ARTIST: owynsama (Art is available on the 365daysofusuk tumblr.)
AUTHOR: qichi
14th of December, 2014
Alfred wakes to the familiar jingle of someone turning keys in the lock. He yawns and stretches, letting the sleep shiver out of his muscles, feeling wonderfully domestic as the front door clicks shut. "Come on upstairs," he says, too warm in his cocoon of blankets to close the distance himself.
"Lazy bastard," comes the reply as Arthur's footsteps draw closer. Mm. For all his complaining and all his gruff he doesn't hesitate to join Alfred, not even for a second. Alfred's come to rely on the certainty of that.
It's stiflingly warm. Between the pleasant comfort of a bed slept in all night and the body heat coming off of Arthur after a morning run-well, they're gonna have to throw the sheets in the wash, for one thing, but it's… it's something good, something Alfred doesn't want to give up on.
After one too many nights spent up late, alone, watching Lifetime movies with a box of tissues and a pint of chocolate ice cream, Arthur wanted to do something about the little pocket of chub he'd developed. Despite Alfred's protests that it was cute. It's part of a routine, now; Arthur comes home smelling like sweat, all slick musk and grime, just around when Alfred stumbles out of bed, usually. Or some days, like today, lazier than most, before he manages to make the effort.
Alfred kisses Arthur's forehead and cards his fingers through his hair, only stopping when Arthur shrugs out of his sweatpants and hoodie-hot, athletic bod aside, November's cold in early mornings. "Love you," he says against his temple, kissing there again, covering Arthur in affection. "What do you want for breakfast?"
The reply he gets out of Arthur is somewhere between 'mmn' and 'rrrngh,' which could be... eggs, maybe, but Alfred doesn't want to risk the wrath of dissatisfied boyfriend, so he plies him with a long, slow smooch and tries again. "Food?"
As Arthur finally manages a reply-eggs, toast, an orange-Alfred grabs the hoodie he'd taken off and pulls it onto himself. It's a little gross-smelly, yeah, but under all that it's the scent of Arthur, the feeling of being all wrapped in his presence. Besides, it'd been his first, USA emblazoned on the front in big white block letters; Arthur had taken to it for its bulk, its warmth and comfort. It's a weird, reciprocal relationship, love played out in laundry.
In the mean time Arthur's shifted over top of the blankets, resting now, his back flush to their piled pillows as he catches his breath and relaxes.
Alfred can't help a show of sentiment. He bends, like a knight swearing loyalty to his lord, and presses lips to the back of Arthur's hand, brushing over his knuckles. "As you wish, sir," he teases.
Arthur doesn't throw a pillow at him, which is a kindness he doesn't usually offer, although he does reach back and grip one threateningly, as if Alfred will scare away. As if. But despite Arthur's exterior, Alfred knows, his need to seem rough and cold and strong, his feelings burn just as high as Alfred's. He loves him. And he's going to want that breakfast.