Above The Line

Chapter Sixteen

Alfred gave the artist his silence, for it was plain in the artist's bemused expression that Alfred had already won. As he sat there, all Alfred did was thank God that he had been born with a quick wit and a sly tongue. This was the culmination of a plan that Alfred had been slowly forming as he went along, right from the moment Arthur had so suddenly appeared in his life on his wonderful Saturday afternoon. But each step of the way, Arthur had thrown him some curveball or another that had to be artfully dodged. It was quite taxing, actually, having to think this much to just make someone remotely content, let alone capture the person's heart-and Alfred was loving it.

At long last, Arthur finally looked up, his bright green eyes still clouded over in deep thought. The light from the sun outside seemed to be captured within those irises, adding to the depth of their wise contemplation.

Arthur regarded the actor before him with careful scrutiny, still feeling like he had missed something large and important. That seemed to be the case quite often with Alfred, actually, though no matter how much Arthur thought about it, he could never pinpoint just what exactly was amiss.

Finally, he simply started his car in silence, pulled out of the lot without comment, and began on his way once again. Arthur would not apologize, since some part of him still felt angry and rightfully so. Though he no longer knew why, and he felt like he would never know, the artist tended to trust his gut instincts.

However, since he was also greatly ruled by logic, Arthur had to concede that Alfred was almost completely right, and that Arthur had perhaps overreacted a bit. It did help with Arthur's image to be linked so completely with such a star as Alfred. Francis would be overjoyed. And the answer Alfred had given had been a much better answer than one of a chance encounter with his makeup artist for "Viewfinder" on a Saturday afternoon, in which case Arthur was sure they would have been bombarded with questions about the new movie, among other complicated and tricky matters.

Alfred was right. He really was right. But why did that feel so wrong?

The actor in question waited patiently, for it seemed like Arthur was going to say something at any moment. He took that time to observe the artist, especially the way his dainty fingers played over the wheel, that skin looking so soft and untouched. Alfred had never had the privilege of feeling those fingers directly upon his skin in the past week, but he was sure the time would come soon enough. Oh, just where he would place those fingers if he had power over their wanton wandering...

The actor was pulled out of the depths of his dark thoughts by Arthur clearing his throat. Arthur was actually feeling a bit thankful at the moment at the fact that Alfred had been so fast on his toes back there. It probably came with practice, and he still felt a bit sorry for having made that accusation that Alfred possessed no talent. But gratefulness and seething anger didn't exactly go hand in hand, so until Arthur could figure out what was going on within his mind and his heart and clear up some of this confusion, he decided to say nothing on the matter.

Alfred glanced expectantly at the artist, who he deemed to be such an utterly frustrating tease for always looking like he was going to say something, and then stopping last minute. It made Alfred want to force it one way or the other, either gag that mouth for good or make it scream out and beg for mercy... But yet again, that was a matter for another time-a time which Alfred vowed silently to himself would come.

"So," Arthur finally began, giving Alfred's imagination some relief. Alfred crossed his long legs, waiting with great outward patience for the artist to go on.

"... What was that you said about going to shows?"

That was it. That was all. No comment about their chase through The Grove, or about the fact that Alfred had just inextricably linked the two of them for at least the next few months with the help of the media. Not even a comment about them being homosexual lovers. Nothing.

Ha! "Are you free tonight?" the actor asked, smirking, though his voice betrayed nothing but innocence.

"I guess. Why?"

"Then give me leave to occupy your evening, and I'll show you just exactly what I meant."

Alfred said this without even asking Kiku. He didn't care. He was rich, and he could live life as he pleased. He could take whomever he wanted, wherever he wanted. But declaring Arthur as his "personal assistant" did make gaining clearance a lot easier and less costly.

Arthur glanced over, startled. "Tonight?"

"Yeah. Do you have anything suitable for a party?"

The artist swallowed. Here fashion was, getting back at him again. Wasn't one punishment today enough?

"Not really..." Arthur admitted with a small shrug, even though he knew the vague reply was basically a direct "no" in this instance. He didn't attend parties all that often. No one ever invited him (aside from Francis, and the day Arthur partied with Francis was the day pigs would fly upside-down).

Holding back a satisfied laugh (which he would reserve for another more private time), the actor leaned back in his seat, a smug smile upon his features. His eyes glinted dangerously, and that was no product of the bright sun shining down upon them.

"Then let's get you something to wear."

Alfred Jones had won yet another round.
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Just way too excited about this story. Sorry this chapter was so short!!
- NZ