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Alfred waded through the crowd one step at a time, cup of watered-down coffee in one hand and the other holding tightly onto his briefcase. It was slung around him as per usual, muted pain sadistically settling itself onto his shoulder blades. Safely tucked away in his breast pocket the wooden key card seemed to burn. People pressed and shoved against him in a manner that, when he had first entered the large hall, he would have described as chaotic. Lacking any sort of reason.
Soft golden light oozed from the opulent chandelier that hung from the ceiling some two dozen feet above the sea of bodies that ebbed and flowed on the floor below. It refracted through the innumerable glass shards that hung along its delicate golden curves to cast a smattering of rainbow specks across the room, upon the tastefully painted and patterned walls, the dark wood of the reception desks, on the conglomerate of heads of damp hair.
Light music flowed from speakers hidden from sight. Shortly after their maiden voyage the airy notes were rudely trampled upon by squelching boots and dangerously sharp heels, the low din of the sea almost drowning them out entirely. Alfred had always had sharp ears, though, and he was certain that he could hear remnants of sunkissed notes before they disappeared. He decided he liked the tune.
But, really, who were they kidding? The wispy rainbows, the bossa nova, they never stood a chance against the sudden summer thunderstorm. A shame, such pretty little things going unacknowledged and unappreciated.
Far too much time later and somewhere near the end of the hall, Alfred now believed that, no, there was some sort of pattern in the way passers-by bumped into him. One solid bump per inhale, two shoves per exhale, and a half-assed elbow in between the two.
Maybe everyone here was a paid actor and this was some sort of test. What he was being tested on, he couldn’t say. Maybe he’d been abducted by aliens and this was some sort of simulation they’d made to study human behavior. Unfortunately for him (the lone human in this scenario), it was an accurate simulation.
The line for the elevators looked annoyingly long, and the countless grouchy officials from god-knows-where, representatives from who-the-fuck-cares and egregious number of other people who stood in said lines looked disgustingly determined to use them. He chewed on it for a moment before turning his heel and heading towards the no doubt vacant stairwell.
His thighs would scream and his knees would kill him for it, but a near murderous aura seemed to emanate from the upper floors of the obscenely fancy hotel and the downpour outside was now starting to aggressively throw itself against the floor-to-ceiling glass panes of the lobby.
Unlike the rainbows and airy music, a certain someone could not seem to bear the thought of being trampled upon. And so up the stairs he went.
The room was blissfully warm, hotel thermostat working in its inhabitants’ favour for quite possibly the first time in human history. The door quietly clicked shut behind him. Beyond the short hallway poured out vestiges of lamplight that stained the dark, half-drawn curtains gold. Angry clouds swirled above the skyline outside. The rain pattered unrelentingly against the window.
“How is it,” he started, taking off his shoes and soaked socks before stepping in further, “that it rains every single time you’re here? Not even regular rain either, a goddamn downpour!”
“And yet despite noticing this pattern, you consistently fail to plan ahead,” came a low voice from somewhere in the room. It carried with it a carefully practiced placid tone.
He turned the corner to see a man with straw-coloured hair sitting at the wooden desk next to the bed, pocket journal in hand. He wore a three-piece suit of which the suit jacket had definitely been neatly hung in the wardrobe. Along with the kettle, on the table also sat a standard white teacup upon its matching saucer, teaspoon ready and waiting.
Multicoloured sachets of tea sat next to the setup, deliberated upon for far too long (Alfred didn’t understand the point of the charade - the man only ever drank Earl Grey in the evenings anyway). His chest rose and fell rhythmically, soft breaths filling the room.
To an average person he looked like a stereotypical English gentleman. To Alfred, however.
He placed his cup down before flinging his damp suit jacket and briefcase onto the luggage rack, earning him a string of tuts. Pulling out a paper bag from one of the briefcase compartments, he made his way towards the man who was pretending to be keenly interested in whatever cursive was on the journal page. “Arthur, are you cross?”
A beat of silence, and then, “I’m afraid I’m fairly busy right now.”
“Aw don’t be like that!” He held out the bag beneath the man’s nose. “I got you your favourite cookies. And look, they’re not even wet!”
“I refuse to have that sugary abomination with my tea.”
“Arthur,” Alfred whined as he set the bag on the tabletop. The man did not move, still staring at the same page. The back of his neck was tinged with a hue of pink Alfred wanted to savour, to spread. He bent and held his chin, gently pointing the man’s face at his own.
Celadon eyes stared back at him, flanked by impressively thick eyebrows. “Arthur,” repeated softly this time, moving his face closer to the other man’s, so close that he could feel his warm breath upon his skin. Hints of bergamot filled whatever little space was left between them.
“I don’t pay you to be late,” he whispered, dropping the placidity.
“You don’t pay me at all.”
“I told you to be here at six. Sharp.”
“Well, what time is it?”
“Quarter to.”
“I never understood that, ‘quarter to’,” Alfred complained, tearing himself away from the other man with considerable difficulty, sitting on the bed. As close to him as possible despite it. “Quarter to what? Why are you guys against just saying the damn time?”
“If you'd spare your overpriced watch a glance, you'd know what I meant by ‘quarter to'.”
“Whatever. You literally just finished your tea anyway, don’t act like you’d have tolerated me before that. Before your cuppa.”
It was late. Well. Not late late, but Alfred’s day had started far earlier than should be considered humane, so he’d appreciate it if the record could mention that. Arthur shoved his shoulder. Lightly, yes, but Alfred wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
With a grunt he flopped his upper body onto the bed, closing his eyes and committing himself to not moving for at least the next twenty minutes. He loosened his tie. His lower back screamed and he couldn't ignore it, slightly arching himself above the mattress until it calmed.
The other man began to shuffle around the room (but not before flicking the switch of the table lamp off), rustling of expensive fabric harmonizing with the now light pitter patter of raindrops outside. Thunder still roiled and rumbled in the distance. Alfred took in a deep breath - the mild scent of fabric softener still clung to the bedsheets, mixing with his cologne and the faint musk that had accumulated on him over the course of the day.
(Lunch couldn't have come fast enough if the rate at which the hall was being emptied was anything to go by.
Not that he was judging. That would be hypocritical considering that he too was waiting in the far-too-long line for the elevator just to eat mediocre food. Its mediocrity wouldn't be as off-putting if there was something (someone) else to entertain him, but alas. His colleagues were great, obviously. But good god. He needed to see a new face or he was going to lose it.
Multilingual chatter swirled around him, volume fluctuating as each group passed. English, Spanish, German, Hindi, French, Mandarin, Arabic, Japanese, they all formed a sort of multilingual mush. Despite the light shoving it was ridiculously easy for him to space out. It was honestly a little comforting. Now, most people in his life considered him to be insane for this - you can love people all you want, Alfred, but that just sounds deranged.
And yeah. Sure. If you'd only ever been in bad crowds emanating bad vibes then it was but natural to hate them. But a good crowd was like an organ, moving rhythmically like a steady heart. A good crowd was warm with life. It was in those crowds that he felt like a human being, like a part of a whole. A cog in a machine, a pessimist would say, and to that he had no answer. But he liked it anyway.
He felt something shift in his back pocket, rectangular and slim. It took him a while to fish it out, what with maneuvering in any direction but forward in this kind of crowd not being all that easy, but he managed eventually. A sleek wooden card from some ostentatious hotel (the hotel's name was debossed onto the damn thing, golden letters flashing as the overhead lights shone onto them) stared up at him from his palm, taped to it a note made with paper carefully torn out from one of those little notepads they'd all been given.
Room 2104. Six o’clock. It read in delicate cursive.
If he even tried to look around for Arthur he was sure that (a) he would bump his head into the French diplomat shuffling next to him, and (b) said diplomat would kill him slowly and painfully. Six o'clock couldn't come fast enough.)
Static stars danced across his eyes against an indescribable dark backdrop, a fusion of blood and flesh and rainclouds. “How was work?”
A light scoff sounded from somewhere in the room. “You were sitting right across from me for most of it.”
“Yeah, across. Not next to. I didn’t even get to talk to you.”
“Work was as per usual. Tiring. Stressful. Annoying.”
“Worth it?”
“That depends almost entirely on how the next week is going to go.”
“Hm.”
More shuffling around, more rustling, more rain. If he was at home he'd have fallen asleep then and there, rhythmic tapping luring him to the land of dreams. The first day of these summits was often the hardest - hours and hours of research and writing and revisions and re-revisions beforehand just to be thrown out an hour into the first session.
The constant chatter of representatives and their translators, fake plastic smiles plastered onto everyone's face in hopes of preventing an absolute diplomatic fallout, the clicking and shuttering of cameras, having countless facts and figures at the tip of his tongue, eyes never gifted respite from tortuous blue light. Clacking of keyboards and grinding of teeth. Fake greetings, feigned interest.
Days and weeks of this just for some senile asshole to blow it all up in a few minutes, months and years of repair.
The phone rang then, shrill preset ringtone blasting from the bedside. Aggressive stomping, a slam of a hand on wood, a muttered string of curses. A resigned sigh, the tapping of a nail on a screen. “Kirkland,” said in the same practiced placid tone as before.
He didn't mind this one façade though, he could never mind Arthur. If asked, he wouldn't be able to explain exactly why. Maybe because he was privy to his real personality, given blanket permission to peel away the façade layer by layer. To expose what was really underneath. Maybe because he had given Arthur the same permission. Maybe because he didn't have to worry about appearances, about starting a diplomatic incident.
“Dinner? When?” Arthur said into the phone, mildly surprised. “Half an hour?”
Alfred cracked open his eyes, exhaustion seeping into his bones and making him feel floppy. He'd never fault Arthur for it, these kinds of things being unpredictable. Some discussion postponed again and again until the moon had long since started its ascent. With a light groan he slowly propped himself up onto his elbows.
Green eyes met blue.
“Terribly sorry, I'll have to skip this one. Seem to be coming down with something.”
Huh.
“Oh, no, please don't worry, just got caught in the bloody downpour for too long.”
Arthur walked up to him from where he stood near the window. The curtains were still half drawn, letting in dull rays of gray light. Standing like this in the otherwise dark room the outline of his profile glowed gently silver, less defined as before with his vest removed and his shirt untucked.
“Damn cab line was too long. Really, is it too much to expect for transport to be arranged?”
He gently pressed Alfred's chest with his index, pushing him back onto the bed. Garbled voices sounded from the phone, so quiet that he really shouldn't be able to hear them. Especially over the rush of blood in his ears.
“Yes, yes I should be fine by tomorrow.”
Arthur loosened his own (disgustingly fancy) tie, throwing it across the room with a kind of callousness reserved for ratty socks. He loomed over him, half-lidded eyes sharp and observing.
“Yes, you take care too now.”
He straddled him then, slowly and gently setting down his weight as his thighs enveloped Alfred's torso. He placed his palm on Alfred's chest as he adjusted himself and he felt heat wash over him, definitely going somewhat cross-eyed. Either the light was playing tricks on him or a pretty blush adorned Arthur's cheeks.
“Goodnight.”
The call cut off and Alfred couldn't tell you who hung up. In a languid movement the other man reached to place the phone onto the bedside table, deliberately pressing against him with a touch more pressure than necessary as he did so, and Alfred fought to stifle a groan.
Arthur stared down at him and despite the blush his expression was unreadable, eyes half-lidded and shadowed. Alfred had never felt more exposed. Alfred had never felt so at ease. Call it what you want, he loved being looked at.
Well, he loved it when Arthur looked at him.
Alfred squirmed a bit, wiggled around underneath the other man to get comfortable. His legs were still hanging off the bed and that really wasn't what his back needed at this stage.
In a sudden movement Arthur flopped himself onto the bed to Alfred's left, mimicking his position and letting out a long sigh.
“God, you're too old to be moving around like that.”
“Says you, with the back of a senior citizen.”
“Hey!” Alfred yelled out, because it wasn't like it hurt for no reason. Hell, he'd bet that if a highschooler had to sit on some fuckass chair bent over a laptop all day they'd have a sore back too.
His defenses died in his chest when Arthur turned to look over at him, fingers gently brushing across his face. They traced his brows, his hairline, his jaw, his nose. Celadon eyes watched intently as he gently pressed the soft flesh of his lips, thumb moving around and exposing flashes of teeth. Arthur smiled and he couldn't understand what was so funny.
Alfred moved to bite the offending thumb, but perhaps in the same way he knew the man's habits, the way he committed them to memory, the other man also knew his. Quickly he pulled his hand away, right before teeth could sink into skin. Instead, graceful fingers quickly made their way to the bridge of his nose, gently plucking off his glasses.
Arthur balanced himself on one hand as he bent over Alfred to place them on the bedside table - like this, the pale skin of his neck laid exposed, and Alfred could make out hints of his cologne. It didn't take much effort to crane his neck, to brush his lips over his low collar. Arthur held his breath. He grazed his teeth against the soft expanse and he could tell that it had been perfumed not all that long ago.
“Sorry ‘m late,” he muttered against the other man's neck, quietly relishing the way he could feel the resulting vibrations ripple under his skin. “‘s getting stuff ready for tomorrow. Lost track of time.”
Arthur shifted back, arm wobbling under his weight and Alfred took that as a sign to place his hands on the man's narrow hips, adjusting their position and guiding him to settle above his chest while he languidly kissed along his jaw.
“You're here now,” Arthur breathed out between muted gasps, undoing the buttons of Alfred's shirt, “that's what matters.”
“Could’ve told them off and been here sooner.”
Above him the other man huffed out a laugh. “You brushing people off. When pigs fly.”
Some time later they laid underneath the heavy comforter, pleasantly sore and drowsy.
“How was work?” Arthur asked once his breathing evened out. The sky was still streaked with clouds, obscuring the city skyline. Faint light managed to finagle its way in all the same. Gently it outlined his face where it laid contently on Alfred’s bare chest, illuminating it just enough to make out his features. Not that he needed the light, of course. He had long since committed every feature of his face to memory.
Like a lovestruck teenager he couldn't help the dopey smile that spread across his face. “Well, I don't wanna jinx anything. And don't tell anyone I told you this, y’hear?” he said with faux seriousness as he carded his hands through straw-coloured hair. “I was having a really, honestly, truly terrible day. Not bad enough for the books but bad enough to just want it to get over with. And then, sitting right across me, I saw the most handsome man I've ever seen in my life.”
Arthur smacked his chest with no real force, any real annoyance behind the gesture neutralized by the rosy tint to his cheeks and lips that couldn't quite be scared away by the scowl he was failing to muster. “Idiot.”
“It's true! This guy, gosh, he looked so… dignified. Regal. I don't know what such a gorgeous person was doing in such a drab, depressing place like that. He should be in a library or something. He seems like the type of person to read, like, Shakespeare or some shit for fun.”
A quiet chuckle sounded from the other man. He continued, softly this time, “Say, d'you think if I asked him out on a date he'd say yes?”
Arthur hummed, shifting up and resting his forehead against Alfred's own. His eyes were closed and it only seemed fair for Alfred to do the same.
“I think he'd do anything you'd ask of him.”