This started out as a plan for a much more substantial story, though for now the rest of said story is still being worked on to make it not suck. though I've really wanted to get this out, so for now i have just a fraction of what i was intending to be the first chapter. I started writing really late one night. It's pretty short, but it's the only part I felt satisfied enough with to actually post, so...yep. Hope that it's to everyone's literary pleasure~ enjoy!
Lately he'd been sleeping a little later than usual.
He lifted his face from the pillow, and saw the green neon numbers glowing in the left over light from the day. It was making a discreet exit over the horizon now, like an old acquaintance that was trying to slip out of a party you were hosting, and just as they had a foot out the door, you try to start up a conversation, resulting in a very uncomfortable situation as you realize that you had caught them in the act.
It made Alfred groan and turn his face away from the faint honey colored light that was creeping in through the curtains; he'd simply turn his head and let his guests slip away, no harm in just ignoring an uncomfortable situation was there?
Though the annoying feeling that came with knowing that the day was more than already half gone was hard to ignore, and now it had put him in a bad mood, and he'd just seem like he was grumpy and that he woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
Oh joy.
Tis the price of nocturnal conversion he assumed, he'd just have to get used to waking up at four o'clock in the afternoon. The annoyance would eventually subside, or at least he hoped it would.
Crap, had he just agreed to make this part of his regular routine?
That wasn't part of the plan!
Well to be honest there wasn't much of a plan to begin with, it wasn't something he'd been planning, it just sort of invited itself into his life really. Slowly, bit by bit, it wasn't as obtrusive as it seemed now; small things that didn't seem like such a big deal when they were happening.
One night it was twelve, the next twelve thirty, then one, one thirty; and after that it just becomes too easy to stay up later and later. Then once you've been up until four o'clock every night for a week, it becomes all too easy to fill that time with something that seems productive. Though really, anything can seem productive at four o'clock in the morning.
Sure there are hobbies one can pretend to take an interest in for the time being, after talking to kiku about it he was interested in origami for a while; but all he could make were cranes and whales. He decided that once his bedroom, the bathroom and numerous closets were, quite literally, over flowing with them, that it might be a good idea to pick up a new hobby.
So he tried to read.
That would have gone well if all the books in Oprah's book club hadn't been overly long sob stories that tried to teach you something about life, and that frankly he really couldn't have cared less about. So he turned to the Stephen Colbert book club, and that went well he actually kind of liked the one that turned out to be a comic book. But after he finished that one, the next one he was going to try turned out to be heavier than any of the weights that he'd ever lifted. That ended that plan.
And thus he was again without any entertainment for the wee hours of his morning. He tried TV and movies, but after a week he was well through his personal movie collection, and had seen the all good movies that were on TV at least a dozen times. And truthfully, there were only so many marathons that he could tolerate.
A fruitless endeavor.
So his next idea was just to talk to someone; that seemed simple enough, though simplicity is never really as simple as it might seem.
Everyone was either busy or sleeping, Arthur, Matthew, Kiku, he even tried talking to Yao and, dare he admit it, Francis. Those two were a bit more unforgiving than the others. But still, it seemed that no matter what he did there was nothing for him to do.
Even the ever helpful internet was no help!
Everything told him the same thing more or less, that A.) he should get a hobby or B.) go to fucking sleep.
However, after weeks of this new routine it seemed impossible that he could ever get back to the "normal" swing of things. So what was left? A hobby? He'd already tried that, and it had led him to no avail.
So really, what was a guy to do. Sit around and wait to become some meaningless kill in a serial killer movie? A character that didn't get any name in the credits? Just some crap title like, "man in letterman jaket" or "guy cooking" he didn't really know what situations there were that would propel him to wear a letterman jacket or to be cooking, but that was beside the point.
The point was that it had been over a month, and he really had no idea how to fill his time.
Though he would eventually not have to worry about that, as life would seem to have a different plan for him than forcing him to find his own hobby and suffer the valleys of boredom in between. It would seem much more like life was forcing him to sit through the time in a summer storm right before the skies open up, and it's unbearably hot and humid.
He turned his face to the side to try and escape the light that was evidence of all his failures at trying to find a hobby and opened his eyes, only to see the face of what those attempts were replaced by.
Is this really what he was reduced to? Was he really so desperate for some sort of comoradity, some type of pseudo friendship, a quasi relationship? Apparently so.
Alfred watched carefully as his lips lay parted, breath leaving between them in short puffs, against the sheets of the bed. He had apparently slipped off the pillow at some point in the night and, only slightly, curled in on himself a few degrees.
Alfred felt a small tingling start in his limbs and reverberate into his core, he bit his lip and tucked his hands under his chest to keep from reaching out. But he was close enough that he didn't need his hands for what he truly wanted.
He leaned his upper body closer to his companion just to prove to himself that he didn't need his hands. It was odd how he did that sometimes, perhaps it was just a way to impartially satisfy himself; but he couldn't let himself know that that's what he did, it would be counterproductive, so he would quite conveniently forget that part of his thought process.
He was right though, the part of him that had dared the other half of himself. What kind of brilliant plan was that? It wasn't like he consciously wanted this guy in his bed, and now he'd gone and put himself in possibly the most compromising position he could have.
But it was now that he finally noticed the tingling that had started in his limbs had met up with his lips. It wasn't some sort of jittery, butterflies-in-your-stomach, giddy blush-worthy sort of tingling feeling that he always heard about. It was an impulsive, why aren't you doing something already, sort of feeling. The feeling that made him have to bite his lips to try and subside it, because at this point in time, he knew damn well that that feeling wouldn't just go away once he satisfied the initial urge, it would just start getting more and more intense.
He had to take his hands out from under his chest, the blood wasn't getting to them, it would just be silly to keep them there at this point.
Alfred settled for just staring at him for now, not even staring really, that sounded harsh and creepy. It was more like, just, looking really. That's all he intended for it to be. Yeah, he was just looking at Ivan, just looking at him; there was nothing wrong with just looking at someone was there?
Nothing wrong with looking rather tenderly at a man you claim to have less than semi-favorable feelings for, nothing wrong with having feelings that made you want to reach out for him in a fashion that was not as violent as you normally proclaimed.
Nothing wrong with it at all.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and took a moment to think about which he would prefer. Spending the rest of this time alone, bored and restless; or spending it with someone he had less than semi-favorable feelings for.
He looked over his shoulder and felt that tingling feeling make its way through his system again and feared that he might have already made that decision in the past, and just chose to make it one of those minor thought tangents that he decided to forget. He looked away from Ivan again and let his eyes focus on some nameless point on the floor, a very small smile making its way across his lips as a quiet little chuckle escaped.
He imagined that he already had thought about it in one of his forgotten revelations, that once upon a time he hadn't been equipped to handle the weight of it. He imagined that in that revelation he'd been right.
And there was nothing wrong with it at all.
He laughed again, and put his glasses on before he pushed himself off the bed, and by the time he'd made his way to the door, he had chosen to forget that there was nothing wrong with it at all.