He wrapped himself in his superman blanket, folding the corner and tucking it under his chin. He wished it was Arthur's porcelain skin against his cheek, not the worn out cotton of his duvet. The room smelt like coffee and cigarettes, completely unlike the peppermint and tea the American craved.
He turned around, pulling the blanket over is head, letting out a frustrated growl. It had been a whole day and he hadn't been contacted at all. What if he had found someone else, someone better than him? What if he wasn't worthy of his time anymore? What if he had finally realised Alfred wasn't everything he claimed to be? Alfred shook his head, clutching the blanket tightly in an effort to rid the negative thoughts, trying his phone one more time.
Arthur's cell phone was still switched off.
He wasn't online on facebook.
He wasn't even on skype.
Alfred desperately tried Arthur's cell again, checking every possible website Arthur could be on, even going as far as to use their special connection.
"Sorry, 'Arthur Kirkland' is not available right now. Please leave a message after the beep."
As the beep resounded around the room, Alfred forgot how to function, the ice-blue phone falling from his fingers. The glass shattered, backing unhinging, battery shooting across the floor. Alfred's shoulders squared and his mouth tightened, hands curled into fists.
A lone tear trailed down his cheek.
Then he shook, light sobs coming from him until the dam broke, the weight forcing him to his knees. His hands flew to the bed frame, gripping as if these events had turned him into a ghost, allowing him to fall through the ground. He let out a breath, shaky and uneven, boulders running down his tanned cheeks. He closed in on himself, laying on the floor, crying with reason but no understanding.
He was hopeless, useless; what kind of a hero depended on a a simple conversation of emoticons everyday?
He was annoying, infuriating; he bothered Arthur every second of the day. He was weak, merely a child; he couldn't even survive a minute without Arthur. He was crying, crying because he wanted Arthur. Crying because time was wasting away. Crying at his own foolishness. Crying at his own weakness, these things called feelings. Feelings were for the pure, innocent hearted. Feelings were for those who didn't commit sin and held faith, not compulsion, obligation. Feelings were for those who deserved them, people who could handle and care for feelings.
Alfred F. Jones should have a blackened heart, for he didn't deserve feelings.
But neither did Arthur.
From this day forth, let it be know that Alfred F. Jones shall eradicate all feelings, simply going towards his goal, cold hearted and lusting for money.
Starting from right now, Alfred F. Jones will be-
"Good afternoon beautiful."
- the fool he always is. Weak, tainted, dependent Alfred.