![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
witticasterTinyfied makeouts. The makeouts didn't happen yet, spoiler.
It had been in the back of Archie's mind for most of the afternoon, after he and William had realized they were somehow in their own home. Odder than all the cats (which he was perfectly glad to look forward to, only there were more than he'd ever imagined owning), odder than seeing himself an adult in the photographs scattered round the house, was the thought that the boy he'd woken to was his boyfriend.
Someday, he was, anyway.
He'd stared at William after they found the marriage license, William Bush and Archibald Kennedy, with signatures they each recognized at the bottom, wondering how the fuck this happened. William wasn't bad looking, had pale blue eyes that angled downwards just enough to make him look perpetually melancholy, but he didn't look like someone Archie would ever think of snogging. The same distracted thought came to him again, while they were flipping channels on the telly, and again, pawing through the cupboards for lunch.
It sort of came to a head when they headed out to the park. William had found a football, and Archie, having discovered the bookshelves well-stocked with novels and plays and poetry, had agreed that it would be nice to take advantage of a good afternoon. Things had worked out well at first, talking vaguely about their schools on the way to the park (William grimaced a little but didn't mention anything to warrant such a face), but while they were there--well. He'd brought Macbeth, incongruous as the story was in the warmth of a summer afternoon, but he found himself losing his place repeatedly.
It had been in the back of Archie's mind for most of the afternoon, after he and William had realized they were somehow in their own home. Odder than all the cats (which he was perfectly glad to look forward to, only there were more than he'd ever imagined owning), odder than seeing himself an adult in the photographs scattered round the house, was the thought that the boy he'd woken to was his boyfriend.
Someday, he was, anyway.
He'd stared at William after they found the marriage license, William Bush and Archibald Kennedy, with signatures they each recognized at the bottom, wondering how the fuck this happened. William wasn't bad looking, had pale blue eyes that angled downwards just enough to make him look perpetually melancholy, but he didn't look like someone Archie would ever think of snogging. The same distracted thought came to him again, while they were flipping channels on the telly, and again, pawing through the cupboards for lunch.
It sort of came to a head when they headed out to the park. William had found a football, and Archie, having discovered the bookshelves well-stocked with novels and plays and poetry, had agreed that it would be nice to take advantage of a good afternoon. Things had worked out well at first, talking vaguely about their schools on the way to the park (William grimaced a little but didn't mention anything to warrant such a face), but while they were there--well. He'd brought Macbeth, incongruous as the story was in the warmth of a summer afternoon, but he found himself losing his place repeatedly.
