“Every time you kiss me, it feels like you’re holding your breath,” Alfred says. His voice is shaky and Arthur glances up from his cup of tea. “Like you’re bracing yourself.”
“I’ve never really been a good kisser.” Is Arthur’s response. He snorts, lightheartedly. Alfred doesn’t return his smile. Arthur clears his throat. “Do you mind picking up some milk next time you get the groceries? We’re running awfully low-”
“I need to have this conversation,” Alfred says. He’s looking at Arthur with those steely blue eyes and Arthur can barely hold contact. Alfred’s hand is on his chin when he averts his eyes back into his teacup, tilting his head back up almost forcefully. Arthur’s gasp is quiet. “Please. Please, just look at me. Just talk to me.” Alfred’s desperate, it seems. “It’s been months since I’ve…” His grip softens. That warm tanned hand of his takes to cradling the side of Arthur’s face and Arthur flinches away, just momentarily, before a look of hurt flashes across Alfred’s face and Arthur stills. “I told you I loved you three months ago and you haven’t said it back. It’s not that you have to, you don’t have to, but I just… I wish you’d just talk to me. I keep bringing it up but you always deflect me, and… I wish we could talk about it. Arthur. Do you love me?”
Arthur lies. He wishes he didn’t. “I don’t know.”
Alfred sighs. It’s pained, but he seems relieved. “That’s okay. There’s no pressure. You know I’d never pressure you into anything, Artie.”
Arthur’s chest burns. In the metaphoric sense, of course, because physically, he’s perfectly fine. Alfred’s attempting to chip at the concrete exterior of Arthur’s heart and the shrapnel’s embedding into Arthur’s chest, so it burns. But he’s physically fine. He feels no remorse, and that scares him. Because Alfred’s on the brink of tears and Arthur should feel some remorse, shouldn’t he?
“But we need to talk about these things. We need to communicate. We can’t keep these things under a lock and key, I need to know this is going somewhere. That I’m not ‘ignoring the signs’ like everyone keeps telling me I am- Arthur, I believe in this. Do you?”
Arthur wonders what relationship column Alfred’s read to make him think this way. He wonders if it’s Alfred’s friends again, telling him to stay away from Arthur Kirkland. Arthur thinks ruefully that Alfred ought to have listened to them. “I haven’t got the faintest idea what you’re on about.”
Alfred sighs again. He closes his eyes. His brows furrow, as if there’s a pinching headache between them. “Do… do you trust me?”
Arthur doesn’t lie. “… no.”
And Alfred doesn’t seem to be surprised. His tears, however, threaten to spill over. “Will you ever trust me?”
This is Alfred’s big character flaw. The only fault, it seemed, that he had, in all that beautiful loving body of his. Those big, beautiful, naive eyes. That he was willing to do anything to make this work.
Arthur doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know. But it seemed Alfred got all he needed from Arthur’s silence. He stands up, palms soaking the tears from his eyes. “Arthur, I… I love you. Will you let me help? I want to help, I know I can-”
“You can’t always be a hero. Save yourself the trouble and leave me,” Arthur says. Alfred’s eyes are wide but Arthur’s tone isn’t aggressive. It’s calm. It’s advice. Alfred waits for more but Arthur turns back to his tea so Alfred gets up. He leaves.
Arthur’s face is wet but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t sob. He lets the tears fall onto his lips where they leave a salty aftertaste, and when the taste becomes unbearable, he wipes them away.
He loves the way Alfred’s arms wrap around him. He loves the way his name falls from Alfred’s lips, the way those lips kiss him so sweetly, so gently. He loves Alfred Jones. He loves him when he’s annoying, when he’s loud, when they fight, but he supposes it’s too late to say anything now.
Arthur’s always late. He’s late to cry, he’s late to feel the remorse coursing through his veins. He’s trapped between barriers of his own construction, and he knows there’s something wrong with him. He wants to take a pair of pliers and force himself open, to pull everything out from inside him and put himself in Alfred’s warm, caring hands, because god, he wants to, but he doesn’t trust Alfred Jones. He can’t. He mustn’t. He tells himself that there’s no possible guarantee it can be safe.
So he doesn’t tell Alfred he loves him. He doesn’t do anything because that would make it harder when Alfred finally leaves, finally tires of him. Of course, it’s this vicious cycle of self-preservation that tips the scales, because now, Alfred is gone, and Arthur’s stupid. He’s stupid. He doesn’t deserve a chance at happiness when he can’t stop ruining everything.
Arthur can’t stop hurting Alfred Jones. He can’t give Alfred what he deserves, anything more than their shallow, aimless relationship. The shallow, aimless conversation, kisses, cuddles.
So he does Alfred one last favor and watches him leave.
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