Don’t Stress, Don’t Cry, We Don’t Have to Say Goodbye
They’d made love yesterday. Last night. It was mind-blowing, earth-shattering, the way that Arthur clung to him and gasped out his name and begged for more. Alfred isn’t sure what’s gone wrong.
“Hey.” Arthur is shaking, he is uncontrollable, he is fragile, but even alone he is beautiful. His pale shoulders glow from the white beam, just that soft white light that’s trickled in from the open window. Moonlight. There are crickets chirping. Arthur loves listening to the crickets chirping. Alfred stays in the doorway and watches the man he loves crumbling.
“Go away.” The voice, still so thick with that British accent, is strong. The slender fingers are not. They shake around the blade.
“The moon outside is gorgeous tonight, babe, have you seen it? Here, look—” As Alfred steps in, he doesn’t even mind his lover on the cold tiles, just walks to the window and opens it wider. The curtains are ghostly. They billow, they swirl, and they unravel star-spangled expanses out there, deep cobalt and violent violets, and that moon. Alfred’s eyes reflect the Heavens. He is starry-eyed. “God, it’s something to look at.”
Arthur looks up despite himself. That calming voice is something he likes to listen to. He loves it. But that voice cannot save him tonight.
“Look, here— it’s a bunny! Hey, you love bunnies, c’mere….” Alfred’s voice sounds excited as he beckons Arthur over so naturally that he moves over to peer out the window. As soon as he comes, Alfred leans in and kisses his forehead. The cold sweat must have stuck to his lips.
“….I don’t see a bunny.”
“You don’t?” Alfred points out into the sky with a finger. “There. See? It’s looking around, like it’s looking for something. It’s really cute. Looks scared— nothing to be scared of, really. I guess it’s not great, being a bunny, having constantly to be afraid and always being hunted. Still.” He turns. He looks at Arthur.
A wet wrist is pressed against his arm.
Arthur hisses with pain.
Alfred doesn’t seem to notice, but he does toss the razor out of the window.
They are on the thirteenth story of a house. There is no moon. There is a cloud of smoky swirls, and the American leans back to exhale. There is blood on his arm, but it is not his own. He washes it out and leaves the room— after all, today is his first anniversary after losing the one he loved.
—Mod F
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ANTI THE [INFINITE] HOLiC by ~Myme1
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