Heart Themed Canvas [UsUk]

Tailspin

In memory of Coconut. A sweet kitty cat who will be dearly missed.

Arthur glanced at his watch. It was half past midnight already and he was starting to worry. Was Alfred all right? Why didn't he call? Where on earth was he?

At first Arthur had been annoyed, upset. He knew his flatmate to be a bit clueless, and forgetful, but it had been Alfred's turn to cook dinner and instead of arriving home to the smell of greasy hamburgers, Arthur walked into an empty apartment. He waited a half hour, and when Alfred still hadn't shown by 7 o'clock, he gave him a ring, which of course had gone straight to voicemail. He flipped on the TV and watched some mindless sitcom for another half hour after which Alfred still hadn't shown. At that point he got angry.

This wasn't the first time Alfred had abandoned his responsibilities. Many a time, Alfred would forget to pick up the groceries or doing the laundry would slip his mind and Arthur was really getting tired of it. Several times he'd considered kicking Alfred out and getting a new flatmate, but he'd never acted on those thoughts. Alfred was a nice guy, after all, perhaps more than nice, Arthur thought.

He'd wound up sticking a frozen meal in the microwave, and sat back in front of the telly. He tried Alfred again when he'd finished his meal, but again the man didn't pick up. It was at about that time that Arthur's anger dissipated and its place, his stomach twisted with worry.

Arthur would never tell, but there was a reason he never threw his flatmate out. For all his faults and blunders, Alfred was a sweet guy, altogether nice and well-meaning. Sure he'd moan about doing the dishes and such, and he might occasionally splash Arthur with some dish water, but it was worth it because it would make Arthur smile.

Alfred may have grown on his British roomie since he first answered an ad for a flatmate in the Evening Standard, two years ago. At first Arthur had been skeptic, the young American seemed a bit too bubbly and energetic for his liking, but he gave in eventually as no one else answered his call. Again he would never admit to it, but nowadays he was thankful that no one else inquired about the room, because Arthur Kirkland may or may not have fallen for the all too bubbly and energetic Alfred F. Jones.

Of course Arthur had thought Alfred dashing at first, but it grew into more than that. The gentle teasing about his eyebrows and his magical friends, the way Alfred would make faces on his pancakes in a disgusting amount of whipped cream, the fact that Alfred would leave sweet, but obnoxious messages written on the foggy bathroom mirror after he used up all the hot water. Arthur still wasn't quite sure why, but Alfred's quirks intrigued him, made him laugh and smile, and not even before Alfred had been living with him a year, he had a full fledged crush on his American flatmate. But that didn't stop him from being both relieved and annoyed when Alfred turned the lock, and pranced into the apartment at a quarter to one on the morning. He flipped on the hallway light and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Arthur, seated on the couch, glaring daggers at him.

"Arthur? Why are you still up?"

Rather than answer his question, Arthur threw a few back.

"Where have you been? Why didn't you answer my calls?"

"Sorry, I musta been in the theater," Alfred replied nonchalantly as he toed off his shoes. "Didn't I tell you I was going out with a few friends tonight?"

"No," Arthur spit back as he watched Alfred remove his coat and hang it in the closet.

"Oh," Alfred frowned back at him as he unraveled his scarf. "Sorry about that. I coulda sworn I told ya."

"Alfred, it was your turn to cook dinner."

The American stiffened for a moment before looking back at his roommate.