Chapter 3: Good Morning

Saturday

It couldn't have been the light that woke him, because when he rolled over onto his side his clock said that it was 1:34 pm. It was afternoon.

Arthur sat up in alarm and immediately regretted it. "Ah!" he said, clenching his head in his hands and pulling his legs underneath him. The headache pulsed in time with his heartbeat, driving all thoughts from his mind. When it had faded slightly, he released his head and shielded his eyes from the light. He groped about blindly until he felt the curtain underneath his fingers. He wrenched it closed and looked around his room, bleary-eyed.

His room looked normal, though his boots were thrown haphazardly on the floor. That was unlike him. He must have been exhausted when he got back from the club. The club. That seemed important somehow. God, he really needed to pee. He moved his tongue across his teeth; they felt gross, and there was a bad taste in his mouth. Had he been . . . drinking? He groaned and smacked his forehead as he remembered why he had been drinking. You're an idiot, he told himself. You know that? Chasing a man you met at a club. Like your past relationships have worked out well. You seriously think flirting with him was a good idea? Ow. He had shifted so he was sitting on the edge of his bed, and he realised that it wasn't just his head. His legs hurt, his back hurt, his neck hurt, his throat hurt. Dancing hadn't always done this to him. You're getting old, Arthur. He sighed and stood up.

He used the loo and then poked around in the kitchen until he found the bottle of ibuprofen. He got himself a glass of water and downed a couple, hoping they'd kick in quickly. He shuffled back towards the bathroom. His pants were too tight; why did he wear these? He was just about to open the door when a bit of white caught his attention. It was a piece of paper sitting on his desk, and there was writing on it that wasn't his. He picked it up. It said:

Arthur,

You passed out pretty quick so I figure I should leave you a note. I got the impression you were kind of drunk so I figured I should make sure you got home safely. It took like half an hour to get your address out of you, btw. Anyway, I took some money out of your wallet to pay the cab, but I put the rest back, I promise. :) And I didn't steal anything. You seemed kind of worried about that. IDK.

I had a nice time.

– Alfred Jones

P.S. My number is on your hand.

Arthur glanced at his hand; yes, there was Alfred's number – again. Why was everything after that a blur of light and dark and colour? He flushed crimson. "I got the impression you were kind of drunk"? Had he really let himself get wasted? He crumpled the piece of paper in anger, but then smoothed it out again. He bothered to leave you a note, Arthur told himself. That's good. He stole your money to pay for the cab, but it's okay. He took a deep breath. Just go take a shower. You can deal with this later.

He stripped off his clothes and left them in a pile on the floor because for once, he really couldn't care less. He turned the water on hot and let it warm up. He made the mistake of looking in the mirror. His hair was a mess, sticking up all over the place, and he looked pale and awful. When the water was sufficiently boiling he stepped in and sighed. He could feel the sweat being washed off of him and the water soaking into his skin. He just stood under the stream of water for a long time, letting the warmth sooth his aching muscles. He noticed the ink on his hand running in the water, and he hastily removed it out of harms way, but then he remembered that it was written on the note as well. Like you'll call him anyway, he told himself, and scrubbed at it determinedly. It would be horrible if he showed up to work on Monday with what was clearly a number written on his skin. (God, though, that smile, and those arms. . . .) He quickly washed his hair, rinsed himself off, and stepped out.

He realised he hadn't brought any clean clothes into the bathroom with him. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out into the hall. When he entered his bedroom he nearly tripped over his boots. Shit, he thought angrily, and his back protested as he wearily returned them to his closet where they belonged. He noticed his wallet sitting on his bedside table and frowned at his own carelessness. He hadn't even thought to look for it. He opened it; sure enough, some cash was missing, about the amount to go from the club to his apartment. He suddenly wondered where the key to his apartment was. He hastily changed into a collared shirt and slacks and returned to the bathroom. He turned his pockets inside out, but it wasn't there. He went to check his front door; it had been locked. Maybe Alfred Jones had shoved it under the door? It wasn't there. He frowned, and decided there wasn't any point in looking for it more now. He was starving.

Advantages of calling him: You could thank him for taking you home like a proper person. It doesn't have to be a request for a date or anything like that. God knows what you said when you were drunk. He set the water boiling. Disadvantages of calling him: He might think it was an effort to continue the . . . relationship, whatever kind of relationship it is. He got out a mug and a teabag. And why would that be a bad thing? Because you just met him, you have no idea who he is, he's not your type at all. Probably. Arthur frowned at himself as he pulled the strawberry jam and crumpets out of the fridge. You're being silly. Do you think he's ever read a good book in his life and appreciated it? I doubt it. He strained the teabag carefully and then sat down at his small kitchen table. He thought about the fact that Alfred had taken him home and not stolen anything or taken advantage of him, as far as he could tell. (Maybe he had taken his key, but really, he'd probably just lost it.) He can't be that bad a guy. He left you a note, and he keeps giving you his number. . . . His hand twitched involuntarily and he glanced at it. The number was still there, faded slightly from the shower. No, he wouldn't call him, certainly not yet.

He finished breakfast and settled down with a book. The afternoon passed quickly, and before he knew it, it was time for tea. He made steak and kidney pie for dinner; he'd have leftovers for the next week if he needed them. On a whim, he made a custard pie for dessert. He read more after dinner, though he found himself distracted. He kept looking at the phone unintentionally, which irritated him. Finally he closed his book with a sigh, turned out the light, and went to bed.

Sunday

He woke to Sunday and found it just like every other Sunday. He ate breakfast, puttered about a bit on the computer, read the newspaper, ate some lunch. The number on his hand, now faded almost beyond visibility, gnawed at him. He worked on the embroidered cushion cover he was thinking of sending his mother for Christmas. He drank tea constantly, a guilty pleasure he could rarely indulge in, but it didn't help. At about three in the afternoon, Arthur decided to take his afternoon tea a little early. He found some scones he'd baked earlier in the week and got out a couple. He was about halfway through the first one when there was a knock on the door.

Arthur jumped, as did his heart. He hastily wiped his fingers and got to his feet. He opened the door without bothering to look through the peephole. It could be anyone, it could be anyone, don't assume.

The man standing there was wearing black leather gloves and an old bomber jacket that made him look older and his shoulders look broader, but there was no mistaking him. His eyes lit up when he saw Arthur, and he held up a key like it was all the explanation he needed. "Hey man, you never called so I just came by to check you hadn't died in your sleep or something. And give you your key back. I was going to put it under the door the other day but I totally forgot, haha." He grinned and handed the key to Arthur. Arthur took it, willing his heart to slow to a normal speed.

"Ah, thanks." A pause. "And thanks for making sure I got home alright. Sorry to have been a bother."

"No prob! Least I could do."

Arthur waited for him to leave, but he didn't. "Would you care to come in?" Bad idea, Arthur. He's going to start assuming things.

"Yeah, sure."

Arthur didn't move for a second too long, hoping he'd come up with an excuse to get rid of him, but he didn't (he didn't want a strange man in his flat, of course not, why would he want that?), so he stepped aside and Alfred Jones entered his flat. Alfred looked around curiously at the leather couch, the armchair in the corner, the walnut bookcase, and the mostly blank walls. Arthur knew his apartment was small, but it didn't bother him unless he had a guest over. Not that that happened very often.

"Ah!" Alfred said suddenly, his eyes alighting on something in Arthur's bookshelf. He strode over to it and plucked something off of the top shelf. "Sherlock Holmes. I used to love these books." He turned it over in his hand, then back again, and replaced it. He leaned down, looking closely at the other titles in the bookcase. "Huh, you've got the full Oxford English Dictionary."

"Yes," Arthur replied, not sure whether or not Alfred actually found that interesting. "It was a present from my parents when I went off to university."

Alfred nodded, reading the other titles in the bookcase. Arthur realised with a start that they might seem a bit strange from his perspective; most of the books were classical novels or histories of the United Kingdom and Ireland, but somewhere around the middle shelf these turned into accounts of King Arthur and Merlin, and then titles like The Encyclopaedia of Strange Creatures of the British Isles and The Lady and the Unicorn: An Examination of the Unicorn in Art and Literature. The bookcase ended quite abruptly with a series of world atlases and the dictionary.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Would you like something? I hope you don't mind, but I was just sitting down to have something to eat."

"Nah, I'm fine. Just went by McDonald's. Thanks though." Alfred straightened up and patted his stomach. "God, I'm stuffed."

"Still craving burgers from the other night?"

Alfred laughed and shook his head. "Arthur, I am always craving burgers."

Arthur flushed a little at being called by his first name. "R-right. Would you like to take a seat?" He gestured at the kitchen table.

"Sure, sure." Alfred pulled out the chair and plopped down in it.

Arthur sat down across from him and picked up the scone. He tried to eat very neatly, taking very small bites. He shouldn't have been worried; Alfred was examining his kitchen as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Arthur suddenly realised that his collared shirt and slacks were probably not what Alfred had been expecting after what he had worn the past two times they'd seen each other. He fidgeted, suddenly embarrassed. You shouldn't dress like you're still 19, Arthur. Really. He examined Alfred from the corners of his eyes. He looked different in the sunlight – more handsome, actually. It brought out the colour in his skin and eyes and hair. He looked healthy, like he was in the prime of life. He finished eating and took a sip of tea. He cleared his throat. "I take it you got home safely last night?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just took the cab back to the club and had a friend pick me up. No big deal."Arthur nodded and there was a brief silence. "Uh, hey, I was wondering," Alfred said suddenly, patting his hair unconsciously, "would you, uh, like to meet for coffee sometime? I mean, I understand if it's weird, but I mean –"

"Sure," Arthur said, interrupting him to spare him the rest of the awkward explanation. "To thank you for bringing me home," he added, lest he get the wrong idea.

Alfred smiled nervously. "Ha, okay, great. So, when are you free? I'm busy tomorrow, but does Tuesday at, say, 5:30 work?"

It was a bit of an odd time for coffee, Arthur supposed (didn't Americans always have "tea" in the morning?), but it didn't matter much to him. "Sure. Anywhere in particular you'd like?"

"Do you know the Dunkin' Donuts on 2nd by East 75th Street?"

"No, but I can find it."

"Ah, cool." Another smile, another silence. Arthur rose to place his dishes in the sink. He heard Alfred stand up as well. "I guess I'll see you then, then?"

Arthur leaned back against the counter, his heart fluttering away again. He nodded and tried to smile in a friendly way. "Sounds good."

"Right."

"Oh, hey," Arthur said uncomfortably. "The other night, when I was . . . intoxicated, I didn't say anything . . . improper, did I?"

Alfred looked surprised. "What, you don't remember?"

"Well, I mean, I remember most everything, of course," he said, flustered. "Just . . . I don't quite remember all the details after. . . ." He raised his left hand.

Alfred's face slowly broke into a smile. "Nah, you didn't say anything improper. It's all good." Arthur nodded; he found Alfred's grin slightly suspicious, but he didn't want to pursue it. He opened the door for Alfred, who left with a "See ya" and a wave. Arthur found himself waving back. He closed the door carefully and heard it click. He heart Alfred's footsteps fade away, and when they were gone he slowly released the doorknob. He looked at his apartment, studying everything, wondering what Alfred must have thought about it. He pressed his hands to his cheeks, which were still hot and flushed with embarrassment, maybe more than had been called for. Goddammit, Arthur. Don't you dare let yourself fall for him. He ran his fingers through his already untidy hair and went back to the kitchen to finish his cup of tea.

Author's note: I don't know a whole lot about New York, but according to Google maps there really is a Dunkin Donuts there. This chapter was a lot of fun to write. I hope you enjoyed it. :)