So... more than one person has asked for more Arthur and Bertie. And one person in particular asked about Bertie's point of view.

Yeah about that. So I am trying to work on a series of short stories about Beings (that hopefully a publisher might want) and one of them *ahem* might be something from Bertie's point of view. In the meantime, there is always this little nugget, which was hard (impossible) to find before because I didn't tag it properly. Whoops.

It's set during A Boy and His Dragon, and I wrote it waaaaay back when I was writing that, sort of as an exercise, and sort of because a friend likes stories about men baking or cooking for someone else rather than expressing their feelings. Anyway, have a thing.

.....

“I borrowed another book.”

Arthur, the dear boy, could sometimes insist upon speaking at the most inopportune moments.

It wasn’t that Arthur didn’t have interesting things to say. On the contrary; there were moments when Bertie would be riveted by Arthur’s quiet, thoughtful comments on his work. In other moments, Bertie quite lost track of time while listening to Arthur’s enchanting stories of his childhood. Arthur told his tales most beautifully, with the gifts of a natural storyteller.

But Arthur would also decide to talk when speaking was beyond Bertie’s current capabilities.

“Mmm.” Bertie encouraged him. The startling weakness in his midsection was becoming an increasing problem when in Arthur’s presence. He nearly sighed when Arthur picked up a scone still warm from the oven and held it up without eating it.

“It was a reprint of a diary of a soldier from the late Victorian era.” Arthur took a moment to lick some pale, white icing from his lower lip before he went on. Bertie gave in and sighed, heavily and with feeling.

Arthur loved scones and he loved them sweet. They weren’t the easiest thing to make to tempt Arthur into his kitchen, but they were by far Bertie’s favorite simply because he, in his turn, loved watching Arthur eat them.

It, perhaps, wasn’t dignified for a dragon of his lineage, or even for a grown man, but considering Bertie wouldn’t touch Arthur unless Arthur indicated that he might enjoy that as much as Bertie knew he would, it was a small, harmless treat for himself.

There was more of course; he liked feeding Arthur, liked seeing to him and fussing over him and watching that confused little frown come and go on his pretty face that meant Arthur quite obviously did not understand being fussed over. It saddened Bertie to think that no one had ever taken the time to properly care for Arthur, though he was slightly ashamed to admit that he liked that too, more than might be sensible. It pleased him in the sharp, grasping way that dragons felt pleasure to think that in some way, he might be Arthur’s first.

Such things shouldn’t matter in the modern world, but they did. Just as modern dragons shouldn’t really think about eating anyone, but Bertie still thought of the fairy who had hurt Arthur with a certain… hunger.

In any case, once Arthur was properly fed and greeted and listened to in these morning moments with Bertie, he was an unstoppable working machine. It was both awe-inspiring and somewhat frightening.

Bertie let out another sigh that made Arthur stop in the middle of his description of the book to stare inquisitively at him. Bertie struggled to recall what Arthur had been saying—and to wipe the smile from his face. He had a feeling it wasn’t very flattering to stare at his assistant with stars in his eyes. Luckily, he remembered the diary Arthur had been raving about, so he mumbled something approving and waited for Arthur to continue.

Arthur was excited, the darling, and it didn’t take him long to add something else that had occurred to him in the story of the soldier, though he did stop to take a bite of his scone first. It was caramel, and Bertie had made sure to leave it dripping with icing.

Arthur was such a classic tease, unknowing of his own charms though Bertie could list them in a heartbeat: the intelligence and drive of his mind, the width of his shoulders, the stubborn little chin, the unexpectedly fierce blue of his eyes when his deeper feelings were roused.

Oddly, Arthur seemed to consider himself unfeeling. As though he had no temper spent in defense of books and works of art or Bertie’s home and had never blushed to find Bertie’s eyes on him.

Bertie knew the ridiculous smile was back on his face but Arthur was absorbed in his recounting of the story and wouldn’t comment. If he did happen to see, he would go momentarily silent and then lift his chin in a challenging gesture that he did not seem aware of. Arthur, Bertie mused, was a being of fire. But it was those strong feelings he so denied that was keeping Bertie from offering to lick the trail of sugary icing from Arthur’s mouth and then ask, beg, if he could lick any traces from his throat, to be sure it was all gone.

Arthur was not a boy to take that lightly, to Bertie’s daily regret, and so Bertie made scones and waited and brought his eyes up again and again and made noncommittal, hungry sounds to keep his pet talking, to keep Arthur near him, to have him close in the hopes that someday soon Arthur might look back.

“Yes, darling,” he breathed it, then nearly bit his tongue when the roused blue of Arthur’s eyes met his and Arthur licked a drop of sweet temptation from his mouth.
.....


In other news, I have a short story coming out soon: Medium, Sweet, Extra Shot of Geek. It's about a barista named Tavio and a geek named Tommy and just thinking about it makes me want a (soy) latte. And to go see Pacific Rim again. Aaaah, the fun life of a geek! Where's my hot barista? *whine*