Matthew is Mine

There was a time many years ago that Alfred had come home in tears.

Busy in the kitchen, Arthur merely heard the slam of the front door, and, stopping mid-stir at the pot, he listened for the sound of little feet stomping with petulant fury up the stairwell to the second floor. Wiping his hands on his apron, he proceeded to exit the kitchen and make his way up to Alfred’s room, knocking carefully on the door.

When there was no response, he slowly turned the handle and stepped in, finding Alfred seated on his bed and facing away. He was very quiet, he was holding something, hunched a little bit forth, back rising and falling with the rhythm of breath, and it took Arthur several moments to realize that he was crying.

Eyebrows furrowed, he wondered what had gone on, and he walked closer to the bed, sitting down on the other side.

There was a depression in the mattress, but Alfred didn’t stir.

“Hey,”

Arthur said, and after several moments without response,

“What have you got there?”

Silence.

Carefully, Arthur moved closer, looking over the boy’s shoulder to see what he had in his lap.

It was a wooden box, and inside it were pieces and parts, something broken, copper wires and a thin, elongated rod, and many, many little metal bits.

Alfred’s face was red, puffy and sticky from the drying remains of tears, and his yellow hair hung gracelessly over his forehead, covering the red in his eyes.

His small hands were rigid, tight in their grasp on the wooden container, filled with stubborn rage as he refused even to look down.

Arthur didn’t remember buying him stuff like this.

“Is this yours?”

He asked.

Silence for a long time, and then, breath ragged with quiet tears, Alfred nodded, yes.

Now seated at his side, Arthur carefully looked in; the parts were a terrible mess.

“What is it?”

He finally asked, and, gaze fixed angrily ahead, Alfred quietly replied,

“It’s a lightning rod.”

Silence.

Arthur nodded quietly to himself.

“A lightning rod.”

Silence.

“May I see it?”

He asked, and, now sniffling despite himself, Alfred replied,

“No. It’s stupid.”

They remained motionless for a very long time before, very gently, Arthur reached his hand and placed it softly on Alfred’s.

The boy bent his head forth, releasing his hold on the box and allowing Arthur to take it and place it carefully in his lap.

With long, slender fingers, Arthur picked at the parts, holding them up to inspect them more closely.

“It’s…it’s supposed to protect people’s houses from lightning,” Alfred said very quietly, still staring angrily down.

“Everyone said it was stupid.”

And Arthur could tell where it went from there: by the looks of things, the wires and parts in the box were likely once assembled into a uniform structure, something Alfred had spent a great deal of time constructing and planning, no doubt, and, most likely, the everyone who thought it was stupid must have broken it.

Without a word, Arthur began searching through the box, inspecting parts with careful fingers before beginning very slowly to put them together the way they seemed to belong.

“I don’t think it’s stupid,”

He said softly, quiet and attentive, loving almost as his hands worked at reconstructing the broken device.

Large hands. Great, long-fingered hands, Alfred found himself gazing despite himself, hopeful before ever realizing there was hope at all.

“I…” Arthur said when at last he was done, and he held the thing up and inspected it from various angles, “I think this is how you must’ve had it, is that right?”

Carefully, Alfred's small hand reached out to take the model from Arthur. He inspected it in his lap, turning it over and swallowing in silence.

“I think,’ Arthur said, hands idle as he gazed down, “I think that a lightning rod isn’t stupid at all.”

Alfred’s head was still bowed, his small fingers moved slowly over the wires and metal bits, and Arthur sighed to himself as at last he gathered him into his lap.

“Come here,” he said softly, and his slender arms felt so large, so protective and strong around Alfred’s small body then, secure and gentle and warm as he held on very tightly to him.

Very slowly, Alfred leaned into him, reaching only far enough to the flanks of his back, lightning rod still tight in his palm.

“It might take some time,” Arthur said, gently kissing the top of his head, “people still don’t understand things like this; but I think eventually….eventually they’ll see what a not-stupid idea this really is.”

And then I’ll tax the living crap out of it.

***

(Present day; as in, two full-grown adults)

Many years ahead, Arthur had Alfred up in the attic, up against the attic wall.

Really, it was more midway down against the wall, because they slipped over time, Alfred naked as the day he was born and Arthur nearly fully dressed as he held the other boy’s leg up under the knee, eyes closed and breath coming shallow.

They were both very hot, very desperate and wet, kiss me, breath coming humid, their mouths brushing against one another and Arthur had thought, he really had wanted him terribly bad—

The fluid ran liquid and hot down Alfred’s leg, slick and transparent, glistening white, from his thigh to his knee and from there farther down,

Kiss me

“Kiss me,” he asked, glasses partway fogged and hair swaying in time, blonde strands sticking moist to his forehead beneath, and, smiling, voice hoarse, Arthur replied,

“Why should I?”

Lips stretched in a smile, Alfred merely gazed back, eyes sparkling blue, and Arthur went on,

“Just because you want it?”

“Yeah,”

Alfred laughed, breathless, challenging,

“Just ’cause you’re the hero?”

“Yeah, that’s right,”

And Arthur moved very close to his mouth, lowering his gaze to Alfred’s lips even as he continued to thrust hard into him—

Then, eyes flipping back to meet his gaze, whispered,

“No.”

“Bastard,”

Alfred laughed, and Arthur grinned back, smile wide and toothy as he kept thrusting up.

All at once, Alfred’s large hands came on either side of his face, forceful, insistent, and the boy seized his mouth, laugh coming throaty as he held him in place, and Arthur lost his balance—

They both did, a disheveled mess of legs and arms as they fell gracelessly to the floor, where, giving in at last, Arthur seized Alfred tightly, arms weaving all around, and, lying beneath him, at last he kissed him back, messy, breathless, sweaty, sticky and wet, and laughing, grinning with knowing affection against the boy’s mouth—

Even as clever hands worked craftily, quickly to disrobe him all at once, tugging hard at his trousers as, safely on top, the hero announced in his ear,

“My turn."

To be continued…