[ Aʀᴛʜᴜʀ || Tʜᴇ Pᴏɪɴᴛ Mᴀɴ ] (
pointofspecificity) wrote2011-04-22 11:18 pm
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I've fallen out of favour.
[Locked to
acleandive. Falling!Verse.]
[Arthur lives in a small, ranch-style house in LA, a residence he prefers to keep quiet about, and which only a select few people are aware of. It sits in the middle of a peaceful street, one where everyone keeps their business to themselves, and it’s the perfect place to retreat to when he wants to lock himself away, to keep the rest of the world out.
It’s been a busy few works, one thing or another cropping up and taking precedence, so he takes advantage of the quiet calm, the abrupt way that everything appears to have come to a halt, because he knows a storm will surely follow eventually and he doesn’t want to miss the chance.
An array of Chinese food is laid out across the glass coffee table in the living room, a half-empty bottle of wine in the middle, and black cushions are piled up at one end of the white sofa, an old and tatty patchwork blanket draped over his lap where he curls up with his eyes trained on the TV. It might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but to Arthur there really isn’t anything else like a quiet night in alone with a DVD and a book to follow, especially when the only alternatives are things he can never do in reality.
But he can’t help the wandering thoughts, wondering what Mal might be doing on this slow Friday night – he did contemplate calling her earlier in the evening, to see if he could go over or if she wanted to go out somewhere. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge he would have to stand by and watch her, with him, and secretly wish she wasn’t. Sometimes he hates himself for thinking it, for wanting her to himself, and other times he hates Dom, for having what he can only dream of.
By this point he isn’t sure what it is he’s even watching and remembers, painfully, why he prefers to keep busy, to avoid sitting alone with nothing and no one to distract him from his own thoughts.]
[Arthur lives in a small, ranch-style house in LA, a residence he prefers to keep quiet about, and which only a select few people are aware of. It sits in the middle of a peaceful street, one where everyone keeps their business to themselves, and it’s the perfect place to retreat to when he wants to lock himself away, to keep the rest of the world out.
It’s been a busy few works, one thing or another cropping up and taking precedence, so he takes advantage of the quiet calm, the abrupt way that everything appears to have come to a halt, because he knows a storm will surely follow eventually and he doesn’t want to miss the chance.
An array of Chinese food is laid out across the glass coffee table in the living room, a half-empty bottle of wine in the middle, and black cushions are piled up at one end of the white sofa, an old and tatty patchwork blanket draped over his lap where he curls up with his eyes trained on the TV. It might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but to Arthur there really isn’t anything else like a quiet night in alone with a DVD and a book to follow, especially when the only alternatives are things he can never do in reality.
But he can’t help the wandering thoughts, wondering what Mal might be doing on this slow Friday night – he did contemplate calling her earlier in the evening, to see if he could go over or if she wanted to go out somewhere. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge he would have to stand by and watch her, with him, and secretly wish she wasn’t. Sometimes he hates himself for thinking it, for wanting her to himself, and other times he hates Dom, for having what he can only dream of.
By this point he isn’t sure what it is he’s even watching and remembers, painfully, why he prefers to keep busy, to avoid sitting alone with nothing and no one to distract him from his own thoughts.]

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[He looks at her for a minute, taking in how broken she seems.] What happened, Mal?
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Dom and I had a fight. [Bowing her head.] He's around so very little and we had plans and he did not turn up, and I should not have shouted, but I fear he is married to that silver case more than he is married to me.
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Oh, Mal. [Sitting beside her, he puts an arm around her back, carefully pulls her toward him, lets her lean against his side.] I'm so sorry. I can talk to him, tell him he needs to take a break, spend time with his family.
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Shh, it's okay. [He draws her in closer, his hold around her firmly there, but light, gentle, and he slowly sways them a little, soothingly, his hand rubbing against her back.] I'm here. You know I'm always here. I'll keep you company until he stops being an idiot. [He heaves a sigh, trying to ignore the ache deep in his chest at the idea of her going back to him - he can say for certain because he isn't Dom, he doesn't have Mal, but he believes he would never treat her the way he does if he did.] You can stay here tonight.
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I hate to be impinging on you, mon amie. I should go home, get out of your hair.
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[He smiles softly down at her, fingers gently stroking her hair.] Il m'apporte toujours une grande joie quand je suis honoré de votre présence.
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[He gestures to the cooling food scattered over the coffee table, the bottle of wine.] Have you eaten?
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[He carefully pulls out of her reach, scooping up everything from the table in his arms and disappearing into the kitchen to put the food into the fridge, fetching a clean wine glass when he returns that he fills up and hands to her.] We need to do something to cheer you up.
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Is there anything you need? You can take control of the TV, if you want, or we could do something to take your mind off everything. Unless you need to sleep? There's clean sheets on the bed.
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