No, Hastings isnāt a morning person. Not since the war. Not when waking up every day meant he had some new threat to face. Some new mortal peril to endure.
Not when he was never sure whether heād wake up at all.
Not when he was never sure if he even wanted to.
But itās been years since the war now. And sure. Hastings still doesnāt like waking up early. Some days he can barely drag himself out from under the coversā¦
Butā¦
Lately?
Well, ever since Poirot had invited him to sleep in his bed with him, really. Hastings has found heās been sleeping better.
And maybe that has something to do with how waking up these days has become exponentially more pleasant.
Maybe itās just that heās sleeping better.
Or maybe itās his soft smiles, the crinkles at the edges of his eyes, his good morning kisses and the perfect moustache that tickles his cheeks and his neck.
Or maybe itās the mumbled, sleep-rough French phrases.
Hastings may only be able to pick out a word or two here and there.
But he knows his favourite phrase when he hears it.
To those of you who have been supporting me on ko-fi: THANK YOU SO MUCH!! I made this gift for you!!
Special shoutout to @soldhissoulforrocknroll for the inspiration for this comic and for his continued support and encouragement!!!
This gift even comes with a ficlet! (there's more under the cut)
The task should be simple enough.
He can't understand why Hastings even handed him the tie...He knows Hastings can tie it himself. But it makes no difference to Poirot; he will simply tie it and they will leave. And then Poirot won't have to think about how Hastings' whispered confession had just turned his entire world upside down.
Love. Until now, it's been one of those curious unexplainable, uninvestigatable things...something for the young. For those who wanted to settle down to the family life. For those not burdened by the deeply convoluted life of an extraordinary man.
Sure, love was always something he felt so deeply for others, yet it was never something that Poirot fathomed someone else could ever feel for him.
His Hastings has always been devoted, yes. Loyal, too--maybe even to a fault. But not once did Poirot ever suspect that love could have been hiding somewhere behind those bright blue eyes when they looked at him.
And yet. Now the evidence is incontestable.
To his own dismay, this revelation makes Poirot's hands shake.
He can still tie this tie and get on with the evening. He is determined.
Don't look up.
Don't look into Hastings' blue eyes, or you'll be lost beyond recall.
He will tie this tie and they will go to this dinner. And Poirot will pretend that everything is as it was. That Love still has the same definition it had before. That everything is in its place, including his own yearning--high up on a shelf in his heart where at least he knew it would never be fulfilled.
"Poirot..."
Hastings' whisper makes the tremor in Poirot's hands worse.
...There's no denying it now. Love simply means something else now. And now his yearning can be fulfilled. The feeling is overwhelming. It grabs him by the throat. Backs him into a corner.
He tries not to think about the warmth of Hastings' body as his hands rest against his chest.
Concentre-toi, Hercule!
Faire.
Le nÅud.
Tie.
The knot.
"It's alright, Poirot... You can relax... Give in to me..."
Hastings' hand rests so gently on Poirot's arm that it almost breaks his heart. Could Poirot himself really be something to be cherished so much? Something to be treated with such reverence?
Poirot lets out a breath. There's no guarantee that Hastings will feel this way forever. No guarantee that this new definition of Love is any more stable than the old one.
He knows if he dives in now--if he lets what he feels for Hastings consume him--he may never resurface.
It would be so dangerous to give into this yearning now...
Faire.
Le nÅud.
Over. Under. Through.
"Hastings... We will be late..."
He feels Hastings' hand gently come to rest on his shoulder, sending shivers right down his spine.
"I know."
Hastings' voice is so warm, so familiar. So full of love that Poirot knows anyone else would be able to hear it if they listened. Had he simply missed it before?
Poirot can't help himself. He looks up.
He's seen that same smile on Hastings' face so many times...had he really missed all this evidence? Was the evidence so plain and simple that he'd just skipped right over it? Has it all been right there, hidden in plain view, this whole time?
"I don't care."
And as Hastings' soft lips meet his, Poirot finds that...perhaps he doesn't care either.
Not about stuffy dinners. Not about ties.
Not about the (im)permanence of definitions of Love.
And not about the danger of losing himself in it.
Psst. Hi! Want a high resolution PDF of this comic/ficlet? I'll send it to anyone who's supported me on ko-fi!
One so simple, a staple of spring; thereās a thousand just like it here in this field, but you find yourself falling in love with a particular oneā¦picking it and taking it home
One stands out in a crowd, thrives where people think it shouldnāt be able to grow, but take that special thing it needs away from it, and it will sadly wilt and bow
Youād never think to put them together in a bouquet, and yetā¦
The purples and the yellows, how well they complement each other
How well the simple frames the extraordinary - How easily they intertwine
A match made in heaven - a pair so sublime
That it almost makes you believe in miracles; in destiny
So let the bouquet stand together for as long as it lasts, then preserve them - press them together between the pages of a book
This pair clearly belongs together; never to be separated by distance, fate, or time
So. I am super proud of this! and Iām considering putting up a print of this on my ko-fi shopā¦.would anyone be interested in something like that??
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