any indication, that someone is quickly approaching. Judging from the fiery curses in Spanish, Arthur imagines that it must be Antonio. “Idiot, what have you done! I look away for five minutes—”
“Is this your mate?” the officer queries Antonio, who is now standing by the bench, catching his breath, and casting sideways, infuriated glances at Arthur.
“No! Absolutely not—he’s my friend. I’m the unofficial… eh, chaperone, I was trying to look out for him but I didn’t notice he’d disappeared until just now.” Antonio turns to Arthur, squeezing the space between his eyes. “Francis has fallen off a barstool and gashed open his knee like a teenager, and you—” The Spaniard points at Arthur, concern and aggravation openly flashing across his features. “Is he in trouble?”
“No,” the officer responds with an easy, entertained air about him. He must have taken pity on Antonio. Arthur doesn’t understand what the problem is, it’s not his fault Francis has cut open his knees on Arthur’s birthday, and it certainly isn’t funny. “We got a call in from one of the locals that there was an omega lying in the middle of the road.”
“¡Dios Mío!"” Antonio shouts. “This is why I’m going grey—you and Francis. You’re as bad as each other.” This is followed by an outburst of some of the filthiest Spanish Arthur’s ever heard and he’s not fluent so he doesn’t pick up all of it. If the police officer’s raised brows is anything to go by, he’s understood some of Antonio’s colourful language too.
“I’m going to order a taxi—do you… do you mind waiting out here with him and I’ll drag my mate out as soon as I’m done—”
It’s very uncommon to see the easy-going Spaniard this harassed and Arthur doesn’t doubt that he’ll be pestered with guilt—and plenty of vomit—in the morning.
An arrangement is made between Antonio and the police officer, something about the officer babysitting Arthur—how very dare he—as Antonio skitters back inside the bar to tend to Francis and round him up so they can leave. The alpha makes a beeline towards his car, abandoning Arthur right away, after all that, and Arthur sits there, outraged but unable to move, until he’s forced to simmer down when the officer returns with a bottle of water in his hand.
“You should get as much water down you as you can, trust me,” he advises, as though this is Arthur’s first stint with getting plastered enough to forget what town he’s from.
Arthur accepts the bottle, narrowing his eyes at the alpha.
“I’m older than you, lad,” Arthur says with a touch of haughtiness. “I know what I’m doing.”
To his surprise, it’s the officer who bursts out with laughter this time, and it’s rich, warm laughter, too, that Arthur wishes he could bottle and carry with him for whenever he needs it. Too often, most likely.
“Sure you do,” the alpha returns, jovial and dismissive. “That’s why I’ve just had to drag you out of a road and avoid nearly being puked on.”
“I haven’t chucked up,” Arthur contests, though it’s not a claim he can make with confidence, because he might have been and forgotten about it, or his roiling stomach might see fit to contradict him at any moment.
“Dude, you were so close to, I’m gonna keep my distance, just in case.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Arthur snipes, feeling sour. “You’re not thirty-five and unshaggable. You’re… what, nineteen and disgustingly shaggable.”
Arthur has to admit, the alpha’s expression is a bit comical, the way his slim, blond brows jump up, and his handsome expression betrays how flabbergasted he is. Arthur’s especially entranced by the man’s lips, as well as how boyish he looks even with a flare of maturity. Francis would say the officer has a ‘face worthy of sitting on’.
He knows the alpha is older than nineteen—though likely not by much—as he’d been intentionally goading the alpha. It had obviously worked.
“I’m twenty eight,” the officer argues, with a healthy dose of defensiveness.
Arthur thinks he might have flustered the police officer. At the very least, there’s definitely colour high in the alpha’s cheeks that hadn’t been there before, and he seems to be struggling to meet Arthur’s eyes now.
“What’s your name?” questions Arthur.
“It’s Officer J—” He pauses to eye Arthur then sighs. “Alfred,” he finishes with a friendly shrug.
“Have I made you blush, Alfred?” the omega queries, poorly concealing the wicked satisfaction that courses through him as he catches the policeman off guard again. No doubt, he’d been relieved for the subject change, but Arthur hadn’t intended to stray away from it.
“Oh my god,” Alfred groans, rolling his eyes skyward then bringing a hand to his face. “You’re… something else. You can’t keep hitting on me, Arthur.”
Arthur sways on the bench, hiccups rattling through his chest, and he kicks at a stone under his feet. He remembers now why he’s still single at thirty five, and it’s the exact reason he’d just mentioned to Alfred. That he’s unshaggable, though it could be more complicated than that, or it could easily be condensed down to that. Arthur doesn’t know what’s worse. The alpha likely has a mate or a significant other, or, at any rate, he’ll have much better prospects than a lecherous yet stuffy omega who’s drunker than a skunk and torn between pissing himself laughing or wallowing in his own misery.
“Because I’m frumpy and old,” Arthur states, reading between the lines of Alfred’s request for Arthur not to hit on him.
Alfred might be knee-weakening to look at but Arthur is not. Why does being drunk make it slightly easier to forget that? It’s cruel.
“What? No,” Alfred answers without ceremony or pausing, looking puzzled all the while. “…I’m on duty.”
“What the bloody hell does that mean?” grumbles Arthur, no idea what the alpha means. He knows Alfred’s on duty; why else would he be in that smart get-up, sending Arthur dizzy just from looking at him.
“If I wasn’t on duty—”
Arthur’s head snaps up as it becomes instantaneously apparent what Alfred had meant and Arthur latches on to it, his heart seizing up with excitement.
“If you weren’t on duty?” he prompts, leaning into the alpha precariously.
“Nothing,” Alfred says forcefully. “You’re wasted. I just want to make sure you get home safe.”
Arthur clambers to his feet, reeling and almost bringing up his stomach contents once more. That’s happening far too often for comfort. It’s a miracle he hasn’t vomited yet. He lurches towards Alfred, much to the officer’s alarm, and the alpha instinctively reaches out to steady Arthur, grabbing his forearms.
This close, Arthur can inhale the alpha’s scent and he exhales aloud, displaying his gratification and approval in a manner that he never would if his inhibitions hadn’t packed up and flown off for a holiday. He’s embarrassing himself, he knows he is, but he can’t stop himself either. The alpha’s scent is marvellous, earthy and spiced, instilling the most exquisite sense of security and attraction in Arthur; he knows his knickers are probably wet.
“If you weren’t on duty, what?” Arthur repeats, determined, and fucking randy now.
Alfred’s eyes are blown out wide and instead of using Arthur’s arms to keep the omega close and upright, now he’s using them to push Arthur back and maintain a wide berth.
“Woah, you need to slow down. You’re— broadcasting,” the alpha explains, urgency bleeding through into his voice, as well as something else, something gravelled and barely controlled. There’s a distinct alpha authority to Alfred now that Arthur enjoys far too much. “Nothing happens when you’re drunk and I’m on duty, you understand?”
“Do you… do you fancy me though?” Arthur whispers out in a tone that surprises even him—soft, fluttery, and coquettish. Arthur’s loins seem to have overtaken his brain, recognising that there’s an alpha before him who could make him sob and shudder with ecstasy and he’s appealing to the alpha’s instincts in a way only his intuition could prompt.
Alfred stares desperately at the door to the bar before turning back to Arthur, who is making uncoordinated attempts to get closer to Alfred, eyeing the belt buckle on the alpha’s nice, dark trousers.
“You’re real pretty, Arthur,” Alfred murmurs, suddenly, gentle and earnest, like a lover’s caress. “But eyes up here, ‘kay?” And Alfred reaches to tap under Arthur’s chin before retreating.
Arthur’s chest cinches in, his heart threatening to burst, and he emits a sound that resembles a keen he might make if he’d been on the brink of orgasm.
“I will suck you off right now,” the omega promises, searing and feverish, making a stronger attempt to just reach Alfred now, his hand angling down towards the alpha’s groin. He’s blocked by Alfred’s arm, however, and the alpha turning his body away from Arthur.
With enough power to cause him to stumble, Arthur is pushed back to the bench and Alfred shoves him to sit down. Arthur’s helpless against that kind of display of strength, especially in his current state, and he finds his knees giving out and his arse meeting the metal seat before he’s even blinked, then Alfred is backing away, creating a great deal of distance between them.
“Holy shit, you need to stay there.”
The alpha is struggling for air, Arthur notices, despite being dazed and confused by how fast the alpha had moved. He’d definitely been rejected but… or, had he? Well, yes, he isn’t sucking off Alfred right now, which he wants to, but Alfred looks hot and bothered. The alpha is reflexively clenching and unclenching his hands and his pupils are wildly dilated. Arthur imagines he’s not much better off, but he isn’t trying to grapple for self-possession.
Arthur’s about to get up on his feet again, infused with resolve, he will give this alpha a blowjob, but Francis and Antonio choose that moment to hobble out of the bar. Francis’ arm is around the back of Antonio’s neck, and the French alpha is limping along with bloodstained knees, rips in both his trouser legs. He’s grinning lopsidedly, whispering and chuckling into Antonio’s ear who is begrudgingly smiling at whatever his mate has to say.
“Sorry about the wait,” Antonio tells Alfred. “The taxi should be here in a minute. Thank you for looking after the angry Englishman.”
“I’m not angry!” Arthur barks out. He’s bloody furious—how dare they arrive now, when Arthur had been so close…
“Non, mon cher, you smell horny!” Francis cries, at an obscene volume, and with utter delight. “What has been happening out here!”
“Nothing,” Arthur sulks, catching Alfred’s eye for a moment. The alpha nods at him and Arthur suspects it’s in thanks.
“That’s a shame, you are very handsome, Monsieur Police Officer,” Francis slurs at Alfred, blowing him a kiss, as off his tits as Arthur. Though he must be worse, Arthur can’t be behaving like that, surely.
Then again, he was just prepared to get down on his knees and give’s the world’s most enthusiastic blowjob on a street corner to a near stranger because said stranger had called him pretty. Maybe he’s worse.
“Uh, thanks,” Alfred says, laughing awkwardly, before gesturing towards Antonio. “You sure you’ve got it from here?”
“Sí, thank you again for looking after him, I hope he didn’t give you a hard time—Arthur likes to do that.”
This time, Alfred’s laughter is nervous. At least, Arthur thinks it is, but he can’t be sure why.
“He definitely kept me on my toes,” answers Alfred. “Please try and be more careful, Arthur, I really wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
He pauses and he’s looking directly at Arthur, and the omega finds himself holding his breath, wondering what on earth is passing through the alpha’s mind. Whatever it is the alpha had been contemplating, he seems to bolster himself up for it, only to bottle it and walk towards his car. Arthur believes that’s the last he’ll ever see of the alpha before he hears a door slam and, once again, Alfred is heading right towards him, returning to Arthur.
Alfred’s shoulders are squared and there’s a sense of determination about him. Something profound seems to pass between them as they stare at one another, Alfred getting closer, and Arthur swears he can’t be imagining that, or how the alpha is giving him heart palpitations.
“Remember what I said about drinking a lot of water.”
He pats the water bottle he’d given Arthur to emphasise his point before withdrawing. Arthur’s brow crinkles up, his pulse quickening for an entirely different reason now. That’s it, then? That’s what Alfred came back to Arthur for—to remind him to drink water? And after all that eye-fucking.
“Remember what I said about certain services I can offer,” Arthur says challengingly, hoping he’ll turn Alfred’s cheeks pink again.
It doesn’t work, and the grin Alfred throws at Arthur is brimming with confidence and mischief. It suits Alfred.
“I will.”
Then Alfred backs away, he waves at all of them, with a simple, “Goodnight, then,” before returning to his car. He doesn’t come back this time.
Francis unhooks himself from Antonio and throws himself at the bench, lolling against a disgruntled Arthur, watching with shameful clarity as Alfred’s car drives away, what a mournful and moronic picture he must make.
“You must have affected more than his toes,” Francis says, waggling his eyebrows, and bringing a scrap of paper up to Arthur’s face.
Francis’ laugh is downright filthy as Arthur snatches the paper from him and reads Alfred’s name and number scribbled on it with growing light-headedness.
“…I owe him a blowjob,” Arthur mutters, stunned that the alpha had actually bothered to leave his number after Arthur’s diabolical behaviour.
Antonio snorts and Arthur can hear the Spaniard grumbling something he said only earlier that evening.
“I leave you for five minutes…”