moot - 1

He exhales a long puff, a gaseous mixture of breath and carcinogens billowing across the alleyway. It's too small, of course. He knew it would be when he bought the building. He couldn't help it though - it was too good of a location to pass up. There would be nothing but business during both the summer and winter months, due to the proximity to local housing for when the students of the booming college town inevitably left to spend their school breaks frolicking their youth away.

As he's childishly trying to blow a smoke ring with the cancerous smoke, his eyes dart to a figure ducking up the alley. Art coughs suddenly, spit dribbling down his chin as he locks eyes with the stranger. The thin man approaching him smirks and gives Art a pointed once-over as he continues strutting up the walk.

The man is too tall, bent over at the shoulders as if to make himself appear smaller. He has light copper hair that is piled on the top of his head, tendrils wisping around his reddened face, nose pink from exposure to the strong winter wind. The man's hands are stuffed in the pockets of an olive green bomber jacket that has black stripes running up the arms.

What Art thought was an oversized scarf slowly reveals itself to be the form a ferret, sporting a tiny red sweater, snoozing against the back of the man's neck. Art's mouth falls open slightly at the sight as the man gets closer and closer.

Say something, you idiot.

"You smoke?" Art cleverly blurts, holding out the half a cigarette he'd all but forgotten staring at this beautiful stranger.

The redhead pauses and glances down at Art's outstretched hand. Art's heart is racing. He hopes it isn't audible.

"When the urge strikes." His voice isn't nearly as deep as Art had expected. It's whimsical, throaty, and looming. Each word sounds calculated, sensuous. Art's so busy trying to get the man's hum out of his head that he doesn't see what the stranger's doing.

He's leaned down and is taking the cigarette from Art's hand. He'd only been holding it at waist level, a half-hearted offering that he was sure would be denied. The stranger is now bent at the waist, peering up at Art with terribly crystal blue eyes, lips brushing Art's fingertips as he takes a drag.

Art's cheeks warm with the intimacy of the moment. You dumbass, there isn't anything intimate about this. He's just fucking with you. He knows you're interested. This is just a tease, this is just a tease, this is just

"You come around here often, Eric?"

Art looks around as he takes a drag from the cigarette to fill the space. His leg has begun jittering and, to his dismay, he notices the cigarette tastes like fucking strawberry chapstick.

"I'm sorry?"

The man smirks again and holds out his hand for the cigarette. "That's what I've decided to call you since you've decided to stare at me instead of introduce yourself."

Art's cheeks get warm again and he thanks his ancestral gods for the seven hundreth time for his dark complexion. He would have never made it this far if people could see how often he blushed. Well, that's what he tells himself anyway.

"Oh, fuck, my bad. I'm Arthur. Arthur London." He reaches a hand out to shake, second-guesses it and casually moves his hand up to rub the back of his neck as if hoping his action wouldn't be noticed.

It is. The man's eyes follow Art's hand on its whole journey and he gives another smirk. It's a smile with secrets. "Well, Arthur London, I have to get Little Miss Sierra Godiva home before we both freeze to death in your alleyway." He's already backing away, cigarette in hand. "Thank you ever so kindly for the smoke." He gives a grandiose bow, nearly dislodging the sleeping Sierra who gives a sleepy snort.

The weird little fire of hope that had sparked in the pit of his stomach when he'd first seen the stranger began to flicker. Don't lose him! He didn't even tell you his name! This could be big! This Could Be Big! This Could Be Big SABOTAGE SABOTAGE SABOTAGE ALERT ALERT MAYDAY MAY 

"But will I ever see you again?" He calls out, realizing how pathetic he must look, a chubby twenty-something queer black man standing between his two green dumpsters panting in the cold like a bitch in heat after a random encounter with a sexy stray.

Okay, we really need to unpack those kinks someday, buddy.

The man laughs (actually laughs!) and it has a ringing quality to it, like the bells Arthur played during his childhood church's Christmas service. His voice sounds like all of the bells, in a haunting ringing kind of way.

"Oh, this is only the beginning, Artie." The man is still walking away, waving an arm over his shoulder as his words echo back toward Art.

Arthur blinks a few times. He looks down and kicks at the dumpster to make sure he's not dreaming. The pain shoots to the front of his foot just as he remembers he's not wearing his steel-toe boots and he hops around with cartoonish fervor, cursing himself.

This is only the beginning, Artie.

The words boggle around in his brain all day until he finally tricks himself into slumber.