Hey I just wrote this in *checks time* like thirty minutes after itâs been on my mind since last night. Itâs probably far from perfect but I think you will get what I want to project from my brain into yours đ„șđ©·
usukus, very domestic very fluff, much scene and mood building with minimalist dialogue. a little offering from me to you in these trying times đ
Alfred wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, warm and cuddly under the sheets, but as he stirs he finds the bed empty by his side. A warmth still lingers but itâs almost gone entirely.
He doesnât think too much of it, tries to doze off, back into the land of dreams, but after a couple of minutes the pressing matter of urgent natural needs force him to leave the warm embrace of the bed.
He stumbles out of the bedroom, bleary eyes barely cooperating as he feels his way along the wall until he finds the bathroom door. A way he has marched countless times in all states of wake and tiredness yet itâs always a surprise when his hand finds the door handle and switch for the bathroom light.
When business is done and his eyes have become used to the darkness he finds a soft light coming through under the door to the living area. The open kitchen, dining room and living room have always been a dream of his.
He pads towards the door, towards the light. His steps are still clumsy with sleep clouding his ability to move more elegantly.
He blinks a few times to give his eyes the chance to adjust to the dim light of Arthurâs reading lamp. First the pitch black of the hallway, then the offending intensity of the bathroom light, back to darkness in the hallway again - Alfred rubs his eyes, the action almost childlike to him when Arthur acknowledges his presence with a look.
âItâs late. Why are you awake, love?â
Could ask you the same, Alfred thinks but doesnât say out loud. He shakes his head in sleepy disbelieve and finally entires the scene.
As Alfred comes closer, Arthur puts down the needlework he was working on and unfolds his legs under the soft blanket that covers his lower half. With the still lightly steaming cup of tea on the side table and his reading glasses on he looks like the epitome of domestic.
Without another word Alfred sits down, lays down, cuddles into Arthurâs side, forcing him to find a position where he can support his boyfriendâs need for physical closeness without either of them rolling off the not so spacious double-seater where Arthur had made himself a nightly home.
It isnât unusual for him to spend a sleepless night doing needlework or reading one of his more explicitly âromanticâ books or simply indulging in the unintentional comedy that is late night tv commercials. But for Alfred to be awake too is a rare pleasure.
âHow long âve you been âwake?â
Alfredâs words are muffled by his face being hidden in the soft warmth of Arthurâs ridiculously charming, old fashioned flannel pyjama shirt and the blanket covering his face up to his nose.
âDepends. What time is it?â
For him to tell the time Arthur would have to turn around to face the nearest clock and disturb the sweetness that is a cuddly Alfred, close and soft and adorably pliant. A sacrifice he isnât willing to make.
âTâlate tâbe âwakeâŠâ
TouchĂ©. Arthur quietly chuckles and threads his fingers through Alfredâs blond hair. In the orange light of his reading lamp it looks like threads of pure gold spin around his fingers. Even at night the warmth of a summerâs day radiates from Alfred and Arthur lets its light touch his skin, feels it prickling on his cheeks as he too settles into a comfortable position for the night.
âYes, indeed it is⊠Good night, Alfred.â
The light is extinguished, but this time Alfred finds comfort in the darkness. Because this time he knows when he awakes, it will be with Arthur in his arms. He hugs him a little tighter at the thought and feels a brush of lips at the top of his head.
âGânight, Arthur..â
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