Author's Note: A wild writer has appeared! Wild Writer used: I'm So Sorry for Not Updating for like Eight Months I Know I'm a Piece of Shit. Please Love Me Anyways.

Chapter 10

A New Job and an Undeniably Beautiful Man

"How may I help you guys?" Alfred held open the door to the large art gallery, grinning ear to ear as an older couple walked in. Two weeks into working for Arthur and he was finally getting the gist of how to butter up people and coax them to buy something; other than his body. Which was weird, by the way, not having to flex his muscles and walk around shirtless all the time. Not necessarily bad, but weird. Even back in high school, most of his appeal towards his peers was based purely off the fact he was a god; in sports and otherwise. But in the adult world, he was another twenty-three year old with a pretty face that had to find a job, just like all the other boring adults.

The drunken making out had yet to be mentioned. The American was fairly sure Arthur thought Alfred hadn't remembered it at all, and he half wished he hadn't. Only because whenever he jacked off in the shower, all he could reenact in his head was that one minute. Out of all the sexual fantasies he'd been able to fulfill in his life, that was what got him going. As he walked the couple around the store and regurgitated facts about each painting that Arthur had imprinted in his brain, Alfred's mind began to wander. Was he going to have to do this every day for the rest of his life? "This was inspired during a pride march in Manchester, England." "This was a charcoal sketch done of the people there." How boring was that!? At least at the strip clubs, weird shit happened all the time. The night was not complete without someone being stabbed, or Alfred trying some weird drug he'd never heard of. This whole life was so… mundane. It was like living the life he swore himself he'd never succumb to.

The money wasn't bad though, and neither was getting to stay with Arthur. Even after the first weeks pay check would have allowed him to move out, neither seemed too keen on the idea. "Plus," as Arthur had said, "when you stay here, I know you'll never be late to work." Having a steady stream of cash inflow was nice, it gave him more hope than his previous employment had. Back then, whether or not he got to eat depended entirely on how well he could shake his ass. Now, he just had to smile and sell the shit outta Arthur's paintings.

The day dragged on, like every other for the past few weeks had. Alfred greeted dozens of people, and glared the teenagers away every time they came in. God, was he that annoying? "I'm sorry to everyone who knew me back then." Alfred thought to himself every time he had to shoo the seventeen year olds out of the gallery. The one perk of working there was seeing Arthur. More specifically, getting to see his face light up every time he received a compliment. He envied the Brit for finding something that he loved to do so much, because all Alfred really enjoyed was drinking and making out with people. Getting to see Arthur's eyes sparkle like two emeralds implanted in his head was priceless.

"Alfred, I've got to go run a few checks by the bank. Can you close for me?" Arthur, wearing a paint-covered t-shirt and washed out skinny jeans, walked up to the American as the day neared to an end. He'd been painting in the slowest part of the day, and it showed. He had specks of red in his bangs, which reminded Alfred shockingly of all the hair dye that used to reside there. He nodded.

"Of course, of course. See you for dinner." The American replied nonchalantly. 'Dinner' was three packets of ramen boiled in an oversized pot, and either Capri Suns or Mountain Dew. Whichever was left over in the pantry. Alfred thought it was funny that even though they were adults, they ate like they did when they were seventeen; broke, hungry, and desperate.

Arthur walked out through the front door, holding it open for a middle aged man as he did so. Alfred was in the back, already tallying up the money in the register. He glanced up as he saw someone else come in, mentally groaning. Didn't people get that 'close at 6:30 on Wednesdays' meant get the fuck out. He'd already been standing up since eight that morning, he was ready to go indulge in beer. "Anything I can help you with, sir?" He questioned, not looking up again from the cash register until he felt the presence of the man standing on the opposite side of the counter. He looked up, and immediately his eyes widened.

"Good to see you again, Mr. Jones." Said the man, giving a somewhat sinister smile. Alfred remembered him from the club, he was one of the regulars. The one that always sat in the corner and looked slightly disgusted when they offered him cheap alcohol. The American stiffened slightly, but smiled. "What a change of careers you've undergone."

"Yeah, it was a big change. Good to see you again as well, sir." Alfred closed the register, walking out from behind the counter. "Is there anything here you're interested in?" He questioned, beginning to walk past the paintings for the billionth time that day.

"You?" The man joked, and laughed. Alfred gave a dry chuckle as well in response. "Excuse me, it's not my place to be lewd outside of those clubs… However, I do know a place hiring, if you're interested. This place," the man motioned around the gallery "doesn't quite seem like your kind of thing…"

"Aw darn, I wish I could. This is actually kinda, you know… A step away from that kind of thing." Alfred replied slowly, biting down on his lower lip. It was hard to turn down. "Those clubs are a little too rowdy for me now."

"Actually, the place I was thinking of is slightly different… It's more of a gathering, for a few friends and I. I keep it running two nights a week, admission costs a pretty penny. You wouldn't be working with low-life scum anymore. Whatever you're making here, I can promise we'd double it." A card was being offered out to Alfred, with nothing more than the name 'Alexander Callahan' and a number on it. "Do give me a call, if you're interested. Hours are negotiable, for a dancer like yourself." Alfred felt eyes rake up his body, tearing off the clothes he was wearing. He took a small step back, but smiled nonetheless.

"Will do. Thanks a ton, sir."

Alfred took the job. He felt slimy and gross for taking it, but after another week of "hello, how may I help you?" and reciting the history of over one hundred paintings, he almost begged to start working. It was only two nights a week, and a very limited number of hours. Which made it exceedingly easy to lie to Arthur. He told him all sorts of things. "I'm going to meet up with some old friends! The ones you hate." and "I'm going to visit a distant aunt who's in town." He said anything and everything to keep the other at home and oblivious.

Tonight was the fifth time he was working. His 'workplace' was the entire top floor of one of the most magnificent hotels in New York, and it was owned by one of the richest men in America. Apparently, the penthouse was the stomping grounds of rich men and women with too much time on their hands. People came and went, but it was apparent they all had too much money, and too little time to spend it all. When the hand on the clock struck two in the morning, he crawled off the man's lap he was on. "Over so soon?" The foreign-sounding man whined, despite the smile on his lips.

"Afraid so. I'll be here this Friday too, though." Alfred replied kindly, trying to ignore how cold the man's hands had been on his bare flesh. His shirt had been ridden of many hours ago, as had his pants, and for most the night he'd walked around in his boxer briefs. He'd asked his employer if he needed anything else to wear, half expecting some weird playboy costume. But he'd been told the people he served preferred a more 'realistic' dancer. If that meant he didn't have to put on bunny ears, that was perfect with him.

The people dressed in million dollar suits and dresses made of pure silk began to gather all of their belongings, and the soft jazz music wained to a stop. The atmosphere in the top floor of the hotel differed drastically from clubs. People were sophisticated, the alcohol was expensive, the drugs there were the kind that cost a thousand a gram, and Alfred wasn't ripped off twice a night.

"Good job, Jones." Said a woman named Elise. She passed him as he tugged his black skinny jeans back on, and paused to admire him. Alfred smiled lightly, and nodded. It was hard to accept compliments here, he didn't want to accept the fact that dancing was the one thing he was good at. He couldn't believe that this was the peak of his life - that would be downright depressing. He had to hope he'd find something he was passionate about. He prayed he would.

The walk home sobered him up almost immediately. The ice in the air sliced through his thin jacket and froze his skin. Alfred wrapped his jacket closer around his body as he shivered, and hurried home. New York was oddly exotic at night. Beautiful wasn't the word; beautiful would indicate there was a gentle, comforting air to the city. The world was exotic, rough on the edges and sharp enough to cut a throat. But stunning. The streets were illuminated with windows, each dimly supported with flickering lamps and lights. He found it amazing that each and every windowsill had a different story lying directly behind it.

Working with rich, stuck-up asses made Alfred realize how attracted he was to Arthur. It was some sort of weird reverse-psychology, some odd push away from some that pulled him even closer to the Brit. He was more excited to get home than usual.

It was no big surprise that the Englishman was awake once he dragged himself up two flights of stairs and threw his shoulder against the begrudging door. Arthur was laying on the white leather couch, with a half-empty bottle of vodka in one hand, and the television remote in the other. His eyes were glazed over as he watched some horror movie that Alfred immediately turned off. Arthur snapped out of his daze as the other entered, and smiled drunkenly.

"I was gonna wait for you, love…" Arthur said, almost regretfully. He looked down to the vodka, seeming to be surprised it was not all there. "You got home later than I thought you would. How were your friends?" Leave it to Arthur to sound moderately sober, despite the fact he was swaying and nearly falling. Alfred walked over and took a seat on the couch next to him, removing the bottle from the Brit, only to take a large swig of it himself. He made a little face.

"Ugh, assholes, as always."

"Why do you go out with them, then? Stay home with me! I've got good alcohol~" Arthur said in a sing-song voice, leaning against the other and humming silently. The American felt like they continually traded places. One was always drunk, the other trying desperately to get drunk as well so he didn't have to deal with the other. It was weird to be around someone totally wasted when you were sober.

"Ya know… I gotta get out of the house some time." Alfred took another large gulp of the clear liquid, grimacing. Arthur rested his head on the taller male's shoulder, closing his eyes momentarily.

"I have a question." Arthur declared suddenly, as if he'd planned on saying those four words all night. He struggled to open his eyes, lift his head up, and place his chin on Alfred's shoulder. He looked the American in the eyes. "Are you like… Straight? I don't get how you can…can…" Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, looking away, seeming to forget what words to verbalize next. "work at clubs and, ya know…" He sighed, and Alfred inhaled the vodka soaked into the Englishman's breath. "I'm not drunk enough for this," The blue-eyed man thought, taking another swig of the vodka.

"I don't know… I don't like most guys like that." 'Just you,' Alfred added on mentally, moving his arm to wrap it around the Brit's shoulders. Arthur was absolutely too intoxicated to do anything other than slump up against the other, snuggling for warmth. 'How long are we going to keep getting drunk and forgetting about what was said the next morning…?'

"Oh…" Arthur nodded, making one attempt to grab the bottle. His arm swung out, and missed by half a foot. After drinking a bit more, Alfred sat the bottle far away from the both of them.

"Alright, Arthur, bedtime." After a while in the stagnant silence, the American rose up to his feet, then leaned back down over the couch. He wrapped an arm underneath Arthur's, helping to hoist the Brit up to his feet; not without complaint.

"I don't wannaaa… I waited all night for you to get back." Arthur whined, allowing himself to be half-lead, half-dragged up the stairs with great cautiousness, and down the hall. The American only nodded, flipping on the bedside lamp after sitting the artist down on the bed. After a moments deliberation, he kicked off his shoes and crawled into the opposite side of the bed. Arthur seemed too intoxicated to notice or care, seeing as he'd immediately curled up in the fetal position underneath the thick duvet. Alfred would later play off his little sleepover as not wanting to spend another night on the back-breaking couch.

"Is it alright if I stay here…?" The American questioned after at least a minute of dead silence. His eyes wandered around the room, which still had boxes in the corners that had yet to be unpacked. Arthur, who had already been dozing off, rolled over to face Alfred.

"Mh hm…" He hummed quietly, throwing an arm over the larger male and immediately closing his eyes again. Alfred took off his glasses and tossed them near the end of the bed, not able to reach a bed stand without moving the (already?) asleep Englishman. He looked down to the Brit's face, studying how peaceful he looked. Arthur had always been stunning, but six years of college, and working as the starving artist had matured him. His cheekbones were more sharp, his face slightly more narrow. He always looked as if he was trying to figure out a complex puzzle in his head. He always looked beautiful.

Alfred sighed quietly, able to smell the alcohol in his own breath. Grimacing slightly, he returned to looking to Arthur. It was hard to do in the day, when the Englishman was moving and alert. It was nice to be able to see him now, see his chest rise and fall slowly, and his eyelashes flutter every minute or so. He looked like a work of art, deserving to be hung in the finest of galleries. Maybe Arthur was a piece down in his art gallery, maybe people viewed him as another eloquent painting. He would fit right in. Alfred wished he didn't think those kinds of things about Arthur, but he couldn't help it. The Englishman was undeniably beautiful.

Author's Note: I'm really sorry I left for so long, I've been having some family issues which led me to take a break from pretty much everything. I'm hopefully back now, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! (PS I am so so so sorry for being gone, I feel really bad about it.)