....

Maybe too much eggnog? Maybe too much eggnog. Like, Alfred has had it bad for the high school AP English teacher ever since he subbed in for the elementary school librarian, but this is definitely the first time he’s told anyone about it. It’s also the first time he’s described it as having “the hottie hot hots for Professor Snack over there.” Elizaveta, who teaches art, looks delighted. Kiku, the librarian, looks profoundly uncomfortable.

Alfred tries to grimace but it feels kind of sloppy on his face. “Don’t think I meant to say that. Too much eggnog?”

“Too much eggnog,” Kiku confirms. At the same time Elizaveta says, “Are you kidding? Not enough eggnog. I’ve had to watch you pine away every time Kirkland drops off lunch for his brother. You are ending my misery tonight.”

She hands Alfred another plastic cup of ‘nog while Kiku makes a despairing noise in the back of his throat. It is possible that Elizaveta has also had too much eggnog. Sober Alfred would probably be embarrassed to learn that his affections have been transparent for the last several months. Sober Alfred might also call it quits on the alcohol before he really makes a poor decision amongst all his coworkers and peers. Sober Alfred has left the building, thank god, because that guy is a drag.

He takes some fortifying gulps of his new drink and spies stealthily--he hopes it’s stealthy, he sure feels stealthy--on Arthur from across the faculty room, which was definitely not meant to accommodate this many drunk teachers. He’s chatting with the high school French teacher and the severe-looking middle school principal. (The holiday party is district wide this year. It’s a cutbacks thing.) It’s hard to tell if Arthur is enjoying the conversation or not. Mostly he’s scowling. It’s ten kinds of adorable. So is his stodgy old man sweater vest. Alfred wants to kiss his eyebrows.

“Please never say that again,” says Kiku in a strained voice. Whoops, that last part may have been out loud. Too much eggnog. He takes another sip anyway.

“Hey, s’your fault for calling in sick that day,” he says. September fourteenth, two PM, Alfred will never forget it. He walked the kids from math to the library and he thought hey it’s that one grumpy asshole and then the grumpy asshole spoke all soft and sweet to the kids and he read Charlotte’s Web so pretty and Alfred’s next thought was oh shit oh fuck I’m going to marry him someday. And that was completely sober. “Shame on you for marathoning the Silent Hill games so early in the school year. And also for not inviting me. No one but y’rself to blame.”

Kiku takes a grim sip of his tea. Yeesh, tea at a holiday party. “I am aware.”

Just then the French teacher laughs loudly enough for Alfred to hear it. A hand lands on Arthur’s shoulder. In the fuzzy recesses of his brain two stray thoughts connect with a spark: laughing and touching counts as flirting. The French teacher flirting with Arthur. The French teacher marrying Arthur, which would seriously impede Alfred’s plans to marry Arthur. The French teacher must die.

Well, okay, no, he doesn’t have to die die. But Alfred has to kill his chances. He mumbles something to Elizaveta and Kiku that might be an explanation or might just be drunken gibberish and he marches off in Arthur’s direction. The middle school principal is gone, off talking to a guy Alfred thinks might be the middle school Italian teacher. He wants to put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder like the French teacher did, but he doesn’t trust his buzzy fingers. His hands end up in his pockets instead. “Hey there, Mr. Kirkland. Fancy meeting you here,”

Arthur turns. So does the French teacher, but Alfred notices that peripherally. Maybe Arthur’s scowl softens a little to see him. Maybe that’s just Alfred’s drunk brain talking.

“Francis,” Arthur says to the French teacher, “Isn’t your presence required elsewhere?”

“And where would that be, mon cher?” says Francis, with a leer in Alfred’s direction. Arthur grits his teeth.

“Literally anywhere else.”

“Ah, yes, of course. An appointment I cannot miss. Joyeux Noël, my friends!” He flounces toward the refreshment table, and gives Alfred a wink on the way. It might be flirty, or it might be… a good luck wink? Is that a thing? He doesn’t really know, and he really doesn’t care. Arthur returns his attention to Alfred with a raised brow.

“Mr. Jones. Glad to see you’ve decided a conversation with me is preferable to staring.”

Ouch. Not so stealthy. “Ha, yeah. Didn’t want to interrupt earlier. So, are you and Mr. Frenchy an item, or?”

Okay, wow, not what he meant to say. Bad eggnog, no more eggnog. Luckily Arthur seems too appalled by the suggestion itself to be creeped out by Alfred suggesting it. “Good lord, no. Francis and I? The mere thought is repulsive. I may gag.”

“Oof, wouldn’t want that. Glad to hear it, though. I was worried.”

Arthur’s eyes snap up. Too strong? Maybe.

“Were you?” he says, and whoa, not too strong, apparently. Not too strong at all.

Alfred, smooth and confident in the way of the inebriated, says, “Wanna go to IHOP?”

....

The truth is it’s only half Kiku’s fault. The library incident wasn’t the first time Alfred met Arthur. For the past two years Peter Kirkland has been in Alfred’s rotating fourth and fifth grade math classes—a good kid, high energy and real bright—which meant parent teacher conferences with his brother and guardian. It’s… safe to say they didn’t get off on the right foot. Alfred has handled rude parents before. Whatever! Usually his incredible charm and wit were enough to makeup for it. But no, not with Mr. Kirkland. Mr. Kirkland was tenured, he had years of experience on naive little green-gilled elementary teacher Alfred, and in his professional opinion problem children like Peter needed to be disciplined rather than coddled, and quite frankly he did not think much of Alfred’s nonsensical, feel-good, soft-bellied teaching methods.

In response Alfred had maybe called him a crabby old geezer, and maybe mentioned something about teaching an old dog new tricks, and maybe that was all the PG version. Arthur Kirkland was nothing more to Alfred than a grumpy asshole. Albeit a grump with great bone structure and a sexy accent.

And then Arthur subbed in for Kiku, and everything was different.

“Here we are!”

Alfred sweeps into a bow and scoots Arthur’s chair out for him because he’s a gentleman. (At this time of night the IHOP is a seat yourself kind of establishment.) There’s cheery Christmas music playing over the speakers. Alfred wanted the corner booth—much more romantic—but some gooey-eyed teens are hogging it. Stupid gooey-eyed teens.

“Here we are indeed,” says Arthur. He’s eyeing the vinyl cushion like it carries a venereal disease. “Honestly, half the reason I agreed to come was because I wanted to see if you were taking the piss. But lo and behold: The International House of Pancakes.” He takes a seat. Gingerly. “That name always struck me as overly dignified for this establishment.”

“Hey, don’t hate. I eat breakfast here once a week.” The elementary school is across town, but it’s worth the drive. Thank god the high school is within walking distance. He adds, “So, that was only half the reason, huh? What was the other half?”

Arthur taps the side of his nose. “I’m very certain I’m not drunk enough to tell you.”

Alfred remembers, suddenly, what drink Arthur had been nursing at the Christmas party. He grins a slow grin. “You were spiking your tea, Artie?”

Arthur flushes, maybe because he’s a little drunker than Alfred thought, but probably because Alfred just called him Artie. Good idea, drunk Alfred.

“Only because conversation with Francis was otherwise intolerable. I much prefer talking to you.” He gets a look on his face like he just heard what he said, and he flushes even prettier. “Don’t get the wrong idea. A Christmas ham would be a better conversation partner than that frog.”

Any further research into how pink Alfred can make Arthur blush is interrupted by the arrival of their waitress. She’s new, a friendly girl named Michelle who smiles a lot and takes quick notes. By the time she’s got their order—a tea for Arthur, a little of everything for Alfred—Alfred has learned that she’s studying speech pathology, she’s home for holiday break, and that she got her sister a dinosaur building kit for Christmas.

“Oh sweet, what kind of dinosaur?” says Alfred.

“A ceratosaurus,” says Michelle.

“Ooh, deep cut! Nice!”

They high five. Alfred asks, “You don’t have any eggnog, do you?”

“I’m afraid not. We have eggnog pancakes, though, how does that sound?”

Arthur gags quietly. Alfred ignores this. “Sounds awesome! I’ll have an order of those too.”

After she walks away Alfred addresses the look on Arthur’s face. “Yes, professor?”

“You want to drink more of that swill?” he says, all dubious like.

“Dude! Eggnog is the drink of the season.”

“There are many drinks of the season. Sherry. Scotch. Brandy. Tea.”

“By that logic you’ll spend the whole holiday break completely sloshed.”

Arthur chuckles. “The holidays are hardly a time for sobriety.”

Alfred can’t really argue with that. “I’m pretty sure you drink tea all the time.”

“Because tea is a drink for every season.”

This is the moment that Michelle returns with the tea, because apparently she has a great sense of dramatic timing. Arthur prepares the cup and smirks at Alfred over the rim, as though that proves his point at all, and all Alfred can think about is how tea is a much more charming drink in Arthur’s hand than it is in Kiku’s. Alfred wants to know more about the kind of tea he drinks. He wants to learn how to make the perfect cup, so he can make it for Arthur every day. He wants to know Arthur’s opinion on coffee. What his favorite food is. If he likes cats or dogs. He looks like a cat person. What was his home life like? Where in Britain did he grow up? Did he always want to be a teacher? Alfred wants to know… everything. He never wants to stop learning about him.

He says, “Tell me more about yourself.”

Arthur goes very still. “Why?”

“Because this is a date.” Sober Alfred is pretty direct. Drunk Alfred isn’t much different.

Now Arthur goes very red. “I’m afraid there’s not much to tell.”

“That can’t be true. Why’d you come to America? Got tired of jolly old England?”

“My goodness, no. My heart will always belong to my dearest Albion.” Alfred suspects that’s an old nerdy name for England, but he can’t be sure. He’s a math whiz, not a history buff. “No, it was just typical family drama. Peter and I hopped across the pond to escape it. All very British, very boring.”

Maybe Arthur is a little more guarded as he says that. And wistful. The peppy Jingle Bell Rock has transitioned to the crooning I’ll Be Home For Christmas and suddenly Alfred is very sad. He wants to say so. He wants to say that Arthur’s family doesn’t deserve him or Peter, and that he can tell Alfred anything, everything, because he’ll never hurt him the way they did. But even smashed he can tell that Arthur doesn’t want to talk about it, so instead he says, “How is Peter?”

Arthur’s face softens. “A wee little shite, as per usual. He’s at a sleepover right now. But he’s doing better in maths, at least.”

He raises his cup in a small, half-ironic toast to Alfred’s awesome teaching skills. Alfred tries not to preen and isn’t so sure he succeeds.  “Yeah, well, he’s a good kid. They all are. They make my job easy.”

“I doubt that,” Arthur snorts. “But you are Peter’s favorite teacher, which is saying something. He absolutely hated maths before you came along.” His tone turns thoughtful. He rests his chin in his palm. “You’re good with him. Good with all of them, I see it when I drop off Peter’s lunch. Though I maintain that you could stand to be a little more disciplinary.”

“You’re good with them too,” Alfred says, high on a cloud of Arthur’s regard. “You subbed in for Kiku once. I saw you. It was really sweet, and I realized…”

This is what Alfred realized after he saw Arthur in the library: Mr. Tenured Teacher, Sir High and Mighty, Cynicism and Discipline Incarnate, is a huge fucking softie. He quilts, crochets, and embroiders. (Thank you Kiku, mutual friend with all the secrets.) He’s hard on his students but he refuses to let any of them fail. (Also Kiku.) He criticizes Peter and the quality of his education because he cares—like, really really cares. Alfred picked up on that himself. He brings the kid homemade lunch every day. He leaves him notes in his lunchbox. Alfred’s not proud to admit it but he peeked over Peter’s shoulder the one time he pulled one out in math. It read: Always cover your mouth when you sneeze or cough. I love you. Alfred is willing to bet every note has some banal tidbit of advice and closes out the same way. If he and Arthur got together, would Arthur slip him notes, too? I love you.

“You realized?”

Arthur is watching him, has been watching him, and his eyes are super green, all bright and Christmassy under the IHOP fluorescents. Alfred is pretty sure the teens in the corner booth are watching them now but he’s also pretty sure he doesn’t care. There are so many things he could say and they all crowd together in his throat, vying for favor. In the time it takes for him to pick the perfect one Michelle arrives with the food, and the moment passes.

A veritable feast of greasy breakfast foods lands on the table: pancakes, waffles, eggs. Bacon and sausage. Various assortments of fruit and butter and jam. Alfred nudges forward his eggnog pancakes. “Want a bite?”

Arthur grimaces. “Absolutely not. That looks utterly unappetizing.”

Alfred will not deny this. Most of the food is green for some Grinch promotional thing IHOP is doing, but hey, at least it’s festive. And delicious. Alfred says so.

“No thank you.” Arthur’s stomach says otherwise. “Well. Those eggs look edible, I suppose.”

They eat (Alfred eats, Arthur pecks) and they chat, and it’s magical. Arthur tells funny stories about Peter’s terrible twos, grudgingly and then not so grudgingly, and Alfred talks about his brother and his totally-not-pot farm in Canada.

He’s finally sobering up—all the greasy food helps—and the night never gets any less magical. It feels more magical somehow.

He says, “So, have I made you an IHOP convert?”

Arthur sighs, theatrically put upon. “I suppose it’s charming, in a slovenly way. Something like you.”

Alfred rolls his eyes. “Ooh, you’re making me blush. Tell me more.”

But Arthur doesn’t tell him more because he’s too busy giving the stink eye to something over Alfred’s shoulder. Ah. The booth teens. Alfred gives a very extremely subtle glance back… yeah, wow, they are going at it. Teenage hormones are no joke.

“Kids these days, honestly. They should be studying,” Arthur seethes.

“For what? It’s Friday and classes are over next week,” says Alfred, but before he can finish his sentence Arthur has struck like a god damn cobra and stolen a bit of hashbrown and chucked it at the booth. It occurs to Alfred that Arthur might still be pretty hammered. How much rum did he put in his tea, for real?

It plops square in a mug of hot chocolate. At a loss for what else to do, Alfred kind of shriek laughs. “Oh my god, are you twelve?”

He dares a peek back at the spluttering teenagers and then back to Arthur and--Arthur is shrugging at the teens and pointing at Alfred. “You are twelve! Traitor!”

He spoons whipped cream off the top of his hot chocolate and daubs Arthur’s nose with it. For a second Arthur looks fit to bust, and sure a drunken temper tantrum sounds cute but it might lose Alfred a chance at a second date. Then Arthur reaches over the table, scoops the whole pile of whipped cream from the plate of pancakes with his bare hand, and smears it all over Alfred’s face.

While Arthur is cackling, Alfred says, “Marry me.”

Arthur stops cackling. He stares, and under the weight of it Alfred sobers up the rest of the way all at once. Did he just ruin everything? Of course he did. Drunk Alfred, that dumbass, always ruins everything and now he’s going to die old and alone, dreaming about what could have been if only he hadn’t asked Arthur Kirkland to marry him in an IHOP.

“Snrk,” says Arthur.

That’s the sound he makes—snrk. Then he’s snorting, then he’s laughing, and it’s inelegant and undignified and Alfred is in love.

“So is that a yes?” he says, and Arthur gives him a narrow look. He wipes his face with a napkin—Alfred belatedly follows suit—and flags Michelle down for the check.

Arthur scoffs, “You think I’d say yes to a proposal on a first date? In the International House of Pancakes?”

He’s not mad. Alfred can hardly believe it. He still has a chance. “Hey, depends on the date.”

They split the bill. Arthur is the faster tipper so in return Alfred pays for the Uber. The teens are gone from the booth, though Alfred didn’t see them leave. They’re not in the parking lot either, which is good, because it would be super awkward to have to wait for the Uber with them.

The air is cold. They’re standing very near. The sky is heavy and close with clouds, but Arthur is watching it like he might see the stars beyond. After a second, Alfred does too.

He says to the sky, “Wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no, either.”

And Arthur says to the sky, “Don’t push your luck, Mr. Jones. We hardly know each other. Even you can’t be that idealistic.”

There’s not enough liquid bravery left in Alfred’s veins to tell Arthur that he is.

The Uber arrives. Arthur offers to share, but Alfred lives too far from the high school to leave his car there. He opens the door for Arthur. He closes the door for Arthur. It’s stupid but the thought of saying goodbye to him right now—not forever, not even for a whole weekend—is breaking his heart. He doesn’t know how to end tonight. Doesn’t know if they’re leaving on a good note or a bad one.

“Ask me again.”

The window is rolled down. Arthur is watching him. His eyes are glowing and his cheeks are pink and his breath is misting in the air, so Alfred can see the exact shape of his words when he says, “Later. Much, much later. Many dates from now. In a restaurant that lives up to its name, and preferably when we’re not both completely crocked. Ask me again. Maybe then I’ll be as idealistic as you.”

Alfred can’t think of a single thing to say and so he doesn’t. He leans down and Arthur leans up and the angle is awkward because Arthur is dangling half out a window but Alfred is certain he’s never had a more perfect kiss in all his life.