A laugh escapes from you as Arthur scrabbles to keep you in an upright position, leading you up the sidewalk to your home. The party had ended up being a lot of fun, you thought, if not shaming and ridiculous. Cooling your feet in a pool in the warm June night and being gawked at by stuffy officials had just been the hit off, actually; the evening had quickly transcended into Arthur handing off wine to you until you were drunk enough to try one of his cigarettes (you nearly choked on the thing. he laughed at you for that) and in depth reflection of the possibilities of time travel and tooth paste that never fell off the tooth brush.
There was a sort of eloquence about him, you had learned, that reeked of swearing and dirty humor. He liked making fun of people- most of all the people he loved- although he absolutely hated being made fun of. The man was intellectual and sort of an asshole which made for great conversation. Classic novels came up, and Dr. Seuss, and somewhere along the lines you began discussing trashy Japanese films and the throes of Edgar Allan Poe. You even got in a word or two about the potentials of worm holes and alternate dimensions and aliens, to which he laughed raucously and admitted his only knowledge of those things derived from a British show he fancied, Doctor Who.
So it came to pass that after your eighth glass of wine and a lot of rambling about things that didn't really matter that mattered a whole lot, Arthur was hauling you up from the pool and throwing your shoes at you and saying that you had both better "bugger off" before things got "rather out of hand". You thought the way he talked was funny, so you told him and he just huffed, pulling you barefoot back into the ballroom and then out again, into the parking lot.
And now here you are, laughing into the blonde's overwrought shoulder and hugging him. He had insisted on driving your drunken ass home, and although he seems exasperated with you he can't hide his smile as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck and tell him you don't want him to leave you yet. He invites himself inside- or maybe you invite him, you aren't sure- telling you that he'll only stay a few moments longer, to make sure you get to bed alright. You think to yourself that it isn't necessary because you live with an overprotective brother, but you want him to visit longer so you keep it to yourself.
You stumble through the house and to the most far-flung room, your bedroom, pulling him along by his pale wrist. The door is ajar and you dive inside, taking in the features you're accustomed to because of your companion. DC and Marvel posters alike plaster the neighboring walls and posters of Apollo 13 hang above your headboard. Flopping down on the bed you look at the map of the USA you pinned up on the farthest wall, little star stickers covering the places you've already been and tacks on the places you want to go. Clothes and the like are in disarrangement all over your floor and half-finished cutesy comics are cluttered over your laptop in a corner.
You feel it's immensely rude to just be laying there ignoring your guest, but the alcohol has you woozy and uncaring so you just sort of flop over to face his direction. You notice you are still holding his wrist. He slips his hand up and his lengthy fingers become enraptured in yours and you feel your face heat up. Arthur merely smiles, sort of small and pitying and maybe something else, but you don't really care because he reaches the covers of your bed to rest over your still suited body and lands a kiss on your sweaty brow, pushing your quirky hair out of your eyes.
He's got this look in his eyes like he's about to go and so you squeeze his hand and say drowsily, "Will you lay with me?" It's probably close to the most unromantic thing you've ever done and half of it gets lost in the pillow, but it appears you've finally caught him off guard and he just nods, taking of his suit jacket and pushing you over to lay under the covers with you. Turning into him you spoon, bringing a hand to curl into his chest and smelling his hair. He smells like vanilla and smoke you think, and it's the last thing in your mind before you drift off.
Upon waking you notice the dull ache in your back from sleeping on your side, a roiling in your stomach, and then the fact that you never changed into pajamas. The night trickles back to you and you notice a lack of body beside you and you sigh. You expect it, but can't help feeling a little disappointed.
It isn't until much later in the afternoon you find his name- Arthur Kirkland- filed away in the contacts of your blackberry.