a/n: I asked @aph-blue what they wanted for their birthday and then wrote them the polar opposite of what they asked for, but that’s actually their fault? Because, I had the opportunity to not see a set of pictures and they took that from me, and my mind, haunted by those aforementioned pictures that are now burned into my skull, couldn’t write anything but this, and it is probably bad because I was the one who wrote it.
Beached, but not bloated, and a fuckboy Alfred because why not. Happy birthday, blue!
Alfred caught his first boyfriend when he was seventeen.
The tide had been turbulent that evening and Alfred had seen a guy thrashing in the waters, head bobbing above the waves before going back under, screaming all the way through.
Never mind that he was on the shallow end of the ocean. Alfred was there to save him, jumping off his stand to sprint across the beach and throw himself into the water, dragging the gasping man back onto the sand. After he’d coughed up the ocean, he’d given Alfred his number, and it was then he swore to himself being a lifeguard was the best thing that would ever happen to him.
The pay was less than ideal, yes, but the worship made up for it. Half the beach would congregate around his chair, flaunting themselves for a chance to be his next treat. It was mostly perks, to say the least.
Which is why Alfred rolled out of bed today when he could’ve been sleeping his summer away. It was his turn to claim the afternoon shift, and he did so with a sigh, falling into the familiar routine of lathering on sunscreen, slipping into his shorts and spending ten minutes in front of the mirror to pick which sunglasses he was in the mood for that day.
Beauty was hardly effortless.