Archive of Our Own

Alfred sighed and shifted his weight to the other foot as the woman behind the counter tried to figure out how to work the cappuccino machine. He didn't need anything as fancy as cappuccino. All he wanted was a simple cup of hot chocolate, no whipped cream. Straight-up, as his Uncle Samuel liked to say. The woman seemed to be consulting a manual now. He could see two other employees lurking in the back room, and there was one out on the sidewalk trying to entice people inside with coupons offering ten percent discounts on frothy beverages. The only person who seemed to be working on providing the promised beverages, however, was the one who didn't know how to operate the machine. Alfred suppressed another sigh.

"Ah yes," the person behind him joked sarcastically, voice rising as he quoted with a European accent (Italian? French? Alfred wasn't sure), "'This place looks like it will be quick'."

"I know, shut it," another voice answered in an unmistakably British accent. "I'll tell them it was my fault, right?"

The owner of the first voice made a noncommittal sound. After a pause, he said, "Perhaps we should go. We're late as it is."

"Well, if we're already going to be late, another couple minutes won't kill anyone, will it?"

Sounding genuinely annoyed now, the first guy said, "It's rude to be late for soundcheck."

The last word nearly made Alfred turn around. Of course there were plenty of clubs in Lincoln, and the chance that it was the same soundcheck he was interested in was small but still, a chance was a chance. And those accents: French, that first voice surely was French…

So he rubbed the back of his neck as he turned his head, pretending he was stretching. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the speakers behind him just as the English accent was saying, "Since when do you care about punctuality?" It was only a glimpse, but in combination with the accents, it was enough to make Alfred's heart stutter.

He was witnessing a legendary fight between Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy.

Well, not a fight. They still argued, Alfred had read, but they didn't have the knock-down-drag-out brawls they used to get into when they had their first band together, when they were Alfred's age. No, this wasn't the kind of fight that got Arthur kicked out of Age of Enlightenment—only to end up singing for a couple of years with the greatest heavy metal band in the world, then and ever: Industrial Revolution.

Now Arthur had his own band again, reunited with Francis. And they were just-short-of arguing, at this very moment, right behind Alfred.

Alfred waited a beat. Then he turned to face the lead singer and the lead guitarist of The Arthur Kirkland Band, and said as casually as he could manage, "Hey, if you guys are in a hurry, you can cut in front of me."

"Yeah?" Arthur Kirkland (Arthur Kirkland!) cocked an eyebrow. Francis (Bonnefoy!) was already nodding his thanks.

"Yeah," Alfred said. "I'm not in a rush."

Arthur smiled, and Alfred got so lost in it that he nearly missed Arthur's, "Ta, mate." He stepped back to make room for Arthur, and stood there biting his lip for a moment to control his mouth. This was almost too good to be true, but he was definitely standing in a Lincoln, Nebraska coffeehouse with Arthur Kirkland. Well, not with him—but next to him, at least. He'd probably never have another chance like this. So he let his lip unfurl from between his teeth and moved in a step.

"I'm sorry," he said as they turned to him, "I don't want to bother you, but you're Arthur Kirkland, aren't you?" Alfred hardly waited for Arthur to nod before he went on, "I'm a really big fan. I just wanted to tell you I love your stuff. Battle of Gravelines kicks ass."

"Right on, thanks," Arthur said, and Alfred couldn't help returning the grin. "You coming to the gig tonight?"

Alfred nodded enthusiastically. "I wouldn't miss it!"

"All right, mate, I'll see you there," Arthur said before turning to place his order. Tea, Earl Grey, Alfred echoed internally. Leave the teabag and no room for cream at the top. He likes it strong and sweet. Alfred watched Arthur take his cup over to the other counter and pick up three white packets. Real sugar. No substitutions. Leaning on the counter to place his own order, Alfred glanced over as Arthur tore open the first packet of sugar with his teeth.

"Sir?" the counter girl repeated. "What can I get you?"

Alfred turned his attention to her and hesitated. "Tea," he said. "Regular. To go." He was fishing for the change in his pocket when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Just wanted to thank you again," Arthur Kirkland said to him.

Before Alfred could think of a good response, he heard himself say, "As long as you keep making the music you make, I'm happy to do anything for you." Immediately, he groaned inwardly. Oh please, tell me I did not say that out loud! But he knew he had.

Arthur just said, "Oh, right. Well—thanks," and smiled once more.

"Arthur!" Francis called, standing outside the door he was holding open, coffee cup tilted at a dangerous angle as he tapped his blue fingernails against the face of his watch.

"Keep your knickers on!" Arthur shouted back.

Alfred watched them go before turning to wait for the tea he really didn't want, shoulders sagging slightly. Maybe if he added a lot of sugar, and milk, and more sugar.... He couldn't believe he had blown it, his one chance to talk to Arthur Kirkland, by saying something as stupid as that.

He was watching the counter girl trying to separate a paper cup from the rest of the stack when, to his surprise, he heard Arthur Kirkland's voice again: "Oy, what's your name?"

Alfred turned at once. "Uh." He struggled to remember, chagrined to feel himself blushing. "It's Alfred."

"Alfred?" Arthur repeated. "Right, Alfred—you're on the list for tonight." He flashed another grin and let Francis pull him away by the arm.

The liquid in Alfred's cup was half gone before he realized he'd been drinking tea with a smile on his face.

Alfred shoved his hands into his front pockets and looked around idly at the crowd waiting to get in. The show was sold out, the line long and littered with Industrial Revolution shirts. Looking at them, Alfred was suddenly very glad he hadn't been wearing his when he'd met Arthur and Francis. As it was, he felt pretty bad about the way he'd talked to Arthur but practically ignored Francis; he was here for the whole band, after all. For the music. Not only was this not Industrial Revolution, but The Arthur Kirkland Band wasn't even in the same genre. They were "alternative."

Like a lot of the crowd that had gathered, a part of Alfred still loved Industrial Revolution even though they were on the way down. Some of the hardcore fans said the decline began when Gilbert Weillschmidt left and Arthur took his place, but Alfred thought the Arthur Kirkland years were the best. Arthur was his favorite because it had been Arthur onstage when Alfred had gone to his very first concert. So when he heard that The Arthur Kirkland Band was playing in Lincoln, he had to come.

And here he was, just like he'd planned. Sort of. Originally, he'd intended to get to the club early enough for soundcheck and maybe even catch the guys coming out, but after his coffee shop encounter he'd thought it would be cooler to come just for the show. He didn't want to seem like a groupie—like more of a groupie. So he'd arrived about a half hour before the doors were scheduled to open, and now found himself far back with no hope of getting a good position inside. Of course, he was tall enough that he should be able to see from wherever he was; he'd just really wanted to be up close.

Alfred leaned out of line and looked at the front. A guy with a clipboard was seated on a bar stool against the open club door. He looked kind of like Leon from Resident Evil. A young woman went up and said something to Leon, who looked down at the clipboard and then nodded, letting her in as he made a notation.

The guest list. Alfred wondered if Arthur really had put him on it. He watched more people go up; some were waved through while others were turned away. He kept watching for a few more minutes, reluctant to make a fool of himself and not sure if he really wanted to know whether or not Arthur had put his name on the list like he'd said he would.

No pain, no gain, right? Alfred took a deep breath and finally stepped out of line. His fingers curled around the fake ID in his pocket; he hadn't used it yet and desperately hoped it would pass scrutiny in the big city. He stepped up to the guy—who looked even more like Leon up close—and waited, hands still deep in his pockets.

Glancing up, Leon gave him an evaluative once-over. "You on the list?"

Alfred nodded.

"Which list?" When Alfred looked blank, Leon said, "Which band?"

"Um, Arthur Kirkland. The Arthur Kirkland Band." Alfred wished he felt more assured. Leon's fingers deftly turned back to the top page. When Leon gave him an expectant look, he said, "Oh, uh—Jones. Alfred Jones."

Leon scanned the list, and Alfred felt his stomach sink when he flipped to the second page. He didn't feel too surprised when the guy looked up again and said, "Nope, sorry. Back of the line, pal."

Alfred just nodded, trying not to feel like an asshole as he started away. Then something came to him and he turned back hesitantly. "Excuse me, could you look under just 'Alfred'?"

With an annoyed glance, Leon humored him. This time, he made a mark on the page and nodded to Alfred. When Alfred just stood there, Leon pointed through the door and said, "Go ahead."

Alfred tried to suppress his grin as he stepped inside and walked down the short hall; he knew his smile made him look younger, and he'd forgotten to borrow his uncle's spare glasses which made him look older, and he was so close now....

"Comp!" Leon bellowed to the guy at the end of the hall, who nodded as Alfred approached.

When Alfred came to a stop and started reaching for his ID, the guy said, "No charge, man. You on the list, right?" Alfred nodded and the guy held out the rubber stamp. Alfred thought he blew it by hesitating, but the guy just stamped him and said, "Have a good time."

There were a couple dozen people standing around casually. No one was at the front, and Alfred figured that's because they were all friends of one of the bands and didn't feel the need to crowd the stage. Self-consciously, he moved over to the side where he would be less conspicuous and wouldn't block anyone's view. When the waitress came around, he went ahead and ordered himself a Sam Adams. He nursed his beer as the club slowly filled up, and politely turned his attention to the opening band when they came on about an hour later. Although some of the people in the front swayed along to the music and most people at least made an effort to clap at the end of the songs, there was a lot of chatting in the crowd. It was clear that everyone was here for Arthur.

After the opening band left the stage, there was a gradual shift in the audience as people began to move in closer with a casual ease. A waitress wove her way through the crowd again and Alfred got a second beer, promising himself this would be the last one. Not that he thought there was any danger of getting drunk, but he wanted to be completely alert for the show, not to mention the walk home afterwards.

Abruptly, the lights went down again and the club music cut out. Alfred could feel the change in the air, everything and everybody turned up a level as the band came onto the stage one by one. Matthew Williams was first out, taking his place behind the drumset before offering a shy glance out at the crowd. Roderich Edelstein slid into place behind the keyboards, and when Elizaveta "Liz" Héderváry came out flashing a peace sign at the crowd, Alfred was really happy to hear her get her fair share of cheers, even from the women in the audience. She turned to grin at the keyboardist as she thumbed a chord on her bass, and Alfred thought he saw a smile lift the corners of Roderich's mouth, but it was gone before he could be sure. He'd heard they were dating, although both denied it publicly. Alfred hoped it was true, anyhow; they were even cuter in person.

When Francis poked his head out, the excitement in the club ratcheted up another notch. He spun a twirling salute as he bent to pick up his guitar, and as he straightened, he winked at someone in the audience—maybe no one in particular, or maybe everyone in general.

Then the stage went dark. The notes of the first song rolled out of the darkness—and then lights illuminated the stage, and Arthur was there, and the crowd exploded.

At least the women at the front did, squealing over Arthur and reaching out like it was an Industrial Revolution show. Some of them looked like they were close to thirty or maybe even past it, yet they were still acting like teenagers. Alfred sort of wished they'd shut up because he really wanted to listen to the music, especially the new stuff he hadn't heard before...but he couldn't really blame them. Especially not with Arthur flirting right back with them. Alfred shifted a little closer to the wall.

The band was on tonight, playing the music perfectly, playing the crowd perfectly. Especially Arthur. His voice soared through the songs, and he was so fucking charismatic, each smile winning everyone over a little more, making everyone feel that smile was just for them. And they loved him. Every single person in the room loved Arthur Kirkland. They loved the way he sang and moved and bent down periodically to grab his beer bottle, taking a long pull from it—and then Alfred realized Arthur had drained it. He looked around for the waitress but couldn't see her, so he left his spot and made his way back to the bar for another Sam Adams.

It was the middle of the next song before he was able to elbow his way up to the front. He couldn't get right up to the stage because the squealing fans weren't budging at all, so Alfred waited for Arthur to turn in his direction and then leaned over them, bottle extended. Arthur came over to accept it, mouthing his thanks with a smile—but there was no special recognition. Alfred tried not to feel bad about it as he pushed his way back over to the wall. As he leaned against it, he told himself there was nothing to feel bad about, anyhow. Who cares if Arthur Kirkland didn't remember him? He was here, even though he'd had to go against his uncle, sneak out and hitch to Lincoln, even though he expected to catch hell when he got home—he was here, at an Arthur Kirkland gig, and it was all worth it. He grinned and let the music wash over him.

When the show was over, after the crowd had demanded and received its encore, Alfred left the club still grinning. He saw some of the female fans going down an alleyway, and followed them to the back entrance of the club. Surprisingly, they only had to wait a few minutes before the band came out. Arthur was surrounded at once by fans asking for autographs and, no doubt, making offers in return. Alfred hung back; somehow he didn't want to ask for an autograph. It would be too anti-climactic or something. He already felt he was dampening the experience just by standing there, so he turned around and headed for the alleyway that would take him back to the street, the street that would take him back home—

"Alfred!" Arthur Kirkland's voice stopped him. He turned back and Arthur stepped through the fans, face tilting up to make eye contact. "It's Alfred, right?"

Alfred's heart stopped beating for a moment and nearly forgot to start again as he looked at Arthur looking at him. "Yeah," he managed to say.

"You need to be somewhere?" Arthur asked. "'Cause if you're not doing anything"—he grinned, shoulders rising in a slight, casual shrug—"why don't you hang with us? I owe you a drink, after all."

"Sure!" Alfred couldn't stop grinning. He didn't know whether he was more excited because Arthur had noticed the drink Alfred had handed him during the set, after all, or because of the invitation itself.

As he followed Arthur through the dwindling throng, Alfred couldn't help feeling the glances—some jealous, some merely curious—that the remaining fans were casting in his direction. Hands shoved into his pockets with what he hoped was nonchalance, he watched Arthur sign the last few autographs and endure a small explosion of flashbulbs.

Then he was following Arthur again, this time onto the tour bus.

The rest of the band was there and as Arthur introduced Alfred, Francis gave him a nod of recognition and tossed Alfred a beer. Alfred sat down in a corner and looked around, admiring the bus. It was a real tour bus, with sofas and a bar and a TV and everything. He wondered whether Arthur's new record company had sprung for it, or whether Arthur was paying for it himself. That seemed like the kind of thing Arthur would do for his bandmates and friends.

He looked up when Arthur came over and balanced on the arm of the sofa next to him. "All right?"

"Yeah," Alfred said, raising his beer in a kind of salute. "Thanks."

"Yeah, no worries. Thanks for coming tonight." Arthur smiled and indicated the sofa with his own beer, motioning for Alfred to slide over. "You're a local?"

"Yeah—uh, no," Alfred said, shifting sideways so he was fully facing Arthur. "Sort of: I'm from Pleasant Dale. It's about twenty miles west of here."

"And what do you do in Pleasant Dale?"

"My family has a farm." Alfred groaned inwardly, wishing he'd had a more interesting story prepared. He just hadn't anticipated getting into a conversation about himself with Arthur Kirkland.

But Arthur just said, "So you're a farmboy, huh? Nice. Corn, yeah? Nebraska grows a lot of corn?"

"Yeah," Alfred couldn't help but grin at the way Arthur was trying to make him feel comfortable, leaning forward as if sincerely interested in what Alfred had to say. It was very convincing, and even though a part of Alfred knew it was ridiculous to think that a rock star could be interested in the life of a farmboy, he couldn't help but feel welcome. So he started to trade stories with Arthur about the more hilarious points of growing up in the country, versus growing up in the city. At least, it was hilarious to Alfred and to Arthur, who kept slapping Alfred's knee or throwing an arm around his shoulder as he laughed at all the punch lines. But apparently it was less funny to the rest of the band, who got up and wandered off one by one. Before Alfred realized it, it was just Arthur and him, talking and drinking on the bus.

Alone with Arthur Kirkland on the tour bus. Alone and—no, not quite drunk—but alone and tipsy with Arthur Kirkland on the tour bus. Alfred had to suppress the urge to do something horrifying like giggle. Or worse, sigh. Like when Arthur let his arm slide off Alfred's shoulders slowly; it felt like Arthur's fingers were lingering across his back. Wishful thinking, Jones.

Arthur got up and returned with another couple of beers, holding one out to Alfred as he took a pull on his own. Eyebrow and mouth cocked in a grin, he teased, "You sure this is legal?"

Unprepared for the question, Alfred hesitated—and in that hesitation, knew he was lost.

Still holding out the beer, grin fading to concern, Arthur said, "Please tell me you're at least 18."

Those few moments were enough for Alfred to recover. "I'll be 19 in a month." As Arthur visibly relaxed, handing over the beer and sitting next to him again, Alfred added internally, and two years.

Before the lull could turn awkward, Arthur asked, "Have you heard the new songs yet?"

Feeling a little guilty, Alfred admitted, "Just the ones from tonight."

"Right then." Arthur got up, only to return with an unwrapped CD. "Here you are." He grinned at Alfred's enthusiastic thanks, and asked what he thought of the ones they'd played tonight.

"Oh, I liked them! I mean, I like everything you do. All your songs, I mean. I have to say that 'Serendipity' is still my favorite, though."

"That's a good one," Arthur said, tapping out a cigarette. He held out the pack in offer, but Alfred shook his head. "You mind if I do?"

"No, that's fine." Alfred smiled as he added in light-hearted confidentiality, "You know, I used to think the lyrics, 'Light up a fag, stick it 'twixt your lips/Light up the night with a swivel of your hips'—I thought it was a gay thing. Like a gay love song. A blowjob metaphor? 'Cause 'fag' means that here—gay. I felt really dumb when I found out it's a cigarette in England!"

He laughed—but then realizing that Arthur hadn't joined him, hadn't in fact said anything, Alfred looked down at the bottle he was clutching. He must've got it all wrong—the rumors, the stray touches and glances tonight, the invitation onto the bus—none of it meant a thing. Still staring at his beer, Alfred took a long pull, as if there were a way out at the bottom of the bottle.

"You know," Arthur said quietly, grinding out his cigarette, "the first time I fucked a guy, I was so wasted I couldn't remember it, let alone appreciate it."

Still fixated on the bottle, Alfred didn't know what to make of that. Was Arthur just saying that to be nice? Was Arthur messing with him? Alfred moved to raise the bottle to his lips again, but just then Arthur leaned over and placed a hand over Alfred's, arresting his movement. He tilted his head, trying to catch Alfred's eye, and moved his other hand to Alfred's neck. When Alfred turned and opened his mouth to ask what Arthur was doing, his words were swallowed as Arthur's lips pressed to his own, Arthur's tongue sliding into his mouth.

Alfred melted into the kiss. As his bones dissolved, he felt the bottle slide from his grasp and bounce off his foot, pulling him out of embrace as the contents spilled across the floor of the bus. "Oh!" He leaned down to pick it up—but Arthur brought his attention back with a tug, drawing Alfred to him. Their lips met again and Alfred readily gave himself back over to the kissing. They fell into an entangled, horizontal position, kissing themselves nearly breathless, bodies moving against each other as they shifted to give each other access, hands slipping beneath shirts to slide over taut, defined muscles.

Their shirts slid up with the friction and soon they were skin to skin; Alfred trembling and eager, Arthur pressing into him like he loved the way that shivering body felt against him. As Alfred's hand moved up Arthur's torso, he felt a raised line. Heartbeat caught in his throat, Alfred opened his eyes and shifted to look—yes, his fingers were brushing the fabled scar Francis Bonnefoy had given Arthur Kirkland during the most notorious fight of their youth. He rubbed his thumb back and forth across it, traced the length with the tip of his forefinger.

The sound that came from Arthur, something between a moan and a chuckle, gave Alfred a start. Coming back to the moment, Alfred apologized, and then confessed, "I always wanted to touch it."

Softly, Arthur replied, "You can touch whatever you want, mate."

Alfred shifted down on the sofa, bending his head to kiss the scar lightly, with reverence; then dared to take a nearby erect nipple between his teeth, nipping and lapping at it. He was rewarded by Arthur's soft intake of breath, fingers tangling in his hair appreciatively. Alfred knew what was expected of him and began to work his way down Arthur's body; his hands reaching the waistband and smoothly undoing the button fly. He sat up to tug both jeans and boxers down past Arthur's hips, unconsciously biting his lip as Arthur's cock sprang free. Already ragged breath going even more uneven, Alfred swallowed. He was afraid that if he backed off now, Arthur would end the night. So Alfred took a deep breath, licked his lips, and bent his head once more.

But a touch stopped him. With a smile, Arthur pushed Alfred back and settled next to him, one leg draped over Alfred as Arthur kissed him again. When Arthur moved his mouth to Alfred's ear, nipping and tonguing it, Alfred squirmed against him, then dared to wrap his arms around Arthur, lips seeking Arthur's again.

The kissing went on and on until, in a pause for breath, Arthur murmured "Fuck me, Alfred."

Alfred pulled away, head spinning with alcohol and words. "What?"

Arthur kissed him again. "You can fuck me if you want to. D'you want to?"

Blushing, Alfred felt wordless. This, what was happening to him now, far surpassed anything he thought could happen. When he'd started jacking off first to the music, and then to pictures of Arthur; when he'd begun to develop his own fantasies, playing them out in his head while he masturbated; even when he came here to Lincoln, he never really thought he'd be doing this, making out with Arthur Kirkland. And now, what Arthur was offering him...well, even in his wildest fantasies—and some of them got pretty wild—it was always Arthur fucking him. He'd even practiced, trying to loosen himself up for Arthur, to get used to having something up his ass, sticking his own fingers inside himself while stroking off. (Once, based on something he'd found online, he'd even tried a hot dog, but that hadn't worked too well....) Arthur's offer now was almost too much, something he'd never allowed himself even in fantasies.

When Alfred hesitated, Arthur moved a little closer, flush against him. He licked Alfred's lips, nudging them apart with his tongue before withdrawing to breathe the words, "D'you want me, Alfred? Do you wanna be inside me?" And then, oddly gentle, "Fuck me, please. Come on then, fuck me."

Even though Alfred was sure Arthur could feel the answer pressing against him, Arthur repeated his request. Between each kiss, Arthur kept whispering it over and over, "fuck me, Alfred," until Alfred was so hard he was afraid he was going to come—and finally, when Arthur asked yet again, "Do you want to fuck me?", Alfred managed to gasp, "yes."

Arthur stood. He pulled something out of his pocket before shimmying out of the rest of the clothing, taking off everything but the thin chain he wore around his neck, grinning as Alfred followed his lead. When they were naked, Arthur pulled Alfred into an embrace, taking a backwards step so they were up against the wall. "There's something about the slow-screw-against-the-wall, or even the fast-and-hard one, that just simply sends me. Don't you think?"

Unable to think anything at all, Alfred leaned in for another kiss. Arthur's mouth welcomed him briefly before sliding away again to unscrew the cap of a small tube. He squeezed a glistening dollop onto his fingertips, then let his gaze drop. Alfred looked down too; he bit his lip at the first cold touch, and then his mouth fell open with inarticulate pleasure as Arthur began massaging lube along his cock. His lashes fluttered but he didn't want to close his eyes, he didn't want to miss a second of this, oh, oh fuck, this—

"Maybe I better let you do this yourself."

Alfred knew from the grin that Arthur was only teasing, but he took the tube from Arthur anyhow. As he slicked himself up, he glanced up to find Arthur watching him. Watching Alfred's hand; watching his cock.

When Alfred was slicked up, Arthur wrapped himself in one of Alfred's arms and turned around, legs spread apart, one palm flat against the wall to brace himself. Arthur's other hand came back behind himself, and Alfred watched in fascination as Arthur fingered himself open. His breath caught when Arthur took Alfred's cock and rubbed the tip along his crack, arching back in invitation. Alfred let out his breath as he positioned himself properly—and then with a push, Alfred was inside him.

He was inside Arthur Kirkland. His cockhead, the cock of Alfred F. Jones was in Arthur Kirkland's ass.

A whimper escaped Alfred.

"All right there?"

Alfred opened his eyes to find Arthur looking at him over his shoulder. "Yeah, I—" He swallowed hard. "I'm just, it's…"

"Hey, it's okay." Arthur twisted a little without letting Alfred slip out of him. "Come here." When Alfred leaned in, Arthur kissed him. "I'm not Arthur Kirkland, right? I'm just a guy." He kissed Alfred again, his tongue lingering along the upper curve of Alfred's mouth. "I'm just a guy who thinks you're dead sexy, and wants to feel your cock moving inside him." The words settled warm in Alfred's belly, thick and hot in his cock. This time Arthur drew Alfred's tongue into his mouth when they kissed. "You want that too?" Arthur's tongue flicked languidly behind Alfred's teeth. "Or you want to stop here?"

"Yeah," Alfred breathed in the wake of the next kiss. "I mean, no, I don't want to stop. I want—" He blinked, then held steady in Arthur's gaze. "I want to fuck you."

Arthur smiled. "Come on, then." His fingers splayed as he braced himself against the wall once more.

This time when Arthur pushed back, Alfred pushed in. All the way in. The fit was snugger than his own fist ever was, and the heat was radiating through him—or maybe Alfred was blushing again.

He didn't have time to think about it, though, because Arthur was moving, and Alfred found himself moving with Arthur. "Ah, that's nice," Arthur encouraged when Alfred rolled his hips to pull out and push back in; "'S fucking marvelous," he murmured as Alfred found a rhythm. "Fuckin', ah, fuck yeah~" With each of Alfred's thrusts, Arthur moaned and arched, his hands curling as his fingertips dug into the wall.

When one of Arthur's hands left the wall and his shoulder hitched, Alfred realized he was going for his own cock and felt a wave of guilt in the midst of his pleasure; he couldn't believe he had neglected the reach-around! He reached for Arthur's cock then, intending to take over. But again he hesitated, then settled for wrapping his hand over Arthur's and stroking with him. He continued to pound into Arthur, who was now tightening around him, a rhythmic milking that soon brought Alfred to the brink of orgasm—and then tipped him over, his release accompanied by guttural moans, his own, maybe Arthur's too. It took a few more strokes before Arthur shuddered, and Alfred felt his come spill over their entwined fingers.

They were still against the wall. Plastered to Arthur's back, Alfred slid out of him and drew away, leaving Arthur leaning against the wall for an extra moment while he went to the sofa to catch his breath. With a furtive glance at Arthur, Alfred picked up his discarded clothing and began to dress. Now that he'd had his fuck, Arthur would surely kick him out. Alfred wanted to play it cool, like he'd done this before. As he got up for his shoes, which he'd kicked off halfway across the bus, Arthur came over suddenly and kissed him again, pushing him back down on the sofa gently and straddling him. "And where are you off to in such a hurry?"

"I, uh—I sort of thought you would want me to leave."

Still naked, Arthur sat astride the clothed Alfred and shook his head. "I'm not done with you yet," he murmured, gazing into Alfred's eyes.

Alfred's moistened his lips and asked, with only the slightest hitch in his voice, "Do you, want me to go down on you?"

Leaning forward and kissing him, Arthur slid to the side and pushed Alfred back to lie next to him: "I want you to do whatever you want." One leg draped over Alfred, Arthur propped himself up on an elbow as he caressed Alfred's face, his body. Alfred was hard again immediately. He knew he should let Arthur have a turn, but before he could say anything, Arthur offered in a low voice, "You want to fuck me again?" With a shy smile, Alfred nodded and felt the heat in his face. He wondered if Arthur could see the blushing in the dark.

Arthur only smiled in turn. "Okay then." As Arthur slathered more lube on Alfred's cock, Alfred thought it was probably only his imagination fueled by wishful thinking that Arthur's fingers were lingering. Then Arthur said, "You're beautiful, d'you know that?"

Flushing, Alfred dropped his eyes and gave a slight shake of his head; he didn't mean to speak, but the low words that tumbled from his mouth sounded suspiciously like, "You're the one who's beautiful."

Arthur didn't say anything as he settled himself on his back, gesturing an invitation for Alfred to come to him. Alfred crawled up between Arthur's legs, not sure how to proceed with Arthur facing him. Arthur pulled him down for a kiss, then shifted to hook the back of each knee over Alfred's shoulders in turn before helping Alfred enter him. This time there was no hesitation, no searching for rhythm; Alfred fucked Arthur like he was born to do it.

Afterwards, neither of them moved, neither spoke. When at last Arthur's legs unwound, Alfred shifted to the side, his head still resting on Arthur's chest. As Arthur stroked his hair, his other arm around Alfred's back, a contented humming vibrated from him—and Alfred realized that Arthur Kirkland liked to cuddle. The revelation made Alfred ridiculously happy, even though he knew he'd never be able to tell anyone.

Then there was a light rap on the window. Arthur grinned wistfully. "That's Francis telling me we need to hit the road soon."

They dressed wordlessly and went to the front of the bus together. Arthur kissed him again and asked, "Will you be okay? Do you need us to drop you off anywhere?"

Twenty-one miles was nothing; not after this. Alfred smiled. "No, I'm good."

"All right then," Arthur nodded, and opened the door to the outside world. Alfred felt sheepish as he emerged, but no one laughed or made any comments, although Francis did give him a wink. The others just smiled, and both Liz and Matthew wished him a good night.

Arthur walked Alfred a little ways away from the bus, stopping when they came to the edge of the parking lot. "So, I guess this is goodbye."

Words didn't seem adequate, so Alfred just nodded. He turned to go, when he heard Arthur say his name again. Turning back, he watched Arthur pull his necklace off overhead. "I want you to have this," he said, pressing it into Alfred's hand. Alfred looked down and for the first time noticed that it wasn't just a chain; they were dog tags. He looked at Arthur questioningly. "They were my great-granddad's. He was a Jed in World War II."

"Wow," Alfred said softly, looking at the tags again. Then he returned his gaze to Arthur's face and held out the chain. "I can't take this."

"No, please," Arthur said, "I want you to have it. I think—" An uncharacteristic hesitation overtook him for a moment. "I think he would have wanted you to have them too. He served with a Yank named Jones. I don't suppose—well, no. It's a common enough name, innit, Jones."

"I guess so." Alfred decided he'd ask his uncle about his own great-grandfather, anyhow. For now, though, he just smiled and said, "Thanks."

Arthur nodded. "See ya, then."

"See you."

Arthur was smiling when he turned and headed back to the bus. Clutching the gift, Alfred rounded the corner to where he'd hidden his backpack before the gig. It was still there. He shouldered it and waited in the shadows just to watch Arthur get on the tour bus, to watch the bus disappear into the night.

He stood still for another moment after the bus was gone from sight. He didn't feel tired. In fact, he was feeling awake and alive. There was plenty of time to get back to Pleasant Dale. Maybe he'd just walk it. He draped the chain around his neck and started off in the opposite direction the bus had gone in. Arthur was seeing the whole world in his tour bus. There was a whole huge world to see beyond Pleasant Dale! Alfred probably would never be a rock star, but he'd sure like to see the world. As he felt the metal tags against his skin, he thought maybe he'd join the armed services some day, and see the whole world himself. The whole wide world.