Title: Stood up.
Rating: R - for language.
Summary: Arthur hates Gwaine, hates him for making him feel this way.
Warnings: Language I guess - don't mean to offend anyone. I know the C bomb can be very offensive. Not my intention to offend, it just fit.
Word Count: ~400.
Author's Notes: Why do I keep forgetting to write the prompts? I always have loads of idea's and keep thinking about them, and then I realize I need to actually write them cause I'm running out of time *head desk* anyway, if I hada wrote this when I thought of it and had a little time to actually get it right - it could be good as it is, it's rushed and doesn't flow fantastically. I'm sorry - next week I shall write it as soon as the prompt goes up so this doesn't happen! Anyway enjoy! Someday I may tidy it up and it add it to a longer story.
“Em... You’ve reached Gwaine, can’t take the call at..”
Arthur hung up, unsure what he should do. Try and ring again? Or just leave?
He decided to wait five minutes, try again and if there was still no reply, he’d leave.
He lit a cigarette, just for something to do. He kept his head down, nervously shifting on his feet, scared that everyone in the pub knew. That they could tell just by looking at him.
He looked at his watch, four and half minutes – he’d try again. After another six rings it went into Gwaine’s voicemail again.
Arthur drew in a deep, shaky breath before looking around the beer garden – there was a bloke looking at him, and Arthur just knew he knew! His cheeks burned in shame as he dropped his butt onto the ground, pressed the toe of his shoe against it before walking down the hall to the exit.
The bouncers laughed as he walked out the door – and Arthur felt the first hot, prickly burn in his nose, behind his eyes, and all he wanted to do was get home.
There was a couple walking in front of him, the happy bastards laughing and walking with their arms linked. Cunts. He could feel the burning moving to his throat, and he refused to take a breath. If he did, it would be a sob and once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And he was not crying, not here, not behind these happy people.
Eventually his car came into view and the happy, laughing couple disappeared up another street. A happy street.
He stuck another cigarette into his mouth, watching the end burn and the smoke curl lazily before vanishing into the night.
He sat behind the wheel, the burning behind his eyes intensifying until he felt the first hot tear run down his cheek, leaving a burning trail in its path.
He hated Gwaine, but mostly he hated himself. Hated himself for being reduced to this idiot, sitting, crying in his car over a man. A worthless man, a flighty man, a man who came and went like the wind. What did Arthur expect? That Gwaine would fall in love with him, that he’d stay, that he’d want more.
All Arthur was to him was a convenient hole, an easy shag, nothing more.
And tonight, the realisation and pain brought on by this epiphany burned deep down inside.