Disclaimer: I don't own anything. The characters of Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent, as well as the first few sentences of this story, all belong to the estate of Douglas Adams. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's note: Ford/Arthur was the first slash pairing I ever read, the first I wrote, and now this is my first to be published. Isn't that sweet? And getting a nice review for my first fanfic would be the best Christmas present ever. Hint hint hint.
Warning: In case you hadn't figured it out, this is slash, Ford/Arthur, though nothing graphic. If you don't like it, then you don't have to read it. I don't want to hear about it. However, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Please read and review!
A NIGHT AT THE PUB
Or, boy-being meets boy-being on an utterly insignificant blue-green planet, which then explodes for no adequately explored reason.
On Wednesday night it had rained very heavily, the lane was wet and muddy, but the Thursday morning sun was bright and clear as it shone on Arthur Dent's house for what was not, in fact, to be the last time. At eight o'clock on Thursday morning Arthur didn't feel very good. He woke up blearily, with a pounding headache, and the first thing he noticed when he opened his eyes was that his friend Ford Prefect was lying in his bed with him. His first conscious thought was, 'What the hell?!?' and his second was, 'Well, we're both still dressed.' At that moment, the opportunity for thought was temporarily lost as Ford opened his eyes and stared unblinkingly at Arthur in a rather unnerving manner. Then he smiled and said,
"Good morning, Arthur. How's your head?"
Arthur's intelligent reply to this inquiry was, "Uuungh?" followed by, "Ford, what the hell happened last night? I think I was drunk," he hazarded.
"I think we both were," Ford replied. He wondered briefly if perhaps he ought to move, but decided against it. He was comfortable in his present position, and he had a headache as well.
"We were at the pub," he reminded his dark-haired friend, who was currently occupied in yawning and rubbing the grit out of his eyes. The furrow between Arthur's eyebrows deepened for a moment, then cleared.
"Ah yes, of course. I remember now. You were telling me something about green flying saucers."
"Exactly. And then this bird came over to our table and she wouldn't leave me alone when she saw you were in a whiskey-induced stupor. So I, um, said we were together." Arthur raised his eyebrows at this. Ford ploughed on,
"She didn't believe me, so I figured the only way to get rid of her was to, well, do what I did." Realisation dawned on Arthur.
"You kissed me. I did wonder why you did that."
"Well, that's why. You didn't seem to mind," Ford added, with a slight questioning lift in his voice. Arthur flushed slightly.
"Er, well, I thought I ought to go along with it, you know, so it would look convincing." Ford smirked.
"You just said you didn't know why I did it."
"Um, er, all right, I didn't know. I just enjoyed it," Arthur replied, somewhat defensively. "I'm not entirely sure what happened next," he added. Ford's smirk broadened.
"I think I can assure you that you enjoyed it at the time," he said, "At any rate, we eventually got thrown out of the pub, and you invited me here."
Arthur could remember the walk, or rather the prolonged stagger, home. The pouring rain had cleared his head a little, so that this morning he could blush at the memory of the kissing and groping that had occurred. Then he realised Ford was talking again.
"I think," he was saying, "That at some point coming upstairs I said something mind-bogglingly witty and clever, but I can't for the life of me remember what it was."
"I don't remember that at all," Arthur replied, "All I know is that when we got in here, you instantly collapsed on the bed and started snoring."
Now it was Ford's turn to look embarrassed.
"I don't snore! Anyway, sorry about that. I was a bit out of it."
"It's all right," Arthur replied, "I didn't last much longer, myself." He didn't think there had been any internal debate about whether he should go sleep on the sofa, just the overwhelming desire to be horizontal.
"Well," Ford said, "Glad we've gotten that sorted out." A slightly alarming glint came into his bright blue eyes. "Do you think," he asked, shifting closer to Arthur, "That it would help my headache if I were to kiss you again?"
Arthur was quite willing to help test this hypothesis.