"-n the frosty air. What a bright time-"
Alfred's eyes popped open, tired and scratchy and already begging to close back. The sun, glaring through the window, only made things worse. He rolled over onto his stomach and pushed his head under the pillow, groaning. The blankets rolled with him, hugging his body and wrapping him in a tight bundle of warmth and darkness. Heaven if not for the blaring voice of Bobby Helms.
"Shut that off," he grumbled, his voice muffled even to his own ears.
"-a swell time to go glidin' in a one horse sleigh."
"Arthur?" he asked a little louder. "Turn off your damn radio."
The room was still, aside from his roommate's clock-radio playing on, and Alfred ventured to peak out from his nice warm cocoon.
The other bed, across the room, was empty and made as neatly as it was yesterday afternoon. He stared at it for a minute, blearily, letting that sink in. Made bed meant no Arthur. Which meant he'd have to actually get up if he wanted the thing turned off. He glared at its blurry image before swiping at his eyes, rubbing away the sleep, and sitting up.
He stretched, wincing as his back popped painfully, but found himself not caring that much. His mattress sucked, but he'd only have to deal with it a couple more days, then he'd be home and in his normal bed in his own room. Sleeping late, his mom's cooking, Christmas movies and caroling, and no roommates to deal with waking him up at the crack of… he looked over at the clock on Arthur's nightstand. Ten. Could you even say the crack of ten? Eh, it was morning and he wasn't an English major. That was Arthur, and he wasn't around to gripe about him mauling the English language.
'As if he wasn't taking a machete to it last night,' Alfred thought, remembering one particular rant Arthur had gone on about three quarters of the way through the night. He still wasn't sure what Arthur'd been talking about, but he was pretty sure people had actually been able to understand Shakespeare when he talked, unlike the man yelling in his ear about The Merchant of Venice.
He'd managed to shove him off onto someone else after that, but couldn't remember who. He probably should've made sure he'd gotten home okay, but he didn't feel like playing baby-sitter. And besides, he'd known just about everyone at their 'Oh my God it's finally over' post-finals Christmas party last night. It was mostly their normal group. Alfred yawned and scratched his head. Still…
He absently reached over to the nightstand, in search of his phone, but hit wood instead of the familiar cool smooth screen.
Alfred looked over in slight alarm, hastily grabbing his glasses and shoving them on his face.
He shifted around, digging through the sheets and blankets, then under the pillow. The search quickly spread to his clothes from last night, still lying where he'd dropped them, then when that turned up nothing he braved the cold floor to look on the chest of drawers and desk and, in a last ditch effort, under the bed. Still nothing.
That wasn't good.
"I'm getting nuttin' for Christmas. Mommy and Daddy are mad. I'm getting nuttin' for Christmas-"
"Oh shut up."
He'd only had that phone for a few months, but he'd spent just as many begging for it before that. If he couldn't find it his parents were going to kill him.
He'd had it last night. He remembered texting Lovi from the party, asking him why he hadn't came, then proceeding to whine at him for staying locked up in the pottery building.
But he couldn't remember having it when he came back to the apartment.
"Fuckin' A," he sighed, raking his hand through his hair.
He glanced around his room for a minute; suddenly feeling very lost and cut off from the world, before looking down at his laptop. He stared at it for a moment before grabbing it and plopping down once again on the bed. It was a little risky, but if he posted a message maybe he'd get some info from someone before his parents saw it. It was Sunday. They'd be at church for another two hours. He'd just have to delete the evidence before noon.
He never posted it.
He got as far as typing in the first half of the address before noticing his email icon, specifically the fact that he'd gotten 27 messages overnight. He wasn't completely certain he wanted to know why.
There was a long line of Facebook notifications. He clicked on one randomly.
Feliks Łukasiewicz posted on your Wall
"Cool. Took you guys long enough"
He stared at the screen for a second as a sick sense of foreboding started to gather in his gut, before going back to his inbox and looking at the messages again. They were almost all from Facebook, except for one from his brother, sent in the middle of the night:
"Al, check facebook now!"
And another:
"We need to talk. Call me."
And another, sent just about an hour ago:
"…you idiot."
Matt calling him an idiot wasn't really anything new, at one point it was pretty much a daily occurrence, but somehow this time it felt like a punch to the gut.
With a short click on the mouse he back out of the message and looked down at the first bolded subject line:
Francis Bonnefoy tagged you in a photo on facebook.
He clicked on the message, then through the link…
And stilled, finding himself staring at the picture he'd taken of him and Lovino a few days ago. The one his boyfriend had nearly killed him over. The one he'd promised to delete. The one that had just outed them both.