Author's Note: And here's part two. Hmm, this could be bad. Not sure. . . let's just say that it gets a bit more intense this time around.
I'm also a junkie of parallel structure, if you haven't noticed. Here, have some more.
A special thank you to x-cheshire-puss-x for your kind words and enthusiasm. A happy belated birthday to you.
NOTE: 11 April, 2011, re-uploaded to fix horrible grammar errors. No new content, just reads better.
Binding is not a new concept to Alfred. He has been predisposed to it once or twice (complaining girls and soap operas––the ones that Arthur denies watching) but time after time it was just . . . overly feminine.
But this day Alfred stands before that full body mirror in his bedroom with a sanitized and unwanted elastic bandage in his hand. It's one of those brought out into the Operating Room, or the Clinic, but then decided against and, well, in the medical profession that bandage is as good as leprosy: unusable. Rubbish. And therefore not missed when taken. (Please and thank you darling miss Magdalena. You are in fact the favourite Puerto Rican nurse in this city.)
In some sort of miracle both the (overbearing) roommates (imposed housemates, rather) are gone on at a down state mini-convention (read: paper extravaganza and reckless abandonment for scheduling and digestion. Those poor hosers). Riddance to them! Oh thank god, if those two find out . . . well, now, that's actually not much of a threat.
The spectre of his reflection stands creaking and wary in the tall looking-glass. Ashen. Pallor pulsing with his capillaries (yet another charming alliteration). Clawed hands grip the roll of the wrap, the cloth layering thinker than a three-inch coffee mug. The width of those damn soup mugs painted black and white and white and black . . .
Velcro cracks like bursas sliding in joints. Alfred peels back the first layer of the bandage and places the end over his left pectoral. His is tempted to wrap over his kidneys and navel but no, he places it over his heart (thanking Magdalena once more) and rolls it across his skin. The elastic fabric is soothing to the touch.
His chest, though broad, takes the wrapping four times around. (He can manage five or six bouts if he really takes advantages of the spring of the thing.) When he can't bring it farther about himself, Alfred lets out a frustrated grunt. He turns first so his serrated rib muscles are centered in the mirror. They mostly covered by the light suntan bandage but still very much there and announced near their end at his waist. Then, another quarter turn (he takes up a hand mirror to analyze his spine) and all hell is let loose.
Such a sound has never escaped the confines of the (starving) chemical envelope that is Alfred Jones' body until now. Frenetic and––and (this is ludicrous, oh god) he squeezes the mirror too tightly. This is a scream, this is a wail, no! This is a death rattle four thousand times louder. A single deranged gargle made of chopped words and a broken mind. Alfred shouts, he grabs his hair (and pulls pulls yanks); he swings around to face himself and crunches over. He is sobbing now, his nose running and eyes watering. The banshee wail is teetering off to a collection of stringy shrieks and whimpers. It is a fit like no other, a tantrum of adult proportions.
The inciter is a small bulge of skin poking out from the edge of the bandage. A little bump––a healthy bump––but a bump nonetheless. (Little does Alfred know this is a remnant of skin and flesh, a last barrier for his poor blood vessels.) For some reason there is still fat on his back. But . . . but why? He's trying so hard! He paces around the shuttered room face peachy and glasses tossed aside. There is something there, and it's all their fault. Oh Arthur. Oh Ivan. You tricky little bastards; you doxies! How can you do this to him? Never again will he take food from them.
Alfred's socks on his carpet dull the angry marching much to his dismay. He wants the sound, the feeling of pure rage. He wants to be so loud his neighbors will phone in a noise complaint. This room is too small, his skin is too tight, stomach too full with that half scone and skimmed milk. God damn you to hell, Arthur Kirkland, and your shoddy cooking skills.
He peels the binding off, nearly stretching the adhesive from the fabric with rabid strikes to his own chest. A few times he misses and his fingernails (chipped and jagged from incessant biting) catch skin. Oops, a little deep there. Red lines mar the surface of his pectoralis major. They stream across like rivers of strawberries or pomegranates or caustic red ants. The same stinging feeling encases each line. He looks down upon his hands and chest and growls.
This is outrageous. He stomps (muffled sulking is what it sounds like, but oh no no) to his adjoined lavatory and rustles through Arthur's usually well-kept toiletries. Green items suddenly seem to be everywhere and so ah! He sweeps across with his arms and strikes down the comb and the deodorant and the toothpaste and the retainer all into the refuse bin, the floor, and the bathtub. He needs more room or how can he possibly find what he needs?
Alfred flips the mirrored door to the medicine cabinet with more strength than he requires and shuffles through the boxes. Pain relievers, sedatives, melatonin, nasal spray . . . the orange box! There it is, behind the containers of chewable adult vitamins and the dissolvable vitamin C. Prescription pseudoephedrine. Glory unto this medication, this drug!
He tells himself he needs the pills to clear his head. He reads the instructions (no over-dosing now) and warnings and pops out a little red pill into his hand. He dry-swallows it in four seconds. He sets the box down (slightly dented from his feral grasp) on top of the toilet and waits for the effects to kick in. He drums his fingers, pushes more vials out of the way, rearranges the shelves.
A lonely box of laxatives stands at attention on the far right corner of the third shelf. Alfred pauses, thinks with half a brain for two seconds, and grabs this box as well. He opens the flaps, takes out a wrapped serving, and tosses the fake chocolate into his mouth. He chews quickly and swallows (it tastes like chalk and cat littler) without taking a breath.
There. Now he'll get all cleaned out. No more food, no more calories, no more fat, no more extra skin. He will be beautiful.
"Alfred, do you know where my prescription cold meds went?" Arthur sounds nasally and irritated, a deadly combination for the man. He's frumpy today (ah yes, frumpy, such a good Arthur word) and wearing his pajama pants and slippers around the house and oh gosh his eyebrows are even more bodacious, if that's possible.
"Hm? Oh, no, sorry babe. Haven't seen any meds floating around," replies Alfred from behind his book. "What do they look like?
"Orange box, little red pills."
"I'll put out a house-wide BOLO."
"Deeply appreciated," and then Arthur's lifting up the mail for the sixth time and looking for the box in places where it can't possibly fit.
Alfred watches Arthur stumble into the kitchen where jars of fig jam and apple butter take up residence in his pantry. Thirty containers of yogurt, real butter, a bunch of carrots, rice, noodles . . . a container of leftover chicken in his refrigerator. Alfred had not seen such food items in his own house since they had given his cabinets a major face-lift and sent out bags and bags of food into soup kitchens. It's almost a foreign concept. But, food does not equate to cold medication and Arthur is off again.
He saunters (not elegantly at all) into the living area and collapses half on Alfred, half on his home-embroidered throw pillows. There is silence coated by Arthur's arid mouth breathing.
"If you're looking for pity, you aren't getting any," Alfred says. King Arthur and His Knights stays faithfully before Alfred's face and a fleece blanket covers Alfred's hunger-swelled belly.
"Of course not. I'd never expect it from you," Arthur muses. He hums to himself, then turns and looks Alfred straight in the eye as if his glasses were non-existent.
Alfred's eyes are far-off and aquatic, seeming to bear a milky film that bars his focus and comprehension (and it isn't because he's reading that book either). Arthur tilts his head to the side (as he does when considering 'matters of the most prominent authority') and observes unabashed. Glazing eyes, slow fingers turning pages, a warbled voice . . .
"You sure you haven't seen them?" The rise in pitch does nothing to mask the suspicion (if anything it accents it quite nicely) that is festering in Arthur's throat. The join of his jaw to his neck tingles and feels like it's swelling, much like it does when he is about to cry. Alfred sends him a look, and he responds quickly: "What? Just double checking and all that."
There is no questioning it now. Arthur turns to face Alfred completely, puffing out his chest and leveling his eyebrows into a sort of intimidating and furry line. (Oh, silly Alfred, not eating anything today and not having hunger pains; living through a filte r. . . Oh you stupid boy.) The stare Arthur gives Alfred is one of pure accusation and indignation. "Where are they?"
Alfred bends only slightly. He lowers the book and re-adjusts his blanket. "I said I 'unno. The bathroom? Jesus, Arthur, I didn't touch your stuff." He crosses his arms and tucks down like a defensive vulture with sharp shoulders rising. "God, it's more like you're missing your fucking pill instead of some cold meds." Oh, a menstruation joke. How quaint.
"Don't take that tone with me, Alfred." And now the big guns come out. "I swear, if you've been using––no no––abusing my prescriptions, so help me I'll––"
"You'll what, old man?" Alfred's far of voice rings with defiance (and balls; they finally dropped it seems). "Send me to my room? Good lord, Arthur, I'm not some stubborn teen-aged brat that's fucking with your stash. Cut me some slack." Then under his breath: "You're such a tweak sometimes . . ."
Arthur Kirkland now displays to the general public his ability to channel the defensive tactics of porpentines and just shoots up and out with quills of anger (and sometimes even his hair goes on end; it's quite the sight to behold). Furious does not begin to describe this fermenting burgundy in his blood. "Alfred Franklin Jones," he seethes, "you best not talk to me that way."
A hitch in the exchange bears the following: "Are you my dad reborn to torture me?" And Alfred is completely serious with this question. His penchant for ghosts catches Arthur off guard as he inquires, and for a moment the stolen medication is out of sight-out of mind. "Because lately you've been actin' all funky––"
Alfred's failure to read and understand the atmosphere comes back with a vengeance. (Wait, isn't Arthur still supposed to be mad? Ah! Yes! Because Alfred is being a dipshit, that's right!) Much like Arthur's porpentine reaction formation, Alfred has a thick coat of oblivion he can snuggle into when times are tough.
"What in the name of the Queen––No no no. Don't get me off topic. You're stealing my cold medications so you won't eat. That's what we're discussing and don't even think about––what, by George, are you doing––"
Time to take Ivan's approach. Feeling slightly promiscuous (or maybe he just wants to leave Arthur high and dry, either works, really) Alfred scoots forward with his body-warmed blanket and drapes himself across Arthur's sniffling form. "I told you already, I haven't seen it before; how could I use it?" He's so damn saccharine that it makes Arthur's molars ache.
Oh, he's such a liar. A warm, cozy, tempting liar, but a liar nonetheless. Arthur must steel himself! There is no letting down his guard now.That'd be ridiculous. His hands and body stay where they are even though his very chromosomes are begging for him to do otherwise.
But, Alfred seems to sense this (Arthur's twitches but not the atmosphere . . . how odd these things work) and gives those damn puppy-dog eyes that got Arthur a week or so ago. He puffs out his perpetually cracked lips and let's his glasses slide down his nose. Even that crazed lock of spiked hair seems to bend more in the direction of temptation. "I didn't touch your pills, Arthur," he says once again. By now his mouth is just centimetres away and (damnation) Arthur's infamous (and crotchety) libido is starting to kick in . . .
Two touches of the lips, almost painful in their brevity. Arthur's anger is exhaled through his nose as Alfred looks up at him with unfocused (and slightly crossed) eyes. Oh Alfred, you try much too hard to achieve hardly any ends. But Arthur, ever the gentleman, decides that such an instance should be indulged and leans forward.
He presses against the fleece of the blanket and nips a kiss at the end of Alfred's nose. They blink at each other, then move in tandem and bring their mouths together full-force. Five, six, seven seconds before Alfred pulls away and tries to calm is breath. Alfred laughs once his lungs finish spasming.
Wait just a minute––laughs? He's laughing? Son of a bitch that man is! Oh, Arthur you old fool, get your priorities straight! "Alfred Jones, you harlot," he grumbles. He shoves off the blanket, the blond fool, and returns to his quest of finding the cold meds of power (Tolkien, bless your heart).
Stowing away the pseudoephedrine is a bust. A plan a plan, his kingdom for a plan (heaven forbid he turns into Arthur; there is only so much English one man can take)! He can chew on a sponge . . . no, that's disgusting. God knows what Arthur cleans with that. He could only chew gum (five calories each you know) and never swallow . . . damnation above and below, his options are running out.
He paces around the house. The design of the ranch is convenient with its flat loop, making for the perfect track for a personal foot race. A constant left turn (just like Nascar, oh how fitting) from living room to hallway to kitchen to foyer to living room . . . He rounds and rounds twenty times at least, and the grout lines start to cut into his bare feet.
The constant hurried movement clears his head for the first time in what feels like months. The world passes by (there is the tree outside the kitchen window as per usual) without any knowledge of Alfred Jones, the man pacing through his house and through his life. The front drapes are pulled close to prevent any wandering eyes.
A constant beat is picked up from his feet on slate then wood then area rug. Pat pat, slap slap slap, thud thud. Metronome. And as he walks (sometimes he skips!) he thinks, mind more focused than ever. What can he do? What what what can he––
Yes! That's it! Alfred makes another left turn from the kitchen into the hall, and then into the living room. He places his fists at his hips and smiles at the furniture. Oh, what an excellent plan he's come up with! And––and this way no one will suspect a thing and he'll be scot-free and, ah, the freedom!
He makes sure to only bring out his running shoes when no one else is home. Schedules must be booked and reservations must be made before the sneakers even get an inkling of thought of being brought out. Reconnaissance is a crucial part of this plan's success.
Low-cut socks, new running shoes, his old basketball shorts (number twelve with a cardinal's head embroidered beneath it) and that same sturdy metal water bottle. He stretches and tenses as his muscles have atrophied in the slightest. It seems that almost everything about him has shrunk, be it good or bad.
His calf muscles still bulge, however. Proud, hard, and oblong they remain. A memento and a promise for beautiful things to come. These too stretch, but flex more easily and do not burn or spasm. Ah! He's limber! Alfred stretches his body and legs like a cat and almost has the urge to go bask in the sun instead.
Outside the house he hesitates. Where to go, what to do . . . He runs in whichever direction is not impeded. Up bike paths, through lawns, over benches, passed seven churches (so many for such a town) and under three bridges. Blackberry bushes (invasive, those bastards) catch on his legs and shorts but he does not stop. Forward forward forward! Always running ahead. He trounces wet grass and muddied flowerbeds, frowning at the dirt on his shoes but he does not stop.
There is a dank grove of trees through the park (next to giant man-made 'dinosaur' bones made of concrete and rebar) and he heads straight towards them. Thump thump thump onto the grass and moss, bark chips clash like shingles and bump up into the air. The air here is wet and cold and brisk––such a lovely change from the corrosive recycled atmosphere of his inherited house.
Slowly his lungs begin to burn. Acid and pins rush into his body and scream at him (stop! you're killing us! please oh lord!) from every nook and cranny of his torso. His organs tremble right down to his golgi bodies and ribosomes. Cell walls break down and lactic acid flows in even as he runs it out. Legs pump, blood flows, and macrophages rush in. His body churns within his skin.
The very thought of breathing hurts him. He thinks of taking five minutes to catch himself (but the crest is in sight; don't give up now!) or stand and stretch against the loam of the chipped trail in this coven of trees. But as his limbs and fingers ache, Alfred swears he can feel himself shrinking, collapsing into himself as fat cells are compacted more and more. He believes his body is compressing itself so quickly that he'll see changes within minutes. Magical biochemistry (oh if only it were true).
The motion of his arms follows the one-two of his knees. Arms straight and the knees shall follow; keep toes forward; look up at the destination, not down at the ground! By now, on top of his hill, his low-cut socks have been rubbed down by the heel of his shoe and his rippling at the base of his heel. A blister begins to pocket and fill with fluid. His toes and sides begin to cramp. The trail stretches on. Alfred continues to sprint at a painful pace and does not look back.
Every once and a while he becomes dizzy and can't tell if his water bottle is still in hand. He clenches both palms (just to double check; which hand was it again? Is the bottle metal?) and waits to feel some sort of weight. His fingers feel heavy and slow–cold? He doesn't feel cold, he feels hot and bristly and, and–the cramps swallow every part of him.
Chips splay up and out as his feet abruptly cease. Legs trembling––Alfred isn't sure if he knows what's happening to him. Suddenly he feels frozen and burning at once and he doubles over. Fire fire oh god his throat is burning! He fumbles with his water bottle (why is this so hard to twist? This is an emergency–) and misses his mouth as he tries to drink. Throat muscles are out of tandem with his expanding trachea and he can't quite––
Before the water can make it down his esophagus (really only inches past his epiglottis) his innards briefly paralyze again and he coughs loud and hard. (It's this feeling again . . . he knows this feeling). Then a belch (all those gases must go somewhere) and Alfred is emptying his stomach onto the side of the path, halfway on top of a sword fern. It's white and yellow, small chunks of red and black which Alfred identifies as sorry remnants of his bloody nose earlier that morning. The sight of it makes him vomit once again, his imagination acting as a catalyst to his disgust.
His hands and shirt are damp from the splashed over water. He smells like sick (again) and moldy dirt. Glasses fogged and breath gone from his lungs like dropping sails on stagnant water. He is weak and sickly sweaty. It is only midday but Alfred feels clammy and tired. The fibers of his body are breaking down back into threads, then again into specks of wool. He wishes he could sleep and be unconscious or . . .
Standing is an intricate task to accomplish in this state. But Alfred is not one to give up (perseverance thy name is Jones!) in the face of such danger or . . . smells. He teeters once and leans into a friendly rowan tree.
There are no people around to witness the fallacy that is Alfred F. Jones. For a few moments he solemnly spits out sour saliva and remnant vomit. Wearily he feels the fuzzy acid of his teeth and pauses. After two minutes of shaky breathing and constant spitting, Alfred's tear ducts are triggered and he begins to cry.
He blames it on the dusty seeds on the bellies of the ferns. He blames it on the splintering wood of the chipped Douglas furs. He blames it on a fake head cold, his sudden sickness, his sheer exhaustion. But none of those point true.
Alfred is reduced down to his six-year-old self with the candidness of the action. His nose runs with his eyes, and soon his face is wet and sticky yet again. He is not experiencing a fit or a foul mood: this is giving up (what else can he do? He can't even run anymore).
This is what he must do. This is the sacrifice he makes for his beauty, for his love-life. This is what he gives for his happiness. His body burns and tears at every joint and tendon. Layers of fascia between his skin and breathing muscles feel more like gravel and sea water than the layers of cells that make him strong. Amino acids, lipids; carbon and water. Every single time it's carbon and water. He is poisoning himself against the world, and never before has it hurt so much.
There is too much water around him. Water in the leaves, water in the loam, water on his face and in his eyes. He is drowning in so much water that is flowing in the wrong places. He needs to be dry; dehydration. Maybe he should stop drinking next.
Black is the new black (and the old navy blue), coincidentally. It remains and stands alone as the one true colour to remove the shapes from bodies and bend them into new angles. Sweet, dark, thick-molasses-black. Worn at funerals, worn at classy parties, worn to show wealth, worn to show evil, worn to show seclusion; worn to hide the body. The mind, too. And the feelings and––and the fat fat fat fat.
He bears it like a second skin (like Hamlet; not but two months starved–nay, not so little, not two*). Not all black though. No no no. This is not depression but (supposedly) high fashion (silly it is to think him scorned). Alfred takes to long-sleeved knits, light sweaters, dark blankets: all things to make him look small. (To set things off her wears grey sweatpants or red running shorts. Sagging Levi's if need be.)
Under his turtlenecks (to block out the mid-December chill and melancholy) Alfred's jutting frame, his bastion of bones and tents of skin are hidden. He takes great pride in seeing his dramatic hourglass figure without the macabre ghost of a person looking back in his mirror. The thermals of his black clothes toast him and unconsciously bring him closer to his housemates (lovers?).
He's a silhouette against the walls of the hallway and the doorways to the kitchen. Sometimes, when he's sure no one is looking (but in reality both Ivan and Arthur are, they just don't tell him) he slinks like a cat along the edges of carpets or corners, sliding on the doorways to the kitchen.
"I am the night," he says to the empty house (Batman is a perfect remedy). He wears wool socks to add to the affect and woosh for once his body does not disgust him too thoroughly. Covered in black he is strong and thin.
The daylight hours are when he is noticed the most. Under quasi-house arrest he is starved for attention and recognition; he relies on these two for the social stimulation all other humans receive daily. Black fills in the void like caulk to a gap in a windowsill. It is the worldwide fix-all.
Arthur sits among small houses of paperwork and pens scribbling his name here and there, circling incorrect apostrophes and semi-colons out of habit ("It makes the whole firm seem more professional, after all."). His print is neat and fine, a luxurious curve that puts a page of Times New Roman into kinder light. Alfred can hardly see it with his glasses.
Wearing his black under-armor and threadbare grey sweatpants, Alfred plans his attack (pounce he will like a mighty panther!). His favourite blue woolen socks pad the planned pursuit (yes, yet again alliteration!) and he sneaks behind the whitewashed doorframe. The fabric of his shirt is pulled awkwardly over his elastic bandage (like all other things, Alfred can't quite give it up) secured at his waist and ridding down to his butterflying hips. He looks somewhat bloated but refuses to admit it.
Without warning the floor begins to creak and dip ever so slightly behind him (this sub-flooring is absolute trite) and almost spoils the plot. A rapid turn around and– "Ivan, what the hell? Can't you see I'm Black Op-ing it right now?" Alfred's eyes narrow below his glasses. "Jesus," he mutters.
A touch to the elbow. "Ah, I do apologize. I had no idea 'Black Op-ing' presented itself as such." Ivan's whisper is amused and his smile is all teeth. "Please don't let me interrupt."
Alfred brings a finger to his lips and brings his eyebrows together. He turns about-face and rolls his eyes to himself. When he pokes his head around the doorframe once more, Arthur is gone: chair empty, papers stacked, stapled, and safe within his ajar briefcase. There is a cup of tea on the mahogany table, but no man sipping it.
He whips around to face Ivan once again and sends him a foggy-eyed glare (he found the pseudoephedrine again, not that Arthur hid it well). "You," he asserts.
"Me," Ivan quips happily.
"Now my cover's blown. Thanks a lot gigantor." Agitation is dripping from every single tooth and vessel in his mouth.
"You are welcome!" Ivan exclaims. He is somewhat happier than he should be and it raises a deep red suspicion in Alfred's weakened heart.
Once again Alfred huffs and turns back to the kitchen table and–Arthur? Wait, what, how did he––?
Dusky eyebrows take up his field of vision as Arthur stands only a foot or so away from him with a brilliant frown set into his face. Alfred looks three times as pale against the black of his jersey knit. He turns to leave but Ivan (and his faithful bulk) block his way. How is it that Alfred is so often cornered by these two?
"Alfred," comes Arthur (who is more Jagara or Pumyra-like than he should be, since they are the female Thundercats; Ivan would be Ben-Gali, which means that Alfred himself would be Lion-O, obviously).
"Hm?"
"We need to talk."
Panic churns into Alfred's blood at this statement. "Why's that? We're talking right now." His face is forward but his eyes streaking across the room. "Don't need to sound so ominous, babe," he tries.
"Don't even think of it," Arthur snaps. Ivan nods his head in agreement and a helpful "Because you say such stupid things some times."
"Don't think about you? Well, if you insist." The tone he uses is jocular and light, wavering as much as his gaze.
"Damn it, knock if off!" Arthur is shouting at him. High blood pressure makes his white English skin tinge a pinkish-orange. He stomps a shoe-shined foot and pops his chin up in a superiority reflex (or it's that porpentine kicking in again, he's not so sure). Arthur's face does not crack an inch as the silence weighs visibly down on Alfred's mind.
Alfred starts to smooth out his pants but quickly evolves into impulsively rubbing his hands on the thinning fabric. Up down, up down, up down, breath. Arthur looks straight ahead while Alfred refuses to keep his eyes still, let alone on Arthur's face. He turns to Ivan (silent as always, ugh) whom is smiling down at him with closed eyes. He looks like ghost in the fluorescent lighting and it serves to encourage Alfred's rampant hands.
"I'm sorry," he starts. "I'm sorry, I am, I didn't want to take them but my head hurt and there was nothing else, and then I got sick and––I didn't do anything!" Guilt morphs suddenly into rage and indignation. "Fuck," is but a whimper.
He tries to leave but is yanked back by Arthur's needle-pointed fingers. "No, Alfred. We need to talk. I'm tired of this––I can't keep on taking care of you––"
"Taking care of me?" Alfred returns now on his own account. "Am I some sort of sickly project for you?" (if you listen carefully there is hurt right there). He looks back for help or solace but Ivan has removed himself from the equation (that sneaking bastard god damn).
"Is it so bad to ask for some sodding gratitude once in a while?" Arthur is snapping in slow motion. "Do you even know what this is doing to me? This isn't just you, Alfred. This is me, this is Ivan, this is the god damned firm even." He's getting gravely like creek water. "No one thinks you'll even live through this; did you know that? No one.And yet here I am, and by god I better not be wasting my life."
Alfred stares at him (wonder, disbelief?). "Am I some experiment for you?"
Arthur does not answer for a few moments. "No, of course you aren't," he says flatly.
"Then why the fuck are you so mad at me?" He is back to playing with his hands and pulling on the hair on the back of his head. "What are you so worried about?"
"That everyone else is right," is the most truthful thing Arthur has ever said.
There are too many emotions caught in this spider web of sterols and phospholipids. Alfred counts them like the crisped blueberries in the two hundred calorie scones that Arthur presents to him a day later. He tries to pick them out of the hand made confections, but they prove to be far too baked in.
In a silent apology Arthur sits with Alfred at that same mahogany table in the open kitchen. Alfred watches him hem the frayed and stepped-on edges of his pajama pants without any words exchanged or even thought. The sit side by side and bump knees and hands.
Both faces stare down directly in front of them, completely involved with their tasks (physically, at least). Alfred's eyes are half-mast behind his glasses (sliding down his nose . . .) while Arthur is wide-eyed and intent on the fine needlework. As Alfred picks apart the singed scone, Arthur secretly threads initials into the pant leg. Finishing the knot he bites the excess off and lets his hands fall hard on the table, a shock going through his protruding wrist bone.
Alfred pretends to pay no notice, but lazily covers Arthur's hand with his own (the one not ripping purpling berries to bits and flecks of skin). He keeps straight ahead and steeples their fingers in a two-layered weave.
Arthur's green eyes wet slightly and he turns his head. He opens his mouth to speak––
"I know," Alfred says. "Don't worry, I know."
The amount of sincerity that Alfred gives to the sundered scone in his cornflower gaze makes them cry indigo tears into the bread of the scone.
There are soft brushes to the mountain range of his vertebrae as he leans over the toilet. His shoulders roll forward as he vomits for the fourth time in the last hour. The knuckles on his right hand clutch the seat above his head and are chewed and stinging once again. He promised Arthur he would stop but it was just so hard.
A wrangled cry from the pain in his emptying chest (of air, water, stomach and voice) echoes slightly in the toilet bowl. His body pulses forward again and again, knocking his knees into the base of the toilet and occasionally the plunger. His hair (now dulling again with this relapse) is flat and hard against his head, matted down into a sort of flaxen shell about his pate. Cold fingers brush stray locks out of his eyes.
Behind him sits Ivan, broad back trapping down the hanging towels on the wall. His hands extend to rub and reassure Alfred's back and scalp as the other wretches. Alfred hasn't heard a word from the man but can sense the verbs and nouns that are waiting in Ivan's mouth.
Alfred pants and flushes as he finishes expelling gastric acids and liver secretions. He rests for a moment before reaching for the stationary cup with water and toothbrush and lethargically (but methodically) rinsing out his mouth.
He collapses against Ivan's open chest (and spreading legs) and shakes with fever and chills. The embrace he receives is the most comforting thing he's entertained for a while and gladly accepts it.
"I'm disgusting," he bemoans.
Ivan smiles again (with his mouth but not his eyes) and gathers him in. "Yes, but I do not mind."
"Glad one of us doesn't," is swelling with apathy.
Ivan's fingers rub small circles on his solar plexus that travel down to Alfred's stomach. They are tender and light touches that temporarily make the sour pang of retching vanish. "Do you feel well now?" Ivan asks. The massage goes to the flat of Alfred's hips and releases the hunched-over tension.
"Yeah, I do." Alfred turns into Ivan's pectoral and nuzzles the clothed join of chest to shoulder.
Embrace tightens and legs draw up into an all-natural cage. Delicately Alfred is pressed (still nauseous and all pin-pricks) into Ivan. "You are quite beautiful. You know this, yes?"
Alfred gathers a flush on top of the hundreds of burst capillaries painting his cheeks and mouth. "Not yet I'm not," he refutes. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe without bringing himself to vomit once more. The bizarre angle and shape of his body makes him lurch and shudder in discomfort.
"I would have to disagree," Ivan purrs into his ear (damn, that's becoming a weak spot) and covers Alfred's cheek with a sigh. "You must relax now, Alfred." He rocks himself back and forth to try and palliate the throb of Alfred's center.
"No, I'm not there yet," and he tries to put his fingers down his throat for the fifth time that night.
"Nyet. You are done for now," Ivan brings his arm up and pins back the advancing hands. (For now, for now! That's what he said.) "You are hurting yourself . . ." and this bears some remorseful tone.
"No, I'm not," Alfred stresses. He trembles too much to break free but tries nonetheless. "God, I'm nowhere close. I can't, I––I can't yet!" Hysterics in the presence of another. "You have no idea," he whispers. "No idea of what they say to me."
Ivan frowns. "Who says these things?"
"Oh god," Alfred whines. "No one. Absolutely no one." And there's the rub of it.
Alfred thinks that his obsessive fat destruction has served as an obscure aphrodisiac to Ivan. This may all be speculation, but the feelings are there. The advances are there. And oh how it makes Alfred's heart just quiver with excitement and joy; his work and dedication have reaped a profit! How beautiful he must look to Ivan these days with taught skin and flat ass and shoulders lean and strong. Herculean, if he could venture a guess.
Ivan has him cornered in his bedroom this time. He is recovering from being discovered before his faithful full-body mirror, half naked and arms flexed above his head. Alfred has some of the original copper of his suntan back in his pigment, and he feels more confident in his looks. Standing cornered adjacent to his mirror seems like a lucky reward for his perseverance and supreme wit over Arthur (and Ivan, at times).
The scarf that coils around Ivan's neck dangles between them, brushing against his tiny (no longer so swelled) stomach and extended forearms. The fine thread count and four-way stretch knit creates little friction but puts standing flame upon Alfred's skin. Oh, fabrics like that.
Ivan's lips are perchance Alfred's favourite aspect of Ivan's entire body (that he knows as of yet, oh ho ho) and he is more than pleased that they are meeting with his own at this very moment. Mmm, what a nice way to be distracted from the desire to eat (oh, but Ivan tastes like eucalyptus and lavender, why does he taste like lavender?). They move together for a few moments and then . . . finally! Tongues touch (after much too long) and Alfred's shaking returns, though a tad more pleasant this time.
The bones in Alfred's body seem to move forward to present themselves to Ivan's searching hands. His hips jut out, his ribs ripple into layers, and even the transverse muscles of his hip flexors stiffen and contract to add sub-epidural texture. The fine blond hairs on his body raise in their goose bumps and straighten. Ivan's hand smoothes them down, following contours of muscle and detours of joints until every exposed inch of Alfred's chest has been checked over, and the great strength of Ivan's fingers rest on Alfred's pelvis.
For some reason there is still a dun greatcoat and the clothes it covers on Ivan's frame (this seems a tad unfair, after all Alfred's standing commando in sweatpants). "Hm, too many––" he tries to break from the kiss to get a word or two out but–– "––clothes," ––that proves almost impossible. Ivan is a tad demanding and, well, who is Alfred to refuse that? Not Arthur, that's for damn sure.
"Right," Ivan answers. Without removing his mouth (godsend that is right there) he slides off his greatcoat, frees his tie (beneath his scarf, how handy), removes his belt and starts on his shirt. Dear god is this some hidden Russian talent? If it is, Ivan should really milk it for all it's worth. Who knows how many singles this man could get just from walking into a bar and taking off his jacket.
Layers of clothing fall to the floor until the two of them brush chests, the cotton of Ivan's scarf sandwiching between muscle and malnourishment. Alfred still has his sweatpants (sans underwear that he never actually had in the first place) and Ivan's slacks are untouched, but the feelings are still there.
"I very much enjoy this," Ivan says as he holds his face against Alfred's distinct collarbone. He follows the rivets of old scratches across Alfred's chest and the lines of where something wrapped long and tight about his torso. "When you are so small . . . it pleases me, yes?" He is hushed and slightly slurred and ah, English can be difficult when in situations of great exigency, such as now.
Alfred's heart seems to erupt from its pericardium from enthrallment. "Yeah?" comes breathless. Ivan can feel the pulse through his cheek.
"Hmm, yes. Very much."
Tears threaten Alfred's eyes. This is exactly it, everything he's been working for. He brings his head down to smell Ivan's hair and his inhale is rickety. He kisses the scalp and ear and everything else he can reach with Ivan's head still down against the sheets of his skin. He is ecstatic in the truest sense of the word: out of his body. Out and away, residing in this new form that serves to earn this attention.
The next moments are quiet and quick. More kisses on skin, more hands, more words to egg Alfred on and take the movements that Ivan gives him. The scarf comes off of Ivan's neck and slides around Alfred's and tied into a flopping off-white ribbon. It looks stupid beyond belief but Alfred makes no effort to remove the article. (This is everything! This is the final marker of his great accomplishment, the reward that will last his life through. Expectations! You have been met tenfold!)
Alfred feels like a great muse above is conducting his body like a piece of languid sheet music. He whispers a high note to be followed by Ivan's alto response. A breath to break, pianissimo, then every few brushes of fingers to spine he will crescendo (and go sharp, no doubt). Alfred has never been one for music or rhythm, but this time he carries the tune according to instruction. He feels like a euphoric symphony, all strings and woodwinds that mesh into a golden harmony.
There are no words to this movement, simply throaty sounds and the melody in their brains. Ivan plays Alfred's body like a master and elicits a tune that he easily commits to memory. Maestro and instrument working in tandem and oh how sweet it all is. The heartbeat under Alfred's thinning skin and cresting veins gives a metronome and tries to guide them to a finish (with cymbals and all).
But instead of working up, the instruments are eased off, and they slow down. A hush entraps Alfred's mind. Then a final note is played by Ivan: "I like to know that I can break you."
