On Saturday, Arthur woke with a pounding headache. He didn't get up to get water or analgesics, just laid there and let himself suffer it.
Eventually he felt enough like he wasn't going to be sick that he could arise. It was already after eleven. Arthur hadn't slept that late in years.
He called the bar and spoke to the early staff, who did indeed have his credit card. Apparently they came in to a stack of them every morning. What they couldn't find was a bill: his card had never been charged for the drinks. The bartender had likely just charged them to Al, who still owned the place, after all. Arthur let it go. He supposed the lack of financial debitry was some small justice for what he'd had to endure.
He found his phone in the front room. He'd put it on silent before bed and there were several messages waiting for him. There was one missed call from Alfred Jones, and one text that said only "sorry." Too late for that, Arthur thought. He'd resolved some time late last night to just let it go. Perhaps it would be a relief to no longer work on Alfred's case, given how much emotional turmoil he'd already endured on the man's behalf.
There were also two missed calls from F.H. Bonnefoy, and a text from him that consisted of "?" Arthur made tea before returning the call to Bonnefoy.
F.H. answered with "Arthur. I warned you."
"You did," Arthur said. "And good morning."
"Bonjour. So ... are you remaining on the case?"
"Of course not. You can find him another attorney. I'll withdraw first thing Monday," Arthur told him.
Arthur heard a sigh. "I ... I spoke to him briefly earlier," F.H. said. "He was as full of answers as you are. But he did indicate that if you did not wish to represent him, he would be amenable to your partner Andersen taking over his representation. It would be a good idea, if you are going to be stubborn. That way, we can keep the same staff, who are already familiar with the case-"
"If I'm being stubborn? You can bugger your stubborn, F.H."
"Ah, ah, ah, I deserved that. Though as I said, I did warn you-"
Arthur waved to cut off Bonnefoy's schauenfreude, even though Bonnefoy couldn't see him. "I'll call Lars directly, and see if he wishes to assume leadership in this case. No doubt he will." Lars would be glad not to lose the fee, for one thing. They could pay at least a couple members of their staff for a year on what Alfred was paying them.
"No doubt. Well, take care, Arthur. Call me if you want to ... talk."
Arthur rolled his eyes, again unseen. "Thank you. Goodbye."
"Sayonara."
Lars was surprised but willing, and Arthur organized everything all right and tight for a smooth transition. Come Monday, he prepared the transfer information for Bella to file. He cited no reason, and trusted the court would not ask him to explain. They usually didn't, when the client was in agreement. Or had been the one to switch his attorney, which Arthur had every right to claim.
Bella was surprised, and only stared at the thumb drive he handed her.
"I discovered a conflict of interest," Arthur explained. "Andersen will probably want you to work with his team to continue the case."
She side-eyed him. "We did the conflict cross-check. Twice."
"I am done. I want nothing more to do with it," Arthur told her, trying to make it sound final. "Prepare a certified notice to the other parties, please."
Bella seemed a little stung, and of course his emphatic answer only created more questions within the office. Arthur simply worked harder on his other cases and sailed above it all as much as he could.
Andersen had been handed a high-profile case with most of the major work done, and so he didn't pry. He trusted Arthur that whatever had happened would not affect his own representation in the matter. Lars even held his initial meeting out of the office, sparing Arthur the need to see Alfred again.
It was appreciated; the mere thought of Alfred made Arthur's chest ache. It was just that ... what was most annoying to Arthur was the fact that Alfred hadn't even had a very good excuse. Arthur didn't have any misconceptions that his sexual skill was worth jeopardizing the successful dissolution of one's marriage. And if all he was worth to Alfred Jones was a quick fuck, then Arthur decided he was worth more to himself.
Now if Alfred had claimed to be in love with Arthur, then Arthur might have understood, and dealt with the matter differently. So he told himself. Unfortunately, or fortunately perhaps, he was not to be tested in that way.
Still, within the next few weeks, the news had gotten around to his colleagues. Both he and Alfred had said their transfer was mutual and amicable, but nobody wanted to believe it. Many lawyers were gossips, even within the bounds of confidentiality.
In this case Arthur thought the speculation stupider than ever. Attorneys withdrew from cases all the time. Still, this had been a very large case, and it became clear that Arthur's reputation stood to take a hit. Even some of his own clients, mostly the ones who were in the corporate or real estate businesses, had heard about it. The assumption seemed to be that Arthur couldn't handle the case, one or the other of them had been difficult to work with.
Well, Arthur supposed he could say that yes, Alfred Jones was difficult to work with. He had a habit of offering fellatio to his attorneys. After flirting with them until they were stupid with lust, of course.
As for not handling the case, that was the stupidest; it had turned out to be surprisingly easy once Mariel Jones's pregnancy had come to light.
The only thing Arthur was going to get out of the whole situation was that kiss: he certainly hadn't forgotten that. He remembered it often, sometimes when he was in the shower of an evening, or later, in bed. Or both. Sometimes he thought about it during the day, when he was sitting at his desk and resolutely not even nuh-uh Google-searching Alfred Jones or trying to explain to Mr. Vash the CPA that no, he was not on the case any longer and that Mr. Vash should contact Lars Andersen, Esquire. Mr. Vash had apparently become attached to Arthur and Arthur's ideas about what was best for their ex-mutual client.
It was a Tuesday when Arthur fielded yet another such e-mail from Vash. Yes, he said, Mr. Jones was coming to the office at one-thirty to sign some papers. No, he was not seeing Arthur Kirkland, but Lars Andersen. Could Arthur forward this information? Thank you, sincerely, Arthur Kirkland, Esquire.
Arthur planned to be out by one-fifteen, running Very Important Errands elsewhere. Thus he was surprised when at one-ten he heard Alfred Jones's voice outside his office door.
"Is he in? Does he have a minute? Just a minute, I promise."
"Pardon me, I'll have to check. One moment, please."
Monaca's voice was cool and instead of buzzing Arthur, she came into his office and shut the door behind her. She wore a frown. Dear lady, she had been offended on Arthur's behalf and suspected funny business in the Jones camp.
"Mr. Kirkland? Mr. Jones is here and wants a minute," she said, in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper. "Do you want me to tell him you're on a conference call or something?"
Arthur felt his ribcage do that familiar squeezing-his-innards thing, and he took a deep breath to loosen it. "No, but thank you, Monaca. Tell him I have two minutes."
"Ooookay," she said. She went out and Alfred came in.
He walked in more slowly than usual, as if cautious. He was a little pale - perhaps because of the particular shade of grey he wore - but otherwise he looked as delectable as Arthur had remembered. Not Googled, of course. "Hi, Arthur," Alfred said.
Arthur didn't arise from his desk, nor did he invite Alfred to sit. "Hello. What can I do for you?"
Alfred hovered over Arthur's desk and looked him up and down, like trying to read him. "I dunno, Arthur. What can you do for me?"
Smartass. Well, Arthur didn't have to pussyfoot around anymore, because Alfred was no longer a client. He crossed his arms. "As long as it doesn't involve legal advice or groping, I can tell you unequivocally that I'll consider it."
Alfred's eyes widened with some glee at that snark. He opened his mouth as if he might say something, then closed it. Then he cleared his throat. "Neither. I'm having a cocktail get-together on Saturday from five to seven. I wanted to invite you to come by."
Arthur stared at him. "Really. Well, I'm afraid that I am-"
Alfred held up a hand to interrupt. "It's a business gathering. There's that Lake County Hospital charity event later at the Hyatt. I'm having a pre-get-together for some developers, some investors, people I've worked with, people I want to work with, that kind of thing. I thought ... I thought it might be good if we could act like everything's ... good. I could slide in some recommendations - it might be nice for business. Yours. In case there were any problems caused by- with what happened."
"Ah," Arthur said, and rocked back in his chair, giving himself a moment to think. It was a decent gesture, even from an idiot who couldn't even voice his own blame. Of course, it was likely that Alfred wanted to quash talk on his own behalf as well.
"Just two hours, and that's it. No pressure, just business," Alfred added.
Arthur decided that he could be selfish, too. Making positive contacts within an influential group of people could only be advantageous. And if he had nothing else, he had his law practice. Lars would encourage him to go.
"Thank you. I will almost certainly consider it," he said.
"Great!" Alfred smiled, chasing all the hesitance from his expression. "I'll see you then."
Arthur nodded. "Perhaps," he said. "Goodbye."
Alfred turned away, then turned back to look at Arthur. He made a little salute and strode out with his usual long-legged gait.
***xxxXXXxxx***
Given his acceptance, Arthur half expected that Alfred would feel free to start calling or texting or e-mailing him again in the following days. He was surprised - and irked, if truth be told - when Alfred didn't try to contact him at all.
Seeing Alfred again had reignited all of the feelings Arthur had tried to suppress. He felt more keenly that yes, Alfred really had done him wrong. He'd sabotaged a mutually beneficial business relationship for fleeting physical pleasure.
And what had Arthur gotten? A lousy kiss and an invite for drinks.
Okay, maybe the kiss hadn't been lousy. It certainly hadn't been satisfying, however. If Arthur was to have been dumped anyway, he should have just gone for the oral sex. It would have meant more to him than to Alfred, obviously.
We don't have to get married, Alfred had said. All that bollocks about being friends, being able to talk to Arthur, had been an excuse to get laid. Possibly to get back at his wife. Arthur didn't want to think about that.
On Saturday morning, Arthur decided for the eleventh time that he wasn't going. Lars wasn't attending, after all; he had a grandchild's birthday party or something to go to.
Arthur dithered for most of the day and it was already five when he decided - for the twelfth time - that yes, he'd go after all, and do what Portia had suggested, which was to be as snootily casual as possible, just to show how much he didn't care. He dressed hurriedly in denims and a suit jacket with no tie. He arrived at six.
Alfred's condo was, predictably, at the top of a very posh building. A doorman directed him to the elevator, where an operator took him up. A young man dressed in a tuxedo opened the door to Alfred's home.
"Come on in!" the young man cried in a drunken-sounding voice. Arthur entered to see the cocktail party in full swing.
The young man wasn't the only one in a tuxedo; it seemed most of the crowd was attending the charity ball later. Feeling suddenly silly and woefully underdressed, Arthur almost turned around to leave. Then he spotted Alfred, mixing drinks behind a small bar in a corner.
Alfred was not in a tuxedo. He was dressed casually as well, wearing blue denims and some silk shirt of a color Arthur didn't notice because he could only see how it set off Alfred's eyes against his hair and- just the movement of his body beneath it, the ripple of his throat as he leaned in and laughed at something someone said.
It hit Arthur along with the wave of body-heat in the room: he wanted Alfred so much he could hardly breathe. He didn't even know if he'd forgiven him yet, just knew that he wanted to kiss his lips and his temples and peel off his clothing and kiss everywhere beneath that as well, and to breathe his sunny scent and - everything. Even if just once. All that remained was to make it happen.
Alfred spotted him. "Arthur! Hello. I'm glad you could make it. I-" He stopped speaking and stared at Arthur for a moment or two, wearing a puzzled expression. Perhaps he'd seen what was in Arthur's thoughts? Arthur was so hot inside that it was a wonder he didn't set Alfred aflame with a glance. Alfred laughed his nervous laugh, then continued. "Come on over and I'll introduce you?"
"Hello, Alfred," Arthur said. He walked over and held out his hand. "I have unequivocally shown up."
"And I'm unequivocally glad," Alfred said, trying to copy Arthur's accent as he liked to do. He shook hands, looking into Arthur's eyes as if trying to gauge his reaction. After a moment he released Arthur's fingers and looked back at whomever he'd been talking with. "This is Arthur Kirkland, an excellent attorney I've worked with. Arthur, this is Toris Laurinaitis, with Baltic Cleaning. They do housekeeping for several of my properties and half the offices in the Loop."
"Nice to meet you," Arthur said, shaking hands with the man, who was about his own age. He had longish brown hair and a friendly smile.
"Likewise. So what kind of law do you practice?" Laurinaitis asked with a slight Eastern European accent. He took a drink from Alfred.
"I specialize in family law matters," Arthur said. "Though I do some immigration."
"Really? I always need assistance with providing visas for my employees."
"I would imagine so," Arthur said, and they engaged in a shortish but pleasant conversation. He met a number of people as they came up to have their cocktails refreshed by Alfred, who was kept busy seeing to his own bar. Arthur was standing near-ish to Alfred for his own selfish reasons; while exchanging pleasantries and business cards he could listen to the breathiness in Alfred's voice as he spoke to them, could watch the sweat on his forehead and upper lip, and smell the drift of his cologne.
Arthur had only one martini. Alfred seemed to sip now and then at what looked like cola with its ice long melted. As it neared seven and the crowd began to thin, Alfred took a free moment to wipe down his bar and Arthur walked over. It was the first time it had been quiet enough for him to notice the music, some string arrangement: Boccherini, he thought.
"Should have hired a bartender," Alfred said. He glanced at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. "You didn't mingle around much, I noticed."
"I met several very nice people, thank you," Arthur said, sipping the dregs of his martini. "Everyone comes to the bar, after all."
"Oh. I thought maybe you just wanted to hang around me."
"That, too," Arthur said in a neutral voice. He raised his eyebrows at Alfred's surprised look. Seemed Alfred hadn't expected Arthur to take his bait.
Just then a couple in formal dress walked up to say goodbye to Alfred. He chatted with them in a restless-sounding voice, and when they left, he yelled out "Last call!" at everyone who remained. Then he gave his bar yet another wipe with his towel, and then he looked at Arthur again.
"So? What is it, Arthur?"
"Are you going to the charity event?" Arthur asked.
"What? Oh, nah. They already have my pledge. And I don't have a date."
"Ah. What a shame," Arthur said. He finished his martini and set the glass on the bar. He felt ... contained. Calm. In control, somehow, now that he'd made a decision about what he wanted and what he was going to do to get it. Even the pulse of arousal in his belly had a measured, careful beat.
Alfred crossed his arms. "Is there something else? Your eyebrows have been trying to say things to me all night, and I'm not sure if they're good or bad things."
"Let's find out, shall we?" Arthur quirked the eyebrows in question. "When we have a private moment."
Alfred's eyes widened. "Oh. Um." He turned back to address the room in general. "Hey, guys? My lawyer says it's after seven, and everyone has to leave. Ha ha."
"I'm not your lawyer anymore," Arthur reminded him.
"Oh yeah." Alfred swallowed as he seemed to realize the implications of that. "My former lawyer. Who is an awesome lawyer, by the way. Hey, Ed, see you later."
He spent the next several minutes saying goodbye, thanking everyone for coming, and performing the usual duties of a host, while Arthur looked for the bathroom. He found it down a hall, after taking the opportunity to look around. Alfred's condo seemed Spartan, for him. The walls and carpet were a bland ecru, and there were very few decorations, only a couple of mixed-media wall sculptures, a few tables with vases, that sort of thing. It didn't look like Alfred lived there. It made Arthur sad, to see so little of him in his own home.
When he returned from the bathroom, the music had been turned off. Alfred was just shutting the door behind the last person. He glanced back and saw Arthur. "Oh, there you are. I almost thought you'd unequivo- ah, whatever- left."
"No. Our discussion has lingered undiscussed, after all." Arthur took a deep breath. He removed his jacket, and made to hang it on a wooden chair. "May I?"
"Sure."
Arthur hung his jacket. He pointed at a cream-colored sofa. "Why don't you sit down. Over there."
"Um. Okay." Alfred looked dubious, but he sat. He crossed his arms again. "So are things ... good?"
"Some things are very good," Arthur said.
"What does that - oh." He'd just figured it out, clued in by the way Arthur stepped quickly over and grasped his shoulders, and the way Arthur bent and kissed him, hard.
Again as Arthur's lips touched Alfred's, he felt that thrill that rocketed through his body, of magic, or chemistry, perhaps: taking his blood apart and rearranging it into something molten. But this time, they had time. Arthur gentled his mouth, tilted his head just so, took the leisure to slide his tongue along the inside of Alfred's lips. They were sweet. Rum: he'd been drinking rum and cola.
Some minutes later Arthur realized the crick in his neck when Alfred's fingers brushed his nape. Arthur pulled away with a nibble at Alfred's lower lip.
"What is it?" Alfred's eyes were closed, his voice a whisper.
"A small bit of business." Arthur gently plucked of Alfred's glasses and set them aside. Alfred opened his eyes and they crinkled with a smile.
"Should I worry?"
"Perhaps," Arthur said. He climbed onto the sofa and Alfred, straddling his thighs, sinking his knees into the cushions on either side. He pinched Alfred's cheeks like a child's, then caressed his lips with his thumbs. "You are a twit," he said, in a voice that was perhaps casual but not at all snooty.
"So they tell me," Alfred said.
"Is this the usual manner in which they tell it?"
"No, this is a new one. Tell me more," Alfred breathed against Arthur's thumbs.
"Gladly," Arthur said. Then he went back for more kisses, more minutes of spanless time.
Their breaths and breathing melded, from deep and slow to short and sharp as the kisses grew more intense. Arthur fulfilled his wish to kiss Alfred's cheeks, his eyelids, his mouth. He licked below Alfred's earlobe and there, he'd found a sensitive spot: he was pressed so close he could feel the shudders that radiated throughout Alfred's body and through his hands where he grasped Arthur's hips. He indulged many things he'd imagined in the quiet of his bedroom, some innocent, like brushing his fingers through the soft hair above Alfred's ears. Others, well - the throb in his belly had grown raucous and insistent, and he was hard, harder than he'd been in a long time.
Forget eleven; Alfred cranked his knobs to thirteen, at least. Arthur wanted more, all of it. He wanted to conquer the world. He slid his mouth across Alfred's cheek to nibble at his earlobe again, a fine cheat.
"Alfred?" he whispered.
"Y—yeah?" came the stilted breath in his ear.
"I do like you."
"Hah. And I promise I respect you."
"Hmm." He swirled his tongue in Alfred's ear, a line of direct attack. "You said you wanted a quick fuck. How about a regular one, instead?"
"Uhhh," Alfred moaned. His hands clenched on Arthur's ribs. "About time."
"You'll bottom for me, won't you?"
Alfred squeezed harder. "God, yes."
Arthur caught the breath that had been trying to elude him. "Good lad," he whispered.
He sat back on Alfred's thighs and began to unbutton Alfred's shirt with fingers that wibbled only slightly. Alfred's skin was lovely and warm and Arthur bent to kiss each square inch as it was exposed.
"Have you before?" he asked Alfred's breastbone.
"Yeah ... it's been a long time. Uhh," Alfred moaned as Arthur slid his palm inside his shirt and discovered a tiny ring of metal through one of Alfred's nipples.
"What is this?" Arthur asked.
"Hah. Memento of my - of a party I went to a long time ago." Alfred had leaned his head back on the sofa to allow Arthur access, good boy.
"Silly thing." Arthur discovered that was a sensitive spot, too, as he took it in his mouth and clinked it gently between his tongue and teeth: Alfred's chest heaved with a gasp.
"Ah- God, that feels good but not here-"
"Hmm?"
"This couch. It's ... I don't want it anymore. I'm sending it over. So I want to but- not here."
Arthur unfolded himself and backed off the sofa. "Your bedroom, then?"
"My bedroom. Yeah." Alfred placed an odd emphasis on the "my." His blue gaze up at Arthur was unfocused.
Arthur felt very focused and impatient. But he could hardly heave Alfred over his shoulder and carry him off, so he pulled him up from the couch and then trailed him down the hallway. Alfred's bedroom was darker, less ascetic, his bed strewn with colorful patchwork quilts. There was a - for heaven's sake, it was a Captain America poster, stuck crookedly to a closet door like it'd been put up quickly and without thought.
"An audience?" Arthur nodded at the poster.
"He's an okay guy. What, you don't have Rick Springfield posters all over your bedroom?"
"Not since I was thirteen, I fear."
Alfred smiled down at him, looking almost shy. Curse his height. "I like it when you talk to me like a person and not a ... business entity."
"You mean a client? For that is what you were."
"But not anymore."
"No, not anymore."
"Huh." Alfred shuffled his feet.
Curse more this awkward chatter: Arthur's insides constricted with some unrecognizable emotion. With wanting wanted to fuck Alfred more senseless than he already was, this silly man with more charisma than anyone had a right to possess. With many things, some more urgent than others. "I move that we table this discussion," he said.
"I second the movement," Alfred said.
Arthur took a step forward and they came together as if for the first and last time, a mess of lips and hot breath and hands digging under clothing to find each others' naked skin. At some point Arthur pulled off his shirt and shoved his hand down the back of Alfred's jeans to squeeze his bare ass; at another he shucked his jeans, remembering to dig out the little twin-pack of lubricant and condom he'd oh-so-hopefully moved there from his wallet when he'd visited the loo earlier. And bugger it if he wouldn't fuck him with his socks still on: he unrolled Alfred onto the bed like spreading an erotic scroll.
He kissed Alfred again, deep and hard, felt his cock pulsing against the soft skin at Alfred's hip. He had a vague impression of fingers running along his spine, counting him up and down. When he slid a slick finger between Alfred's ass-cheeks, circling the tight opening, Alfred arched against him with a gasp.
Arthur brushed Alfred's hair from his sticky forehead, kissed the sweat-salty skin there.
"I'll be okay," Alfred breathed.
"I know," Arthur said. He lifted Alfred's thighs over his shoulders and sucked his cock, probing inside him with his slicked finger, pressing until- ah, there - until Alfred shuddered and clenched his fingers in Arthur's hair.
"God, Arthur, you're amazing," Alfred huffed. He was watching, his neck bent against the headboard, his cheeks at least as flushed as Arthur's had ever been. To speak of amazing. "I can't hardly bear to look at you. Wait- ah, wait, I'm going to-"
Arthur sucked him off, relentless and merciless to Alfred's moans of protest, until Alfred came, crying out, his body clenching tightly around Arthur's finger. He was relaxed, lord, at last. Arthur drooled his mouthful of semen onto Alfred's belly and spread it onto his fingers, feeling desperate and messy, and the sight of his own fingers on Al's quivering stomach was painfully erotic.
"Over," he said, and when Alfred, still knackered from his orgasm, only wrinkled his forehead, Arthur spun his finger. "Roll over, m'dear."
Alfred grinned, lopsided, at him. "You're so sweet to me, Arthur," he said.
Still, he obediently flopped over onto his stomach and pushed to his knees, so Arthur was inclined to be agreeable. "Shut it, you," he said, pulling on the condom. Ah- ah- he took a deep breath to calm the racing of his heart and the acute throb in his cock, which was threatening at the lightest touch to end his adventure prematurely. He swiped his lubricant-and-semen-coated fingers between Alfred's rounded ass-cheeks, greasing him up, guiding himself inside.
"Nnnn," moaned Alfred. He was tensed, his head hanging nearly to the bed.
"You may as well breathe," Arthur instructed. "There..."
It had already taken far too long - minutes? Hours? Weeks? Since he'd first met Alfred Jones, anyway - but still he tried to be gentle at first. He swirled his hips, he swirled his fingers in the sweat rivulets on Alfred's spine, nudging forward until he was throbbing bollocks-deep in the tight grip of Alfred's body.
Then straight to business, all business, he was, and rocked his hips; he knew just the rhythm, had dreamed it many times. In and out and again and again, following the tight coil of yearning that pulsed deep in his belly. In and out again and again, Alfred's body like a sleek leather glove stroking Arthur's cock.
"Do it, do it, Arthur," Alfred breathed, and Arthur did it, fucked him, shaking and steady all at once, splaying his fingers across Alfred's soft stomach to hold him close.
The room smelled like Alfred, Alfred smelled like Alfred. Arthur's ears were filled with huffs of breath and the slap and squelch of skin and Alfred, never silent, sighed his name and yes, yes. The little sex fiend; he was getting hard again already.
Arthur captured Alfred's erection against his palm, stroked it between his sticky-slick hand and the mess on Alfred's belly.
"Jesus," Alfred cried out. His hand slipped on the covers and he fell face-first into a pink gingham square of quilt. Arthur lost his rhythm and his next thrust missed, throwing him off-balance as well. "Sorry."
"I have a better idea, anyway. Over," Arthur said, with another finger-twirl, when Alfred looked at him.
Alfred laughed. "Flip me like a burger, would ya?"
"Nothing so unrefined. A crepe, perhaps," Arthur grinned.
"Crepes Al. I like it."
"I'll drink some Chianti later, if you have it."
"Huh? Oof."
Arthur hooked Alfred's thighs over his shoulders again. They were sweat-slippery and lightly scratchy against his cheeks - God, Arthur loved the hair on a man's thighs - and he leaned forward, opening Alfred like a lotus. It was amazing, how deeply he could thrust in this position. And how much even better it was fucking Alfred when he could look at him, see the dumbstruck part of his lips, the glaze in his eyes. He'd missed much of this earlier, he'd been so intent on getting Alfred off.
Arthur was happy. He wanted Alfred to be happy. This wasn't a regular fuck, nor anything remotely like it.
He brushed sweat from Alfred's eyelids and caught his gaze, angled his hips so that Alfred would make more of those enchanting sharp noises in the back of his throat. Perhaps, Arthur thought, he could capture them, if he curled his fingers over Alfred's lips ...
"You feel - ah!- lovely," he said.
"Lovely," came Alfred's faux-accented reply.
"Lovely," Arthur breathed, hard. He'd quickened his thrusts almost without realizing it, as the thickness in his belly took on sharper and sharper edges, hastening him toward climax. He wanted to make it last, to make Alfred come again first so he could watch it and feel it and ... everything.
Alfred locked his legs behind Arthur's back so Arthur crawled closer as he fucked him, close enough to lick the sweat from Alfred's chin. Through force of will he slowed to excruciating, shallow thrusts, just enough to rub the head of his cock relentlessly onto Alfred's prostate, and knew he was hitting it by the trembling of Alfred's body, his sharp, incoherent cries.
"Come on, you," he huffed, stroking Alfred's cock, swallowing Alfred's thumb as it found its way to his mouth.
"Yes, yes, that's too much - it's- ah, ah," Alfred cried. When he came again, he clenched so violently all over that his thighs nearly crushed Arthur's remaining breath out of him.
And yes, it was too much, the spasms of Alfred's body around him, the lake blue of Alfred's eyes beneath the flutter of his lashes: release burned its way out of Arthur with a hoarse cry and he tumbled over that edge, this time not alone.
Afterward they lay together quietly for a few minutes. It was strange, Arthur thought, that he should experience a real, live afterglow, for he'd always thought it a fanciful turn of phrase for a rather mundane event, the end of sex. But to his eyes Alfred did seem to glow, his skin sweaty and warm in the faint city- and moonlight diffusing through the curtains.
Arthur's own body hummed with contentment. He rubbed idly at the ring in Alfred's nipple, considering whether or not he might forgive Alfred after all.
"Hannibal Lecter," came Alfred's slurred voice.
"Hmm?"
"You were talking about crepes made of me and Chiantis and you meant like cannibals, like Silence of the Lambs."
Arthur smiled into Alfred's shoulder. "Indeed, that is what I referenced." He didn't say you silly thing, yet satiation had nevertheless made him more honest than usual. "I am ashamed to say, I wish I had a cigarette."
Alfred shifted his arm in some unseen gesture. "I have some. In the bedside table. For emergencies."
"You do?"
"Yeah, I'll get you one. They're really old, though."
Arthur's blood begged for the nicotine, but that was a bad thing. "No, I shouldn't. I have quit."
"Dude, your hair nearly stood on end when I mentioned it. Hey, I'll have one if you do. We have to go out on the balcony, though."
"Evil beguiler," Arthur said, feeling himself blush to be caught out so. It felt like exposing his soul, intimate even after the sex.
That was one of his problems: thinking too much about things, holding himself up in the spotlight of his thoughts and examining his place in any situation. It served him well in law but Alfred's mercurial and yes, impetuous, manner of existence made it a confusing endeavor. Arthur's life around Alfred Jones changed from moment to moment, forcing him to adapt constantly. It was exhilarating and frightening.
Still, the temptation of nicotine was too much. Arthur rolled off Alfred and the bed and dragged a quilt with him. He discreetly disposed of the condom and turned around to see Alfred wrapped in a quilt as well. He was bent over one of the tables. Soon he stood, holding two cigarettes and a lighter between three of his fingers.
Arthur followed him silently back into the front room, and thence to the balcony doors. The breeze when Alfred opened them was sharp and raw. Arthur huddled in his blanket, stiffened his spine, and followed Alfred out, glad he still wore his socks. The balcony was small and occupied by a bistro set and an ashtray.
"The smoking section," Arthur noted. His fingers shook as he lit a cigarette first for himself and then for Alfred.
"Yeah. I need a sign or something."
Arthur had hoped he'd hate the cigarette, after months without one. His first inhale was stale, and it tasted like ash, and it burned his throat. Unfortunately, it was quite heavenly despite all that.
It was a clear night and the city around them was beautiful, lines of gold peppered with dots of red and green, the whole thing bisected by the nighttime lake's semicircle of deepest black. Also pleasing was the view of Alfred, bent over the railing and looking out, exhaling a long and slow trail of smoke. His feet, unlike Arthur's, were bare and he shuffled from foot to foot on the cold concrete.
It was a sight Arthur would blissfully watch on many a cold night. An existence he could become addicted to, with or without the cigarette.
"I ... Hey. It's weird," Alfred said, barely more than a mumble.
"Hmm?" Arthur said, taking another ashy drag.
Alfred looked at him. "Aww, nothing. Me. I'm weird. Had enough?"
"Yes." Now he could think straight, part of Arthur wanted Alfred to explain, not just his half-conversation, but many things. The other part of him was too relaxed.
They extinguished their half-smoked cigarettes in the ashtray and went back inside. Alfred pointed at the bar. "Wanna drink?"
"No, thank you," Arthur said. He gathered his quilt more tightly at his neck and must have shivered, for Alfred stepped closer and opened his quilt, sharing it around both of them like a cocoon.
"Cold?"
Arthur raised his eyebrows. "No, why would you ask that?"
"You crack me up," Alfred said. He kissed Arthur first this time, with soft, smoky lips. Arthur kissed him back, lived in the moment, releasing his death-grip on the quilt to once again own all Alfred's naked, sticky skin with his fingers. The kisses were gentle and gently arousing: Arthur was too wiped from his earlier ferocious orgasm to get hard again just yet, but that only gave him time to enjoy making out for its own sake. He wanted to crack Alfred up, crack him open and hold him like that forever, and then weep at the sweetness of it all.
At some point both quilts dropped to the floor and Alfred shivered, either from the creeping chill in the room or from Arthur's fingers squeezing his ass. It was a nice one, not too skinny. But eventually the kiss had to end.
"Your face, Arthur," Alfred murmured as he pulled away.
Arthur's heart stopped, at the words, at the look in Alfred's eyes. Traitorous heart; it wanted to jump out of Arthur's chest and throw itself into Alfred's hands. "What about it?"
Alfred looked down for a moment or two. He gathered their quilts and when he stood, the blues of his eyes were ringed with red, likely from their earlier smoke.
"Nothing," he said eventually. "I need a soda or something, though. Thirsty. You want one?"
Arthur took a deep breath and reclaimed his quilt from Alfred. How about that bottle of gin at the bar, after all? "How about a water?"
"I can do that."
They huddled in their quilts at the kitchen table, Alfred with a can of Pepsi, Arthur with a bottle of water. They were silent for a bit; Arthur looked around the kitchen, looking for pieces of Alfred's life in it. Arthur could see himself there, with Alfred, doing ... things. Cooking scones in the afternoons. Sitting on the sofa together - a different sofa, of course - watching movies and eating curry. They were cozy thoughts.
Meanwhile, Alfred stared at the table, setting his can of cola on it and picking it up again, drawing in the circle of condensation it left behind. He sniffed. "Place is a mess. I'll need to call housekeeping tomorrow and pay 'em overtime. I'm not used to keeping it up all by myself. Mar- she was so picky about cleaning."
Arthur sipped his water to hide his jolt of at this reminder that Alfred was still married. To someone else. Living moment to moment meant forgetting some very important things. "It doesn't look too awfully bad. A little sticky in spots," Arthur said, lamely.
"That's nice of you to say," Alfred said with a weak smile, even though it hadn't been particularly nice. He sighed. "I don't know whether to congratulate myself or call myself an idiot."
Arthur's stomach sank. "What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing." Another sigh.
"No, I think you should tell me," Arthur said, enunciating.
Alfred wouldn't look at him. He sniffed again and something wet plopped onto the table in front of him and oh, lord - was he-? "Well, I guess I have a Thing now. But I feel like I shouldn't. Like, what would she think?"
Arthur stood. He felt sick at the idea that he was a Thing.. Or merely a Thing, at least, and not more. "Sorry to have troubled you."
Alfred glanced up at him, and his eyes were definitely red. "No, it's - God, give me a break. It was hard enough to say that, without you misunderstanding."
"What!?" Arthur said, perhaps over-loudly, but then a lot of things were bubbling to the surface. "I understood perfectly."
Alfred looked back down at the table and waved his hand in Arthur's general direction. "No, you didn't. Listen. I'm trying to be better at this, but I sort of suck."
"Indeed, you-" Arthur started, then sighed heavily. "I think I will leave now," he said. He stomped off to retrieve his clothing.
"I should probably be alone anyway," Alfred sniffed.
Arthur dressed in a hurry, feeling tight in the chest and around his eyes. Rebounds were the worst ever, they were bollocks, and so were bisexual little shits looking to even a score with their wives, they were everything bad and Arthur wished he'd never met Alfred Jones, because then he would have never have had to cross his living room, red-eyed and blithering and feeling like dirt.
"Will you call me? Can I call you, at least? So we can talk when I'm not fucked in the head?" Alfred said. He was leaning against the wall in the entrance to the kitchen, looking not at Arthur but at his own bare feet on the carpet.
"No, and no," Arthur said with some astonishment, pausing in his escape. "I don't- I dislike being used."
Alfred looked up at that. "Hey, you're the one who - and it's not like you didn't get anything. And you just said you liked me, Arthur. You sure acted like it."
Like, liked, like. "Only because you-" Arthur began, then cut himself off with a grunt, because he wasn't even sure which part of that he was replying to. The man wasn't even worth arguing with. Yes, he was, said another part of Arthur, one he ignored. "Yes, it was a lovely fuck. Thank you," Arthur said, heading for the door as quickly as he could.
"Great. Just great," Alfred was moaning as Arthur left.
Arthur sat in another taxicab after another tumultuous evening with Alfred Jones and crossed his arms and glared at the world passing by through the vehicle window. It was a world of stupid things that seemed wonderful but were just waiting to entrap one into misery.
It seemed his lust had gone on to infect other parts of him, such as his judgment. He'd given Alfred a second chance, not something he ever did, and there! It had only hurt him in the end.
A lot of things made sense in retrospect. Arthur hadn't forgiven Alfred; he'd just fallen in love with him. And Alfred was still in love with his wife.
***xxxXXXxxx***
This time Arthur couldn't - and thus didn't - even pretend that everything was fine, just fine here, thanks. He moped.
He hurt Portia's feelings when she called Sunday to wax poetic about her Korean carpenter, with whom she'd finally gone on a date. He was totally cute, she said, and he was goofy and smart and had a liberal arts degree from Northwestern but he made better money at contracting and it was love at first sight for both of them and she was seeing him again and so on and so on and Arthur mumbled "yes, how nice for you" and Portia went silent and asked what was wrong. "Nothing, why would you ask that," Arthur said, and Portia gave up, apparently disgusted with the nastiness of his tone.
He arose late for work for several days in a row. He glowered and caused his office staff to avoid him, which suited him fine.
He put on false smiles for his clients and listened to their problems. He didn't want to be in love with Alfred Jones, though he could think of no other reason for the turmoil in his head and heart. He was hurt and angry, and at the same time he wished it were not so and that he could see Alfred again and listen to his silly chatter and kiss him silent and then ... He'd already been imagining himself in Alfred's life, for fuck's sake.
He didn't want to feel like a- a thing. A thing that had experienced something wonderful and intimate and exceptionally arousing to remember, but still, a Thing.
The other Arthur in his brain reminded him that, well, he hadn't expressed any deeper feelings, either, at least not really. But surely his emotions had been plain? Of course they had. Everyone could read him.
Unless they were as clueless as Alfred was. You are emotionally distant, Mariel Jones had written to her husband. Well, Arthur had thought then, it took one to know one.
Alfred called once and Arthur's heart stopped as he felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and then thumped hard against his ribs when he saw who it was. He didn't answer. Alfred spoke to Arthur's voicemail. "Hey. I still wanted to try and talk, but if you're not going to answer ... It's hard to explain what's in my head, and I'm definitely not gonna do it over voicemail. Can we meet for drinks, or coffee, or something? Call me if you want to. Bye."
No, Arthur thought, ignoring the shiver the mere sound of Alfred's voice produced in his belly. He deleted the message. He needed to move on, to learn to be normal again. To not think about the taste of Alfred's sweat, or the way he gasped when Arthur touched his ridiculous nipple-ring. That way lay madness, obviously, or Bella and Monaca wouldn't duck and shuffle off every time they spotted him.
He holed himself in his office and worked harder. He asked his trainer for extra workouts, to occupy his mind and wear himself out.
Once he'd had a few days of moping, however, things only got worse. In addition to the pain of his unrequited love, a sense of guilt began to trickle into his already roiling mess of emotions. When he held the stage of their entire acquaintance in his mind's eye and replayed their scenes together in that way his brain liked to do, that guilt shone a spotlight on things Arthur had missed or ignored in his haze of lust and betrayal.
Expected betrayal, if he were honest - he'd just been waiting for it, hadn't he? And ever since the beginning, Alfred had been trying to pretend, very badly, that he didn't care about his divorce. Being emotionally distant. Arthur's heart began to ache even more, not only for himself but for Alfred: his wife had left him for another man.
That last night, Alfred had been clearly upset. Yes, he'd said some rather rude things - not like you didn't get anything - but then, so had Arthur.
It was a lovely fuck, thank you, he'd said. Arthur cringed inwardly every time he remembered saying that, and the tone of voice he'd used. Once while driving he cringed outwardly, actually winced in traffic, causing him to swerve. A taxi screeched past him, the driver blaring the horn and waving his middle finger out the window. Arthur had been so distracted he hadn't even mustered up the resolve to make a return rude gesture.
Perhaps pain was actually making him a better person? Probably not.
By Friday Portia had gotten tired of his radio silence and demanded to come over. She showed up directly after work, asked for tea instead of wine, and sat on his couch with crossed arms.
"I was going to drive up to Milwaukee tonight, but I decided to wait until tomorrow because I was worried about you," she accused in a voice that carried all the way into the kitchen, where Arthur was setting the electric kettle to boiling.
"Why ever would you worry?" Arthur called back, that time making sure his tone was as guileless as possible.
"Something's wrong with you. When I called to tell you about Yong, you didn't even tell me how love at first sight doesn't exist. You always tell me that."
"Should I have?" he said. He'd never used to believe in love at first sight. Well, he'd never believed in love. Had it been first sight for him? Yes, he decided, because he felt like he'd been foolish for ever.
"No, because you're always wrong when you say it. Still, it wasn't like you?"
"Oh." Perhaps he was transparent only to those who knew him best and longest? Or perhaps he'd made for himself a reputation for cynicism and it was expected of him? Perhaps ... he was being exceedingly self-centered, wasn't he? There was another point off his score, joining the points he'd already lost with the guilt and the cringing.
The kettle boiled. He poured the water into the teapot and put the teapot on the tea tray. He loaded the tray and carried it into the front room. "Thank you for worrying," he said. "Are those new boots?"
Portia stretched out one leg. "Oh my gosh, yes! Aren't they adorable?" Arthur would more have called them dangerous, to both the wearer and any unwary passersby, with those skyscraping, pointy heels and the silver spikes scattered about the cuffs. "I got them on sale at Nordstrom, and - hey, you're distracting me, aren't you? Did you go to the cocktail party at Mister Glasses's place?"
Arthur set the tea tray on the table. "Yes."
"What happened?"
"Things," Arthur said, pouring a cup for Portia and then one for himself.
"Sexy things?"
Arthur sighed. "Yes."
Portia raised her eyebrows. "You don't seem very happy about it."
Arthur sighed again. "I'm not. We had ... a disagreement." He gave her a very edited version, which basically said that they'd had sex and Alfred had moped over his absent wife and thus Arthur had gotten mortified and left.
Portia blew on her tea and sipped it. "Well, he was right to be guilty about her, though he probably shouldn't have taken it out on you. I'm indignant on your behalf, because he shouldn't have seduced you if all he wanted to do was try and forget his wife. Jerk."
Arthur had started to pour milk into his tea but paused. "Well, I wouldn't say it was he who'd started- who was ... doing all the seducing."
Portia sighed and set her teacup in its saucer. "Oh, Arthur. So what's the real problem?"
"I feel stupid. I can't even say it aloud," Arthur said. And then thought about what he'd just said, and wondered if the same situation had applied to Alfred. He'd said he was trying to get better at stuff. When he'd said stuff, he'd meant communicting, hadn't he?
God, I am such an idiot, Arthur thought. Well, Alfred was an idiot, too, but Arthur was a bigger one. For getting involved in the first place, for falling in love with someone who (a) was a client or ex-client, (b) was married, and (c) couldn't express himself any better than Arthur could.
"That sounds terrible. It also sounds like something you should make yourself tell me, because it'll be good for you and I'll die of curiosity if you don't," Portia was saying.
No, I think you should tell me. Arthur felt his cheeks warm. He took a deep breath. "Fine. I'm in love with him. But he's in love with his wife, not me. That makes me sad and foolish and ... jealous."
"Oh, you can't help who you love," Portia moaned. She gave him a quick hug, making him nearly spill the milk, but he was glad for the sympathy. He poured a few drops of milk into his tea and stirred it to cover the tightness in his throat and, probably, his expression.
"Tell me about your carpenter," Arthur said. That time it was definitely a distraction.
"Well, I sort of did. But of course there's tons more." Portia grinned. She told him how they talked every night, and how Yong had said he'd consider moving to Chicago, because he could find work anywhere he was happy. He loved sushi and traveling to Japan - he had family there - and he'd love to take Portia there for some sushi at the source. She looked joyful, moreso than Arthur had ever seen her when talking about a man, and Portia had talked about a lot of men.
"I want you to meet him," Portia added. "Can I bring him by next weekend? Saturday?"
"Yes, of course," Arthur said.
"But what will you do?" Portia asked. She finished the last of her tea and held her cup out for more. Arthur plucked off the cozy and poured.
"Probably nothing," he said, not even pretending to misunderstand her.
She raised an eyebrow at him and over-sugared her tea as usual. "Do you want to give it a chance? When things have had time to settle down? I mean, he's obviously interested, at least. Was the sex good?"
Arthur definitely blushed at that. "Yes. Very good. Very, very good."
"Gosh, you're red. So what's the problem?"
Arthur sighed. Yes, he had nosy friends, but damned if talking about it aloud didn't clear his head. "I don't wish to set myself up for more heartache, because I've discovered that when it's real, it's awful." He actually choked a little on the last.
Portia frowned in sympathy and patted his arm. She let him sip his tea before continuing in a gentle voice. "It might be worth the gamble. I've seen you in Las Vegas. You aren't a wussie, Arthur."
"No, but I'm not usually such a cock-up, either. I just don't know how to properly behave around the man." He sipped his tea. "Maybe. I'll see, when I'm ready."
"Just call him! You won't get anything or know anything just sitting around."
"I'll think about it."
"Nnnngh, Arthur, you are driving me nuts. Fine." She waved at him, signaling her surrender. "When you're ready."
Arthur nodded. He didn't hold high hopes for ever reaching that point, but one never knew.