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[Day 1]

"Close to You"

POKING AND PRODDING

Despite the fact that their relationship has lasted nearly half a decade, Alfred has yet to have sex with his beloved boyfriend.

No, he doesn't know how that's possible, either. They had stumbled together at the peak of the new millennium — Alfred only sixteen, and Arthur three years his senior — in what can only be described as a whirlwind romance. Any other couple in their position would have been all over each other, blaming either the heady influence of teenage hormones or the equally-intoxicating fear that the apocalypse would descend on their heads at any moment. But that hadn't been the case with Alfred and Arthur.

They had come close — oh, God, they had come so close, but some unknown power (fate? subconscious judgment?) always pulled them apart at the last moment. If it wasn't premature ejaculation (their old enemy), then it was Alfred's cat, Superman, with his persistent, mood-killing meows and skritches at Alfred's bedroom door, or Arthur's forever-changing roommate, returning after an alcoholic dorm party to find two partially-nude boys making out on his bed. Four years of what felt like a secret cock-blocking conspiracy, and Alfred is pretty much convinced that some higher being out there just doesn't want him sticking his dick inside Arthur or Arthur putting his inside him.

Not that he has a major problem with what they already do. It hadn't taken him long to find out that Arthur is an absolute fiend with his mouth and his tongue and occasionally his teeth, too, if Alfred will let him. Alfred himself is quite skilled with his hands, if Arthur's gasps and hisses are anything to judge by when the two of them are rolling around on a bed or a couch, lost in feverish groping. But sometimes it just feels like it isn't . . . enough. Which doesn't make all that much sense to Alfred, since he knows their love more than makes up for the lack of sex in their relationship, and why would his body consider sex to be closure anyway, when it required his (or Arthur's) entering a place that isn't really meant for that kind of activity in the first place?

Biology has never been Alfred's strongest subject. But it still manages to get the best of him at the most inconvenient times, and today's the only day of the weekend that he knows Arthur has free, so he resolves to settle this issue once and for all by buying some lube and condoms and calling Arthur to invite him over. Arthur sounds nonchalant and unaffected over the phone, but he's there in fifteen minutes.

After giving his mom his most pointed I'm twenty and therefore perfectly entitled to bring my boyfriend up to my bedroom and close the door look (at which she raises an eyebrow, but doesn't protest), Alfred tugs Arthur upstairs and proceeds to do exactly what he'd intended: he pushes the lightly-built blond onto his bed and locks the door with a very firm click.

Arthur sits up, slightly ruffled from being handled so boldly, but also amused. "Impatient, aren't we?" he says, just a touch of a British accent palpable in his voice, as he folds his legs under him and looks around. Alfred catches the longing that flashes briefly across his face — he must be thinking of his own room, which is back across the pond in London, and maybe even silently envying Alfred for living close enough to his college that he's able to room at home — and his chest suddenly hurts. He knows that Arthur's sacrificed a lot by choosing to study overseas.

But he also knows that there is a time and place for these kinds of moments, and that here and now simply won't do. Besides, seeing Arthur acting melancholy makes Alfred sad as well, and he doesn't want to ruin the mood before they've even begun. So without further ado, he pounces.

They kiss. Their lips touch, press together, and draw apart; then they do it again. Alfred looks down, down into Arthur's face, and he catches a glimpse of dewy wintergreen eyes before Arthur's hands are at the back of his head, pulling him down again. This time Alfred practically flattens Arthur into the mattress with his enthusiasm, no longer content with chaste little pecks as he opens his mouth and, with his tongue, invites Arthur to do the same. Arthur complies for about five seconds, then Alfred feels his muscles grow taut under him.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

Arthur grunts. "You're crushing me."

"Oh, sorry!" Alfred quickly props himself up on his elbows to give Arthur some breathing room. He switches his target from Arthur's lips to Arthur's forehead, then his bristly (beautiful) eyebrow, then his nose and his cheek and . . . Arthur's mouth finds his chin, his tongue flicking against the underside of his jaw in a way that makes Alfred break off in a breathless chuckle.

He loves losing himself to Arthur's kisses. Arthur knows exactly when to lick, when to bite, when to take dominance and when to relinquish it. Their teeth still collide sometimes, but only if one of them is being particularly sloppy, and it never hurts for more than a second or two. Alfred tilts his head, delves deeper, the tip of his tongue gliding along Arthur's ridged palate, a little disappointed that Arthur doesn't really taste like anything. He can't deny that the sweetness of the lemon tea that Arthur likes to drink — the flavor of which often lingers in his mouth long enough for Alfred to savor it himself — turns him on.

Being connected to Arthur like this is so nice that Alfred almost forgets what his original purpose is. It's only when Arthur shifts under him and his crotch grazes against Alfred's thigh that Alfred finally recalls that he has a mission to complete.

"Arthur?" he whispers, and when Arthur's eyelids flicker open lazily, he chooses his next words with care. "Do you want to . . . try something new?"

His question is met with curiosity. "Like what?"

Oh, God, now he can't stop the heat from staining his cheeks, because Arthur is watching him so intently and with such obvious love. "Um. I was thinking . . . maybe we could, I don't know . . . uh, try fingering, maybe? Or something?" It seems the only things his tongue is good for when he's around Arthur are kissing and giving blowjobs. Speaking properly doesn't make the list.

"Fingering?" Arthur repeats. For an instant, Alfred is sure that he'll rebuke the idea, toss it out the window and demand that he never mention it again, but he's pleasantly surprised when Arthur appears to actually consider it, blinking once before saying thoughtfully, "That might work. Do you have the necessary supplies?"

"If you mean lube, then yeah." Alfred fishes the bottle out from its plastic bag under his pillow for inspection.

Arthur glances at the label and snickers. "Have a fondness for cherries, do you, Alfred?"

"Cherries?" Alfred turns the bottle toward himself, confused, and sees the phrase cherry-scented stamped across the front in bubble letters. "Oh, shit, I totally didn't see that. I just grabbed the one at the front, I thought it'd be — Are you allergic? I mean, you've never said anything before, but if you are, then — uh — we can —"

A butterfly kiss lands on his Adam's apple. "Relax, darling. I'm not allergic. I doubt they used real cherries to scent it, anyway." Another kiss, this time higher up, placed on the soft, vulnerable, sensitive flesh where Alfred's neck meets his jaw. Alfred can't suppress the small shudder that runs through him. He's made even more helpless when Arthur latches on gently with his lips and begins to suck.

Through the distraction, he faintly registers the movement of Arthur's slender white hands; one slides into the right back pocket of his jeans to cup the curve of his backside while the other hooks fingers through a belt loop at his waist. He's pulled closer into the warmth of Arthur's slim body, and Arthur releases his throat to murmur into his ear, "I'd like to try it, love, if that's all right with you."

"Uh! Th-then can we . . . do it after . . . ?" Alfred can't think. His brain has turned to hormone-laced mush.

"Do what?"

"Do . . . it . . . like, you know . . ."

Arthur laughs. "I don't understand what you're trying to say, love."

"Sex!" blurts Alfred. "Can we have sex?" He realizes what he's said about a heartbeat after the words become irretrievable.

Arthur doesn't reprimand him, though. "Let's think about . . . that . . . after we've managed the first hurdle, hmm?" he says easily, soothingly. Almost as if he isn't taking Alfred's sentiments seriously. Alfred rolls his eyes — it annoys him when Arthur treats him like a kid, especially in bed — but decides to prove his feelings to Arthur later, because Arthur does have a point.

He dislodges Arthur's arms and rises to his knees, setting aside the bottle of lube for now. He's temporarily mesmerized by the steady rise and fall of Arthur's chest, the way it causes his shirt to ride up ever-so-slightly, pale skin peeking at him over the crest of his black jeans. His gaze travels farther down, and just to confirm what he's seeing, his hand comes up to check. Sure enough, Arthur's cock rises to meet his palm through the fabric covering it, its shape hard and definitive. Alfred looks up and sees Arthur's slow, reassuring smile, and he feels the blush return to his face.

Making short work of his boyfriend's pants, secretly loving how familiar and practiced his motions have gotten over the past few years, Alfred guides the denim — along with the light blue underwear — off Arthur's legs. Arthur spreads his knees apart, offering Alfred a full view of his private regions, but Alfred's attention is immediately drawn down there, to the tiny, dusky-pink opening that he'll be pushing his fingers into soon . . .

"Arthur," he breathes, "are you a virgin?"

Arthur reaches around, under his bottom, and casually forks two fingertips around the puckered ring. Legs still open, he looks Alfred right in the eye and replies, "Here? Yes."

Alfred nearly chokes. His boyfriend — his fucking gorgeous twenty-three-year-old boyfriend — is an anal virgin. Holy shit. The sheer hotness of it makes his hands tremble. And the way Arthur is touching himself now, gently teasing the hole as if he intends to . . . to . . . Alfred grabs his wrist to stop him and scrabbles desperately for the lube, unable to wait any longer. He twists the cap, breaks the seal, clumsily spreads the gel-like substance on his hand —

"On your fingers, Alfred, not your palm," Arthur instructs, and sweeps his shirt out of the way. Alfred follows his direction, his hands still shaking like crazy. He's probably used up a fourth of the bottle, but that's fine, since he can always buy more. He starts to put his fingers to Arthur's entrance, but Arthur says hastily, "No, wait for it to warm up a little before you . . . before you put it in."

"Why —" Alfred begins to ask, then realizes that if he doesn't wait, the lube will feel extremely cold and clammy to Arthur. The very thought of having anything cold and clammy in such a sensitive place causes him to cringe. After sitting there awkwardly for a bit with his fingers covered in lube, Alfred finally receives Arthur's consent to keep going, and eagerly reaches for him again.

Arthur jolts when Alfred tries to fit in three fingers at once, and hisses in pain. "One at a time, poppet," he says, voice strained.

"Ack. Sorry." Alfred curls all of his digits back save his forefinger. This he uses to probe at the hole, fascinated by the way it twitches slightly under the pad of his finger as if it's alive. Which it technically is, since it's a part of Arthur. He slowly pokes his fingertip in and watches the ring of muscle swallow it up. It puts up some resistance, tight flesh unwilling to yield to the intrusion, but Alfred persists with the utmost care, and his finger is soon knuckle-deep inside Arthur. His muscles are clenching down on Alfred, and they kind of cut off the blood to his finger as they constrict. Alfred, however, is too excited to mind. "Whoa! You're really, really tight down here!"

"Indeed." Arthur is gripping the sheets, a tense expression on his face. His thighs quiver with effort as he fights visibly with the urge to close them. "Alfred —"

Alfred notices his discomfort, glee vanishing. "Oh, fuck — does it hurt? Should I stop?"

"No . . . just give me a moment."

Gradually, Arthur allows Alfred to move his finger. Alfred swirls it around, trying not to stretch Arthur too much before he's ready. He marvels at the texture of the walls inside, the heat that they radiate, and admires the smooth glide of his finger as well as the way Arthur parts around him as he moves. He's never attempted to finger himself, so for him, the experience is entirely new. And absolutely intoxicating.

After a few minutes of silence, Arthur speaks up. "Try to find my prostate," he says, almost sighing, as his hand comes up and closes around his cock. "Touching it will — nn — make me feel better . . ."

"Uh . . ."

Arthur bites his lip as he pumps himself faster. "Go ahead. . . . You can add another finger, too, if you like."

"Arthur . . ."

"Yes?"

Shifting to relieve the stress on his knees, Alfred says hesitantly, "I don't know where your prostate is. Or what it feels like." He slides another finger in beside the first, and the pressure around them doubles. Arthur takes a deep breath.

"It's — it's several centimeters inside the opening . . . curl your fingers toward my stomach . . . no, toward my stomach . . . upward . . ." He pauses, his breathing erratic. His eyes are scrunched up, whether in pain or pleasure, Alfred can't tell. "Since I'm aroused, it should . . . feel firm to the touch . . . it's about the size of a — a walnut — ah, ah, not so hard! Your nails are sharp!"

Alfred prods the swollen area with less force. "Is this it?"

Arthur lets out a low moan. "Y-yes," he gasps, and tugs at his cock with increasing speed.

Happy that he's finally doing something right, Alfred continues to massage his fingertips against the gland, noting by its feel that it seems to be partly made of some kind of muscle. Arthur twitches with each movement, his free hand clamping over his mouth to muffle some of his louder cries. There are swears mixed in there, too, but Alfred can tell that it's because Arthur feels good, not because he's hurting. He gives the gland an experimental push — and Arthur practically shrieks, biting down hard on his knuckles as his fingers seize around his length. His abs convulse, and he actually curls in on himself as white, transparent fluid wells up at the tip of his cock and begins to drip down the sides. Alfred watches with wide eyes.

Then, after he falls back against the sheets with a thump, Arthur's arms drop across his stomach. He regards Alfred with a hazy, satisfied look before his eyelids slide shut. All the tension has left his body, leaving him limp as a cloth doll.

It takes Alfred a minute to react. "Arthur?" he says uncertainly. He slowly removes his digits from his boyfriend, breaking the suction, and Arthur's breath hitches momentarily. "Arthur, did you just . . . come?" Alfred glances dubiously at the thin, milky liquid that's pooled around the base of Arthur's softening cock. It looks different, and it didn't spurt out like he'd expected it to. . . .

"Mm," Arthur confirms. He cracks open an eye and sees Alfred's bewildered expression. "Ah, stimulating the prostate doesn't quite result in a normal orgasm . . ." A sigh. "But it feels just as incredible . . . if not more so . . ."

Well, that's good. Being selfless and making Arthur feel amazing, however, has left Alfred wanting. He rubs his clean hand against the zip of his jeans mournfully, considers asking Arthur for help, then decides against it in favor of letting Arthur rest. He remembers the package of condoms that is still stashed away under his pillow, and knows that it'll have to wait until next time.

He sidles down between Arthur's legs and laps at the spilled semen, pushing a hand down his pants to jerk himself off. Arthur mewls appreciatively — such a sweet, uncharacteristically feminine sound that it makes something in Alfred's chest flutter. As such, it takes him all of two minutes to reach his own release. Wincing, he realizes he's dirtied both of his hands, which eliminates the option of getting in bed and cuddling with Arthur. Hoping to remedy that, Alfred looks around for the box of tissues he keeps in his room and, after finding it, wipes off his hands before discarding the used bits in the wastebasket by the door.

By the time he returns to Arthur's side, the latter has fallen into a gentle doze, strands of pale hair brushing over his closed eyes. Alfred crawls up onto the bed next to him. He pulls the covers up over the two of them without bothering to shuck off his clothes, and immediately goes to nestle into the hollow of Arthur's neck, where he breathes in the faint aroma of lemon tea, serenely content as he joins Arthur in slumber.

He doesn't mind waiting, after all.