Alagory short

One evening, Charles was laying out on the settee—well, not laying, really; it was more like attempting to appear as though he was lounging while he in fact felt rigid and uncomfortable. It was the first time Graham had offered to stay the night since he returned, and Charles, being Charles, had not the first clue what to do with himself. So there he sat, trying with all his might to appear composed, but in a languid and nonchalant way, while in fact possessing the appearance of a rather large house-cat who'd sat on a cactus but was too proud to readjust himself to sit more comfortably.

Graham flitted by here and there, depositing his things about the sitting room and making himself feel more at home again—in other words, making a general mess of the place. Throughout all of this fuss and hubbub, however, he would occasionally pause to lean over Charles and give him a brief peck on the cheek or the forehead, because to Graham, for all the world, he appeared to be pouting.

“Don't worry, love,” he murmured very close to Charles' ear. “You can neaten it up a bit in the morning.” Then he moved off to continue his busy work of dumping unnecessaries here and there, fluttering about the room with that very distinctive swagger. The one that Charles had missed so much.

A very flattering pink flushed its way from the exposed flesh of Charles' neck all the way up to the tips of his ears.

Yes, he would certainly have to clean up in the morning.