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trealamh · 1 year

Text

Copper

Day 2 of ScotEng week:

Drama // family, consequences, worth // “Do you really believe that?”

[What is it with the wedding themes in all of these prompts you might ask? The answer is ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I’m just happy to be writing again do not question my life choices’. This takes place in an AU where Arthur has been half in love with Alasdair all of his life. He runs off after introducing him to Francis and watching them fall in love. Francis doesn’t let go of him so easily and so he and Arthur stay in touch, but Alasdair hasn’t heard from Arthur in years. Alasdair and Francis are walking down the aisle in two days; Arthur loves them both and cannot fathom that they could love him back.

Ask me about the coins and the salt in the piss pot and I will tell you a wee bit about Scottish wedding traditions.]

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His eyes find Arthur across the room at every turn and he does not lie to himself. He is seeking him out of the corner of his eye, drawn to the sound of his voice and the familiar shape of him in a crowd. He keeps to himself, lingering near windows and walls, his back never turned to the door. Alasdair looks at him and sees negative space; sees five years into the past. He thinks that Arthur’s hair might be a little longer, his posture a little better. His clothes lived in but well-fitted. He looks well.

Alasdair should not be looking.

Just across from him, Francis looks happy; is happy. He looks beautiful backlit by the warm light of the faux sconces on the homely walls of the pub. And Arthur loves him, Alasdair knows he does. He would not be here, if he didn’t. Not when… He would not be here.

Someone (Sean, probably) has put a piss pot full of salt in Francis’ hands and he is making the round around the pub trading in kisses for copper. Francis’ friends from abroad throw in two pound coins and kiss him so hard that they nearly bowl Francis over. If he keeps his feet on the ground it is only because they hold him up, arms held firm at his waist, hands amiable and familiar on his body. Alasdair could no more resent the easy way Francis loves and is loved than he would his smiles or the sound of his laughter. There is something in him that aches though, watching now as he makes his way to Arthur to earn his due. Arthur’s tight lips quirk in what is almost a smile and he drops two pence into the pot. He turns his face when Francis leans in and Francis does not chase his mouth, content to press a lingering kiss to the soft swell of Arthur’s cheek like a brother.

Alasdair’s fingers itch to curl into a fist. He goes to find another pint instead.

At some point in the night half their party heads off down the street to the next pub over and the rest split ways. Francis does not try to coax Alasdair away but leaves him behind with a quick embrace and a whispered promise. Alasdair will not keep him to it and takes the damned piss pot to put aside. Fuck knows where Sean’s been off to; he hasn’t seen Daffyd all night. Alasdair should call him in the morning and ask why, why? Did Arthur say...?

Or he could ask Arthur himself, it seems.

He cuts a lonely figure, the sole person left behind, half-sitting on a table top with his hands held loosely between his thighs. There is no device in his presence here, no gambit or intent. This place felt like it was theirs once, back when Alasdair had first put down the anchor to rebuild the family business from the ground up. Every hour he had spent sanding the floors and thatching the sunken benches had been worth Arthur’s evenings spent pouring over ledgers and faded receipts. He never took a cent for any of it, shrugging off Alasdair’s offers coarsely and claiming ownership to nothing more than the black ink on the records that first fiscal year they broke even. Alasdair knows now that it was more than pride that kept Arthur one step removed but he struggles to follow the logic of his actions. He cannot guess at the storms that brew behind the green of Arthur’s eyes unless he puts them into words. All he knows is that for all that he is difficult Arthur is also honest. For a while he belonged to these rooms as much as the furniture, and so if anyone has the right to beg off from the revelry of a wedding that isn’t his and spend the night letting his eyes get lost in the woodgrain instead, it is him.

“You were right.” Arthur breaks the silence and Alasdair is caught short, unsure of what he means.

“The sconces,” he clarifies, and makes eye contact with Alasdair only briefly before looking away again. “It was worth wiring them. The room does not need any more light than this.”

Alasdair hums, and thinks back to the arguments that had very little heat at heart.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Arthur shrugs.

“I don’t suppose it’s cold enough to warrant a fire.” He is thinking out loud and doing a fine job of ignoring Alasdair, eyes on the ash stains that frame the fire place.

So, Alasdair does what he’s always done best. He puts himself right where Arthur cannot ignore him.

Arthur keeps his weight resting on the table behind him but straightens up from his slump when Alasdair comes close enough. He looks at the enamel piss pot he is still holding by the handles first and then, finally, his face.

“I’m short on change,” he deadpans.

Alasdair huffs his amusement without smiling and sets it to the side. The salt and coins resettle with the movement, scratching the bottom of the pan.

“Will you stay?” Alasdair has never known how to keep from sounding angry when he speaks low like this.

Arthur opens his mouth to speak and he interrupts him before he can argue.

“For the wedding,” he clarifies, and thinks in numbers. Two nights and three days. Arthur must have arrived earlier in the day, and he will be staying the night. Alasdair does not know where he might be staying but he’ll have dropped his bags there, some spare clothing and formalwear, for the ceremony. Another pair of shoes.

Arthur looks at him silently, his expression blank but softened by the lax set of his lips. He nods, barely there but he nods, and Alasdair feels at one like he can breathe and like one of his ribs had popped out of place to dig painfully into the soft tissue of his lungs.

“There’s a spare room—”

“Upstairs.” Arthur finishes for him with finality and for the first time there is something like anger in his eyes. “Across from yours.”

What Arthur means and does not have to say outright is that it would be cruel at best to have him stay. Alasdair knows that and offered anyways because somehow it feels worse not to have Arthur under his roof. Francis would be glad to have him. He would come out of the bedroom in the morning to find Arthur tucked into their kitchen nook and smile wide enough to hurt. He would kiss Alasdair’s neck to thank him silently for whatever bargain he’d made to bring Arthur home. Even if he told him so, and tried to explain, Arthur would not believe him.

“Aye.” He will try anyways. “Across from ours.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches and he breathes an angry huff, looking like he is of a mind to storm off. The only thing that stays him might very well be that Alasdair is standing so close that he’d have to shove him aside to leave.

“Where are you staying?” Alasdair asks, though he’s starting to suspect he already knows the answer.

“I’m not.” Arthur snaps.

Alasdair holds his ground, scowling right back until Arthur’s temper begins to flag.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he laments, bringing up a hand to press against his forehead and dragging it down to his eyes.

“Why did you?” Alasdair presses.

Arthur shakes his head lightly and for once Alasdair lets it be.

“You can’t be driving.” He tries for reason. “And you’ll not find a room this late, the inn’s booked full. You could call—” he tries to think of anyone Arthur would trust enough to impose on and comes up short. “—someone. I’ll call someone for you if you’re set on being stubborn.”

Arthur’s hand is still covering his eyes, but he is very obviously grinding his jaw.

“Or you could stay.” Alasdair finishes brusquely. “And come upstairs to sleep in the spare room.” Your room, he wishes he could say still.

Arthur exhales and drags his hand down roughly to cover his mouth instead. He looks up at Alasdair through the mess of his fringe for a long moment before he speaks.

“I haven’t been drinking,” he says and sounds like he is only trying to himself not to stay.

“If you stay, you’ll want to.”

That at least makes Arthur snort.

“Sure,” he agrees, and Alasdair can suddenly picture him years younger and curled into the sunken couch upstairs, a hot toddy held in his hands.

But this isn’t the Arthur he remembers. He looks tired, suddenly, and speaks with a gravity that begs no argument.

“I left for a reason.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Arthur raises his chin in a challenge.

They will have to have it out. If not now, then later. They will have to talk and figure things out if they have any hope of keeping the peace long enough to see the wedding out. For Francis’ sake he would rather it be now. For Arthur, he can be patient.

“Why, then?”

Arthur searches his face, chewing on his lower lip like he is struggling to find the words to parry along the confrontation he wanted.

“Because I couldn’t…” he tries, and sighs like he is frustrated with himself. “I don’t want this. I don’t know if I can want this. And I do not know who I am to you and what my place in your life is if we’re not fucking.”

Alasdair swallows back his anger and counts to ten in his mind.

This is the effect of having taken all that Arthur offered before he knew any better and questioned his motives. It is all so clear in hindsight that it chaffs against his pride that he could be so blind, once. There is equal blame to place on Arthur for his silence— for running away— and every opportunity he let pass without making himself known. Alasdair could have loved him better, would have if only Arthur had told him how. Never fucked him at all, for all that matters. Has never even kissed him like he deserved to be. And now there is another person to consider and half a decade of missed opportunities to work through.

Every word they speak now will carry the consequences of their past omissions, so Alasdair does not stop to consider his words and says what he wishes he has told Arthur years ago instead.

“You are family,” he declares and shakes his head roughly once before Arthur can interrupt him. “Whether you stay or leave. This place is yours, a third of it, a half. Whatever you will claim of it is yours to keep. And you are family. To Francis, to me. As much as Sean and Dai could ever be; more, for who you are to us. To both of us.”

Arthur’s eyes on him are intent.

“Do you really believe that?” he asks, and Alasdair has always known deep down that before he is anything else, Arthur is a cynic that wants to be proven wrong.

“Is it so hard to believe?”

The question hangs in the air for a beat too long. Arthur drops his gaze.

“What will you tell Francis?”

Alasdair grunts.

“That if he had time enough to orchestrate this while running me ragged he could have spared a moment to wash the bedding in the guest room.”

That startles a huff of laughter out of Arthur, but it sounds a little wet. One of his hands is back, hovering near his lips in an old nervous gesture.

Alasdair has never been good with words. He resorts to his hands instead and buries one deep into the roots of Arthur’s hair. It feels thicker than it looks and is coarser than Francis’; a shade closer to sand than gold.

He would not be surprised to find the bedsheets in the guest bedroom washed and pressed, all the edges tucked neatly under the corners of the mattress the way Francis never makes their own bed. There is no hurry, though. He’ll wash them himself if he needs to and keep Arthur company while the washing machine makes a racket in the kitchen, spinning through the dry cycle. If the sheets come out damp he’ll spare Arthur half of theirs and the thick, woollen blanket they only pull down from the cupboard in the winter. For now, he lets himself relearn Arthur’s warmth with his nose buried in his temple and thinks in numbers. Six more hours until morning. Three cups of coffee over breakfast in three mismatched mugs. One more night before his wedding and ahead of that a lifetime worth its weight in copper.

#something a little longer for day 2!#scoteng #scoteng week 2023 #scotfra #hws england #hws scotland #aph england #aph scotland #i would imagine that Alasdair is the kind of mind to value copper over gold #someone prompted me to write infidelity a while back and it morphed into polyamory #scotfruk #Francis is in fact extremely pleased that his gambit played off and he does kiss Alasdair in the morning #it'll be a while longer until he can kiss Arthur too but they'll get there #i should continue this one day

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