Chapter Text
Alfred didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary to happen today. Really, he didn’t. Maybe that’s why God has decided to bless him with an unwanted roommate from the Middle Ages.
The knight, he didn’t really have a name to call him, is currently asleep in his bed, dead to the world. If Alfred didn’t know better, he would’ve thought he was dead, what with the way he’s hardly moved in the hour he’s had him here. He isn’t sure his mattress can take the strain of heavy, plated iron armour and thick, steel boots. For what it’s worth, it looks pretty realistic, for a cosplayer that is: leather under armour peaks out beneath his gloves, chainmail hanging around the man's neck and joints, even a helmet that covers his entire skull. Currently, the cosplayer’s face is obscured beneath an elaborate steel visor, Alfred unsure whether or not to remove it. But that isn’t the most impressive part. Off to the side, and leaning against his bedside table, is a sword. Using his limited knowledge, he guesses it’s a two-handed sword, a dark and well-kept leather handle just adding to the whole knight effect. At the top of the sword’s handle is something he’s never seen before: a welded rose, its gilded petals in full bloom, vines made of silver wrapping around the hilt with thorns engraved into the crossguard.
Wow, this guy must be rich-rich, he thinks as he takes up the sword.
It’s heavy, too. Clearly not cardboard. Alfred can just about manage to hold it in one hand, the grip a bit too large for him. Slowly, he swings it around in a wide arc. It’s barely able to cut through the air, tipping to one side so much he has to adjust himself. The actual blade of the sword appears sharp, not dull as he expected, and makes a very satisfying swoosh! sound. All in all, the larper’s whole get-up must have cost a pretty penny, especially since it was fully functional. The tip digs into the carpeted floor as he wonders what to do with the man in his bed, Alfred leaning idly on the sword. Maybe that isn’t his brightest idea, as he promptly loses his balance and falls on his ass, the sword clattering on top of him. A stinging pain itches from his arm, his short sleeved ‘ I Love NYC!’ shirt doing nothing to protect him from the honed edge of the man’s weapon.
“Ouch!” He yelps, sucking in a breath.
It isn’t anything more than a paper cut, and doesn’t really hurt, but his over dramatic reaction is more than loud enough to stir the cosplayer. The man twitches, a whole body movement that creeps Alfred out, his hand reaching for a weapon he couldn’t find. He freezes. Alfred tries to shake off the very unwelcoming vibe the larper is giving off, pointing to the glass of water on his bed stand despite the fact he knows the man can’t see it, probably looking stupid still splayed out on the floor.
“So, welcome to the land of the living! Don’t know what you drank, man, but you were out like a light. Don’t worry, I saved you! No need to thank me.”
The knight doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. Hardly breathes. If Alfred hadn’t seen the man’s spasm earlier he would’ve thought he was still asleep.
“I know my bed’s comfy and all, but you’ve gotta at least acknowledge me here. I’m talking to you, dude.” He sits up a little, the blade still resting on his lap, annoyance twinging his voice.
The scream the man lets out is perhaps the most guttural, terrifying sound Alfred has ever heard.
*Five Hours Earlier*
Alfred approached his apartment, a tiny thing on the ground floor of a towering building, a packed-full grocery bag hanging from each arm. The one-bedroom one-bathroom place he called home wasn’t much to see, right at the front of the building so he could hear the loud rush of cars on the highway whilst trying to sleep—just how he liked it. The ceiling was far too low and the doors far too short, all made of a wood that he was sure wasn’t structurally sound. Alfred could admit, it was crap, but finding anywhere this close to college was a miracle sent from on high.
Sliding his worryingly flimsy key into the lock and somehow managing to keep his shopping from spilling, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him with a slam, certain he splintered the entrance.
“Honey, I’m home!”
Stained carpet and the smell of mildew greeted him.
Taking extra time to make sure he put all of his food away properly, lest he leave something out to spoil when he couldn’t afford to, he glanced around the liminal space he lived in. White was what the carpet’s colour was listed online, but in person it was much more of a piss-yellow. White, again, was what the walls were supposed to be, various stains and dents taking away from the clean look it was meant to have. White, he was noticing a pattern here, light illuminated his two rooms artificially, casting them in an ambient glow. The one splash of colour he had splurged on were plush purple curtains made of a fake velvet material, draped over his bedroom window to grant him the tiniest bit of privacy. There was no rug on the floor to quell the everpresent draft, no bookshelves to hold his frankly lacklustre college textbooks, and no microwave to cook his food. A quilt embroidered with the American flag was his brother’s self-proclaimed perfect gift to him—although he couldn’t complain too much when it was the only thing getting him through winter. He did, however, have a plump leather armchair in the corner of his living room, the only thing about his apartment he loved. He also had a lumpy, uncomfortable, and falling apart sofa. Truly, Alfred was blessed here.
Once he put away his meagre groceries and refilled the sugar jar, Alfred resigned himself to hours of studying. Nobody ever said an engineering degree would be easy, but if he knew how much work it truly was he might’ve actually considered joining his brother in Canada. As it was, he hadn’t done much actual engineering. His goal of building a massive robot to stop global warming seemed far, far away.
After what he decided was an adequate amount of study, Alfred shut his laptop carefully—he’d learnt his lesson from last time—and went to put his dishes in the sink before turning in for bed. His stomach wasn’t exactly full, he doubts he’s ever been full, but he’s as happy as he’s going to get with a tv dinner. Not the healthiest thing in his fridge, Heaven knows Matthew would chew him out for it, Alfred not being in the mood to waste his time with cooking. Baking was always better with someone else, anyways, be that his brother or someone special.
With a groan his neighbours no doubt heard, Alfred begrudgingly stood from his armchair, leaving its warmth behind. He plugged his laptop in to charge, silently praying it wouldn’t catch fire like last time, shoving it out of sight just in case. The moment he saw his bed, all of his worries melted away; so what if his lecturer had the thickest accent known to man, so what if he flunked his last English test, his sweet bed beckoned him. He crossed the threshold, all but floating Looney-Tunes style.
Before he could even pull back the duvet, a deafening crash came from outside his window. Lights flashed and thundered, a mix of purple and orange and all of the colour of the sunset that Alfred could recognise, blinding him. He staggered back, grasping at his bedside table for balance as his vision was all but gouged out. He panted, heavy and out of breath despite not moving from his spot, as if all of his energy had been pulled out from him. It left him feeling weaker, possibly weaker than he had ever felt, cold sweat coating his skin. Shivering, he glanced around the room, tense, on edge. Something was wrong.
Then, cutting through his silence and fear like a burning knife, a familiar sound drew his attention. It was quiet, a tad far away with such a repetitive shrill it was already starting to get on his nerves.
My car alarm?
He managed to fight the urge to go out there and give whoever was pestering his car a piece of his mind for about two minutes. Maybe that was what that flash was, his indicators? Shoving open his cardboard-like door with more force than necessary, Alfred marched into the parking-lot. In the low light it was hard to see where exactly he was going, so he settled on just wandering around aimlessly until he got close enough to see. However, small fractions of light caught his eye near his parking spot, guiding him easily. Alfred felt even more pissed now. If whoever this was decided to dent his perfectly working car, there would be hell to pay. Oddly enough, the silver light reminded Alfred of when he’d wrapped up his brother in tinfoil for Halloween, making Matthew the best Iron Man he’d ever seen. It moved similarly, tiny fractals of light bouncing off one another.
“Oh God, please don’t tell me they’re a conspiracy theorist. I hate their stupid hats.” Alfred mumbled to himself, taking in a shaky breath.
With the distant hum of cars from the nearby highway drowning out all other noise, he didn’t think the mysterious person wrecking his property would be too close; evidently, he was wrong, as he immediately heard foreign and creepy mutterings coming from just ahead of him. In the low light, he had to squint to make out the figure. They weren’t that much smaller than himself, maybe a couple of inches, currently doubled over and gripping onto their thighs for dear life. The man didn't appear to see Alfred, his masked face staring directly down, eyes probably squeezed shut. His car, a somewhat shabby Toyota Corolla, was thankfully unharmed, all the dents having been made by Alfred’s own mistakes. He let out a thankful sigh.
Apparently, that was enough to draw the man’s attention. His masked face glanced upwards, skimming over Alfred as if he couldn’t see him. Alfred took this opportunity to really take in the man in front of him. His face wasn’t covered by a mask as he had previously thought: no, it was covered by a pretty solid knight’s helmet. If the way the lamppost’s light bounced off of it was any indicator, it was real metal, the slightest cuts and grooves just barely visible. It even had a little visor to obscure the man’s face, trying the whole outfit helmet together. There, Alfred came face to face with a very confused and distressed knight.
“Dude, what’re you doing? Are you drunk?” He crossed his arms over his chest, staring down at the stranger.
Haggard and desperate breathing was all he received as a reply, the knight’s trembling hands clutching at a sword Alfred hadn’t noticed previously as it were his life-line. The knight was panting, much more so than Alfred was earlier, grasping at his iron chestplate frantically. His covered face swivelled around wildly, before stopping to a halt, staring at Alfred with wide eyes beneath his steel visor.
He stepped forward, faltered, stepped again, then collapsed. Alfred managed to move just in time to shoulder some of the man’s weight, making his fall to the floor more of a stumble. With a sigh, Alfred heaved the man into his arms, readying himself to carry the cosplayer—because who else would be out at night in full iron armour?—bridal style.
“Alright, don’t worry, you can come home with me. Because I’m- Jesus , you’re heavy. Because I’m the hero!”
*Five Hours Later*
The scream the man lets out is perhaps the most guttural, terrifying sound Alfred has ever heard. If he were standing, Alfred’s sure he would’ve jumped from how much that startled him. It’s a desperate sound, the cry of a man who’s lost everything. And it chills him to the bone. The man is silent after that, simply his heavy breathing filling the air around them. Not an inch does the cosplayer move, and from the floor Alfred can’t see the man’s eyes beneath his steel visor, leaving him thoroughly unnerved.
“Well… that was a reaction. Little intense there man.” Finally regaining his wits, Alfred pulls himself off the floor and instead leans against the wall, his eyes never leaving the strange man in his bed.
In retrospect, maybe bringing an inebriated stranger into his house (with a sword no less!) wasn’t the smartest thing to do—if Mattie found out, he’s sure he’d receive a whole lecture on the subject and lose the privilege of his house keys. But what kind of hero would leave his fellow man in danger like that? Not a good one, that much he’s certain. So, it’s with the utmost hesitation that Alfred pushes himself off the wall he’s leaning against and instead approaches the knight. If he wasn’t staring so intently at the man, Alfred’s certain he would've missed the cosplayer’s slight flinch at his sudden closeness.
“There’s a glass of water for you on the table just there-” He points to the left of the knight and swears he sees his eyes dart there before pulling back.
“And I’ve got uncrustables if you’re hungry.” Shrugging, he stays where he is, feeling the teensiest bit awkward.
The cosplayer, surprise surprise, doesn’t answer, instead opting to stare up at the ceiling. Due to the man’s visor, Alfred can’t see his expression, and he doesn’t want to risk getting too close in case the man starts screaming again. Honestly, he’s surprised his neighbours haven’t come pounding on his door yet to complain about all the noise.
The atmosphere is thick with not tension, Alfred is pretty sure the cosplayer was too out of it to actually attack him, but discomfiture as he waits for a reply.
Wait. How do I know this guy even speaks English? Alfred runs a hand through his hair, exasperated.
“Uh, okay, high school Spanish here we go! ¿Está aumentando el hambre?” He’s pretty sure that makes sense. Probably.
At the lack of reply yet again, he deflates a little. He could try French, but his brother has always been better at that, the little freak.
“Je te boirai? Oui oui?” Alfred even tries to put on a little accent as he speaks, but he ends up sounding more like the chef from The Muppets than a sexy Frenchman.
Suddenly, the knight jolts up, his eyes wide enough to see beneath his visor. Alfred can just about see the man’s heavy breathing quicken its pace, growing harsher. His back is straight, rigid, Alfred locked beneath his steely gaze. A million thoughts seem to be racing in the man’s mind, and it was in this moment that Alfred wishes he could see the face beneath the mask and try to decipher his expression, to understand what exactly was causing the stranger in his bed such alarm. The man—he really needs to ask his name—yet again reaches around for his sword, which is currently laying tossed aside on the floor. Then, he exhales slowly, a sound of resignation. His breathing is just as fast-paced as before, but now appears to be calming the slightest bit.
This dude just keeps getting weirder, Alfred thinks as he awkwardly avoids the knight’s piercing gaze.
“Cool. Well, I’m gonna go get you that uncrustable.” He says a bit lamely, giving the cosplayer one last look before heading into his poor-excuse of a kitchen.
He leaves his bedroom door open—partly to keep an eye on the stranger and mostly because it doesn’t close properly anyway. At least he now knows the knight recognises French, although that doesn’t say much; too many places speak French, he could be anything from Canadian to Algerian. So, he resigns himself with shoving some food in the toaster and hoping the man doesn’t rob him.
After what feels like an eternity his uncrustables pop out of the toaster, piping hot and ready to be eaten; he even plates them on one of his very few china dishes, more of a cheap porcelain if he’s being honest, with a real metal fork. With a flourish, he swings back open his bedroom door, a smile on his face as he’s ready to feed his weary and weird houseguest.
“What the fuck?”
The first thing Alfred notices is the missing sword. The next thing he notices is the mediaeval knight currently holding a sword to his throat.