They first met in a coffee shop. Yeah, you guessed it—one of the hundreds of Starbucks in New York, where hundreds of strangers come together for their daily caffeine fix.
They bumped into each other—literally, they collided face-to-face and Arthur's black tea spilled out onto the floor. Alfred felt guilty, and bought him another one.
And that's how the two of them sat down in the crowded café, and started to chat.
Arthur learned that Alfred was a singer. Yep, music school and everything, he even had a job doing it.
Specifically, Alfred was a jazz singer. His band was good, they sang at gigs all across the city. Sometimes they even sang at weddings, the "fancy, expensive ones," to quote the musician himself.
Which was interesting, because Arthur really liked music. In fact, he wrote columns for several New York newspapers about new and emerging musicians.
And so both of them left with each other's number, for "business," just in case someone noticed Alfred's jazz band and they gained some fame. But really, Arthur just thought that maybe Alfred would call him.
…
Their second meeting was also not planned. There was a music festival in the village, and the promise of hot tea and the falling autumn leaves drew Arthur out of his crowded studio.
With tea acquired, he walked right into the middle of the festival, and saw several stages set up. There were crowds of all kinds, the dubstep fans and the indie fans, the scream and the rap. They all had a place to be. The very last stage set up had a small crowd, mostly with some older people surrounding it. He heard the wails of jazz music, and absentmindedly wandered over to the stage.
His mother liked jazz music. It was a sound that Arthur was familiar with, and even missed—since his moving to America he had been lacking the sounds of her jazz radio.
To his surprise, the wailing came from none other than Alfred F. Jones. And it wasn't wailing at all. He was good.
What Arthur saw on stage wasn't anything like the somewhat dorky guy he'd met at that overpriced café. No, this Alfred F. Jones could totally pull off the middle initial. He was a seemingly born performer. The song was a Frank Sinatra, something his mum would have loved to dance to, and he was handling it with all the suave that Frank himself possessed.
He listened:
Once I get you up there where the air is rarified
We'll just glide, starry-eyed
Once I get you up there I'll be holding you so near
You may hear all the angels cheer 'cause we're together
Weather-wise it's such a lovely day
Just say the words and we'll beat the birds
Down to Ac apulco Bay
It's perfect for a flying honeymoon, they say
Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away
Arthur spent more time convincing himself that Alfred didn't meet his eyes, and that he most certainly didn't wink at him than he did actually listening to the words.
When their set was done, Arthur watched Alfred disappear behind the stage. He turned around to leave when he heard his name being called.
"Arthur! Arthur, wait!" He turned back around. Alfred was there, tie undone on his neck and sans his suave black jacket.
"Good show, Alfred. It was nice to see you here."
"Are you writing an article about the festival?"
"Yes, and it may or may not include your band. I can't say."
"Oh okay. I was just curious. Well, I hope you liked it. Bye, Arthur."
"Yes, goodbye."
He turned to leave, and was stopped, yet again.
"Say, Arthur, do you maybe want to get some more coffee some time? Or maybe we could go to a bar or somethin'?"
Was he asking him out? Arthur barely knew him, but he was slightly intrigued. Something about this singer made him curious to know more, to see the dorky just-left-Berklee jazzer and his suave stage persona again.
And he must have been thinking for too long, because Alfred started to take it back.
"I mean, never mind. It's the adrenaline talking. Why would you go out with me, I mean you don't even know me and now I'll just be going so—"
"Okay." Well, why not?
"Yeah, I'm sorry I—What?"
"Okay. Yes. Coffee? Tea?" He couldn't help but smile a little at Alfred's surprise—he couldn't help but think that Alfred had thought about him enough times to come up with reasons why Arthur wouldn't date him. It was sweet.
And they parted again with a date and a smile.
…
Their first date was at the same Starbucks where they had first met, although this time, things were different. Alfred had obviously styled his hair, although his little cowlick remained at attention. He wore a button down and some dark jeans—he looked rather charming for their night out. He also had an old school bomber-jacket, like the kind that the pilots wore in WWII.
Arthur had tried to not look frumpy, and he thought he did a good job with his (lack of) fashion sense being as it was.
Alfred insisted on paying, and Arthur let him, because it was only just tea.
It was very easy to make conversation with him.
"When I was little, I saw a picture of my grand-dad in World War II. He was stationed in England and he was a pilot in the air force. I always heard stories of American soldiers bringing jazz overseas with them, but when I learned that my pop was one of them, I knew I wanted to be a jazzer. I started playing the sax after that, and then I learned how to sing jazz, too."
"Is that his jacket?"
"Oh! Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?"
"It's got character. Like you." Arthur couldn't help it: he brushed his finger against the leather on the sleeve of his jacket.
"I hope that's a good thing." A smirk.
"Maybe it is. I haven't decided yet."
It was then that they realized that they had leaned in pretty close, and almost instantaneously, they pulled back from each other. Arthur could feel his blush tingeing his cheeks red, and Alfred was avoiding his eyes.
But eventually, the conversation returned.
They left the café, and somehow Alfred convinced Arthur to let him walk him to his building. They were still chatting, and trying too hard to ignore the brushing of their hands as they walked. When they arrived at the entrance to Arthur's apartment complex, Alfred grabbed his hand, to keep him from running off.
"I had fun tonight, Arthur."
"I did as well."
"Maybe next time we could see a movie? Or we could check out the music scene?"
Arthur held back a smile. "Patience isn't really your thing, is it?"
Alfred laughed. "What can I say? I've got you under my skin."
"Frank Sinatra reference."
"You caught it. Now you have to come out with me again." He gave him the pleading eyes.
"You've got my number, call me or text me. I'm pretty busy with my articles during the week, but we can figure out a time."
"Sure. Great." He had a wonderful smile.
"Bye, Al." He didn't mean to use a nickname, but it just seemed to suit him.
Alfred leaned in and brushed his lips against his, quick and almost not there.
"Bye, Arthur." He winked; so perfect and charming that Arthur thought he might pounce. And then he was walking away, and maybe Arthur let his eyes linger on his behind, maybe he didn't even care if Alfred had kissed him too soon or not soon enough—
He had to clear his head. When he arrived in his flat, he tried to write some columns for the paper, but he couldn't. He took a shower, and tried to go to sleep. It didn't work.
It seemed that Alfred was under his skin, as well.
…
After a couple of flirty texts and perhaps too long phone conversations, they arranged another date. A couple of Al's friends were playing a gig somewhere; they apparently were gaining a nice fan-club. The lead singer of this indie group was a Hungarian girl, Elizabeta, and she had gone to college with him.
They were among the crowd, beer in hand and Arthur could easily say that she was rocking it. Liz, as Al so affectionately called her had chemistry with her pianist, "Rod," and her guitarist, "Gil," and it created a nice amount of energy for their song sets.
Arthur couldn't help it; he whipped out his phone and began to take notes on their sound. They could easily be his next article and he was excited for some inspiration.
Alfred noticed what he was doing, and Arthur realized that it probably wasn't the best thing he could be doing on a date.
"I'm sorry, I'll stop, I just—"
"Oh no, it's okay. I'm just wondering when I'll get my article." He smiled wide.
"You'll have to really impress me to get an article." That came out a little suggestive.
"I can do that." That came out as blatantly suggestive.
"You can try." Oh fuck. He might as well have added, "to screw me" to the end of that sentence.
"Oh, I can do more than try." And this was their second date? He wondered if they would even make it to the three-date rule. To be honest, he didn't think they could even make it another hour without losing some clothing.
They stood close, just sort of mesmerized by each other.
"Oh, fuck it—" Arthur pulled Alfred down by his shoulders and crashed his mouth down to his. Alfred was smiling into the kiss, and Arthur realized that he'd gotten exactly what he'd wanted, but he didn't care. It was exactly what Arthur wanted, too.
Arthur did come to his senses eventually—they were in the middle of a crowd, so he pulled away from Al reluctantly, and he all but dragged him from the crowd. Once they were out from the clump of people, Alfred led him to a door on the side of the bar.
It wasn't too big in the room, but it was nice and empty.
"Equipment storage room."
"Mmm… How convenient." And then Alfred was kissing him and if it were anyone else he'd be telling them to fuck off because they'd only known each other for three weeks and the situation was feeling a little intimate all of a sudden.
But it wasn't anyone else. It was Alfred. It was his jazzer. When did he start saying his anyway? Alfred wasn't his anything. For all he knew he could be seeing a handful of people—God knew he could get anyone he wanted.
Suddenly, he felt the need to stop kissing him.
Alfred's only response was a confused "huh?"
"I'm sorry, maybe I got too carried away."
"Don't apologize, feel free to get carried away whenever you want." He had a joking tone to his voice.
Arthur didn't return the joking mood.
"Arthur? You okay?" He put his hands on his shoulders and met his eyes intently.
"Al, you're not—I mean, is this—are we—" Arthur wasn't used to not knowing what to say. Luckily, Alfred caught his drift.
"I'm not seeing anyone else right now. Yes, this is important to me. I would call you my boyfriend if you'd let me, but I don't want to rush you. I can wait."
Oh. It was nice to have someone understand you, even through your awkward stuttering. The thought that this meant as much to Al as it did to Arthur made him strangely happy and relieved.
"Boyfriend, huh?" Arthur's finger's tangled with Al's.
"Like, I said, I can wait."
"Don't." And then they were kissing again and maybe there was some unbuttoning and a few hickeys in the process.
After a while, they heard the final claps of the audience, and they quickly had to button up and book it before the crew came in to put the speakers away.
And when they were out on the street, Arthur was the one to walk Al home. They didn't live more than two blocks from each other, so it wasn't really a big deal.
"Do you… maybe want to come up?"
A sigh. "Al, if I come up, I'll be leaving tomorrow and we both know it."
He smiled, and opened his mouth to crack a joke.
"Quit while you're ahead, luv."
Alfred pulled him into a kiss.
"I can get used to this. See you soon?"
"Oh, definitely."
…
Over the next week or two, they adjusted to being in an actual relationship. Their texting conversations became more frequent, even during the workweek. When Al wasn't rehearsing, he worked at a pretty nice music studio, fixing instruments and ordering new ones for customers—needless to say he was a little bored.
Because winter was fast approaching, they couldn't spend a lot of time outside anymore—it was cold. Their impromptu dates were nights in, a movie on Alfred's couch, an attempted dinner at Arthur's place.
Of course, Al was full of surprises. He showed up for their movie night dressed up far too nice to snog on the couch. He just winked and told Arthur that he was taking him out, and that he'd better hurry up and get dressed.
It wasn't a fancy place, but it was enough to stretch a twenty-four year old musician's budget (and yes, he'd asked, because he wanted to make sure that their age difference wasn't creepy—it wasn't, Arthur was twenty-six), so Arthur insisted they go Dutch.
When their dinner was over, Alfred came up to Arthur's apartment.
"Did you enjoy your dinner?"
"Yes, Al. Thank you for the surprise."
"I'm glad you liked it."
"There was just one thing missing, really." Arthur thought it would be fun to tease him, just a bit.
"What's that?"
"There was no sexy jazz singer there to set the mood."
He smiled with his mouth closed. "There actually was a sexy jazz singer there. He just wasn't singing."
Arthur feigned surprise. "Really! I wish I could have heard him sing something."
"Well, maybe he could sing something for you now."
"I'd like that."
Al pulled out his phone, and fiddled around with it for a second. Music began to play, a tune that Arthur vaguely recognized.
He began.
Those fingers in my hair
That sly come hither stare
He winked.
That strips my conscience bare And I've got no defense for it Cause it's witchcraft, wicked witchcraft
It's witchcraft.
The heat is too intense for it
What good would common sense for it do?
And although, I know, it's strictly taboo.
He leaned in close and sang into Arthur's ear. When you arouse the need in me
My heart says yes indeed in me
Proceed with what you're leading me to.
He put his hand on Arthur's waist and the other in his hand, and began to sway him around the floor. It's such an ancient pitch
But one I wouldn't switch
Cause there's no nicer witch than you.
There was an instrumental playing in the background—they could have danced to it.
Instead, lips crashed together and jackets fell to the floor as Arthur pushed him to his bedroom and halfway there, Al must of picked him up, because he wasn't walking, and while he felt like he was flying, he was sure it wasn't actually possible.
Once they made it to the bed, Alfred made quick work of the rest of their clothing. This was the first time they'd been naked in front of each other, and they took a moment to just observe.
Some of Arthur's thoughts included, look at those muscles, and, frighteningly enough, yum.
But after that moment, they were on each other again, hard and more than ready to continue. Arthur had the lube and Al had a condom in his wallet, and it registered that this was really happening.
And it was perfect.
Arthur could feel every movement that his long fingers made inside of him. He also felt more cared for than he had in a long time, there wasn't a minute gone by that Alfred didn't call him beautiful or perfect. Normally he would shy away from the compliments, but not then. For once, he believed that someone actually meant them.
And when Alfred was inside him, he regretted waiting even a month for this because it was just what he had needed. Alfred was surprisingly skilled in the bedroom—there was never an off moment or a second that didn't leave Arthur in sheer pleasure.
Alfred made sure than Arthur came first, stroking him off in time to his thrusting, and he followed shortly behind him.
When they were done, sated and satisfied, they lay on Arthur's bed, just sort of holding each other and smiling.
And then, out of breath and not caring at all, Alfred sang a bit more.
Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you
And the way you look tonight.Yes, you're lovely, with your smile so warm
And your cheeks so soft,
There is nothing for me but to love you,
And the way you look tonight.With each word your tenderness grows,
Tearing my fear apart
And that laugh that wrinkles your nose,
It touches my foolish heart.Lovely, never, ever change.
Keep that breathless charm.
Won't you please arrange it?
Cause I love you, just the way you look tonight.
Arthur knew it was just a song. He knew that Al didn't make up the words, not the tune. But it fit so well, like he had pulled it from the top of his head.
And being there, falling asleep in the afterglow, Arthur realized that he might just be in love with his jazzer.
Maybe his jazzer was in love with him, too.
…
Three Years Later- New York Times Building
"Now, Mr. Jones, what do you have to say about Jazz and the modern age? Do you think others will follow in your footsteps to brink about a jazz resurgence?"
"I think that would be wonderful. Jazz is great, really, but I'm just proud that I could be successful at what I really enjoy. And that I can share it with wonderful people, like my—"
"Al! You can't mention me in the article if I'm writing it!"
"Okay, okay. Scratch that from the record."
Arthur was getting all huffy.
"Oh, come on, Mr. Big-Shot reporter for the New York Times. Smile a little."
"This is my first big article, Al. And I have to write about you."
"So? What's the big deal?"
He bristled. "It's a big scoop! The Jazz Musician who has sold millions of records and had almost single-handedly caused a Jazz resurgence in this country. And I get to write about it."
"I remember a time when you wouldn't write me an article."
"Well, you've impressed me."
He winked. "I love you. Come on, babe; let's finish this interview so we can get outta here. I've got a surprise for you."
…
They went out to dinner. Arthur was blindfolded, he literally had no idea where they were going to, but when his blindfold was taken off, he was seated in the same seat he had sat in about three years ago. They were at the restaurant near their old apartments—they had moved in together when their rising careers had allowed it, and now this "nice" restaurant wasn't really a stretch on either of their incomes.
The restaurant was completely empty, except for Alfred and his band members.
"We've been together for three years today, you know. Except, now we've got some sexy jazz playing in the background."
They ate, and laughed and they couldn't stop smiling. This was the perfect anniversary, really.
When they were done, Alfred got up from his seat.
"I believe the first time you were here, you wanted there to be a jazz singer?"
Arthur smiled in excitement—he had gone to what felt like millions of Al's concerts, but they were always getting better. He loved to hear him sing.
He listened.
Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars.
Let me see what spring is like
On-a Jupiter and Mars.
In other words, hold my hand
In other words, baby, kiss me.Fill my heart with song
And let me sing for ever more.
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore.
In other words, please be true.
He came down from the stage, to come to Arthur. This had happened before, at several concerts. What was different was Alfred getting down on one knee, and pulling out a ring.
In other words, I love you.
The End
Hi. My name is Amanda and I have been addicted to Jazz for 6 years.
Songs in order of appearance/mention:
"Come Fly with Me" Frank Sinatra
"I've Got You Under my Skin" Frank Sinatra
"Witchcraft" Frank Sinatra MY FAVORITE OMG JUST LISTEN TO IT
"The Way You Look Tonight" Frank~ (so romantic)
"Fly Me to the Moon" Sinatra~(love itttt)
Oh, and I mentioned Berklee, in Boston, it's one of the best Jazz schools in the US and probably the world. One of my friends goes there for the bass and I swear they're al gonna be famous one day. I go to the other kind of music school, you know, really tough, but very classical, so none of us will ever be known by someone that's not 60+ old.
So, in conclusion, IMMA DORK.
And I needed to write something to get my inspiration back for Clockwork.
Bye~